Work Text:
December 24th, 1986
The island looms up out of the slate-grey of the sea like a hunched, angular giant. From this distance, the solid, impregnable walls of the fortress show no cracks—no glimmer of light, no relief from the dense, black reality of the place where it cuts a harsh outline against the deepening purple of the nighttime sky.
The waves crash and batter against the walls, the whites of their crests breaking ineffectually against the undeniable, incontrovertible fact of Azkaban prison.
The young man sitting on the small, sharp jut of rock shivers, pulling his long overcoat more firmly around himself as he watches the prison being swallowed by the north Atlantic night. Not that it makes much difference, he thinks ruefully, switching his lighted wand from one wind-chapped hand to the other. The coat is threadbare and soaked through, and is probably doing more to harm his chances of surviving this idiotic whim than it is to helping them. If not for his rather singular biology, he’d probably be dead of cold already.
Remus Lupin nevertheless makes no move to abandon his perch on the sharp outcropping of black, salt- stained rock that sits some quarter-mile away from the island of Azkaban. The salt spray stings his face, and the wind bites bitterly cold into his skin, ice crystals forming in the bristly growth of beard that covers his face and freezing in the overlong light brown hair that flops into his tired, haunted eyes.
What am I doing here?
The question is not a new one. He's been sitting here, in the midst of the squalling late North Sea December, for something like three hours already. Perhaps it has been longer; the numbness encroaching on his limbs tells him it has been too long, in any case, and the question has occurred to him at least once every fifteen minutes during each of those unnumbered hours.
And he's done this same daft thing each year on this day for five years. And each time he appears on this tiny, woebegone excuse for dry land-- his apparition becoming surer each year with the familiarity of practice-- the question has floated up out of the depths on his mind, staying fixed like some obstinate itch for as long as his vigil lasts.
But invariably he comes. He watches. And then he leaves again at sunrise, feeling foolish and sentimental and resolved that this had been the last time-- that he's finished with this hopeless, pointless pilgrimage.
He uncracks his stiff fingers from around his wand, taking a moment to cast another of Norway's Warming Conjurations, which does little to alleviate his sodden, salty state but will, at least, ensure that he leaves his little island still in possession of all of his digits. Then he lights the wand again, holding it bright and steady as the wind and waves whip around him in the dark.
He'd been in America, this time, when the itch first appeared. Walking the desolate, anonymous streets of Detroit, scouring the derelict, recently-abandoned factories where decay was just beginning to gnaw at the edges of the city as the moon began to gnaw on Remus' bones. Empty, echoing concrete tombs interspersed with neighbourhoods just as shabby, all of them speaking a hopelessness that appealed to Remus' own hollow, vacant state of mind.
The moon came. He screamed as it pulled his bones out of joint, as they scraped against each other and tore at his skin, and then he woke up hanging limply in the chains of some old auto works, his body sore and shivery and his mind weak enough, in that moment, to long for chocolate and laughter and the clean white scent of the Hogwarts Hospital Wing.
When he'd gathered himself enough to leave again, setting off into the flat, grey winter light that reminded him so much of home, something had changed. The houses were still old and broken down, sure, and the smashed-in windows in the factories still glittered sharply in the fading light, but everything had been covered, in the hours when his mind had not been his own, in a clean blanket of sparkling white snow.
It was not yet the snow of cities, all grey and slushy and covered in the trash and footprints of thousands, but the snow of sweeping moors and dark, dense forests that had not yet learned what humans were, the harm they caused.
And in the falling evening, as the snow continued to gently coat the world around him, Remus' eyes were drawn to the twinkling lights he glimpsed through grimy windows, the strings of them that wound like stars around the porches and gutters of homes made new by their crystalline coating of white.
Something long-buried memory sparked reluctantly to life behind his ribcage, and traveled up his spine, warming as it went, to settle and take root in the back of his mind. Even after he had left the surprising, warming little scene for the isolated forests further north, the heat of that tiny, optimistic notion would not leave him alone until he had one day growled in frustration and turned, begrudgingly, to the east.
As he did each year, in spite of himself.
The night now is entirely devoid of stars. This far north, and essentially in the middle of the dark, vast ocean, he should be able to see every star that has existed for the last million years of the universe. But the cold, miserable influence of the dementors has permeated the very sky around the prison, and Remus feels as though he may not even exist in the midst of the absolute darkness.
Only the steady, unrelenting light of his wand reassures him that neither he nor the world has ceased to be. The clear bluish lumos light is nothing like the warmth of firelight, and yet as he leans heavily against the jagged rocks of his refuge, his eyes fixed unrelentingly on the patch of darkness he knows to contain the prison, he relaxes the normally impermeable barriers he’s constructed in his mind, which immediately floods with the warm, flickering glow of a remembered hearth.
********
The firelight casts the high angles of Sirius’ cheekbones in shadow, hooding his dark eyes as he sprawls elegantly across the rumpled sheets on his stomach, his chin resting gently against Remus’ chest.
“What’re you thinking about?”
His voice is warm and soft; as though he doesn’t want to disturb the tenuous bit of peace they’ve managed to sneak from the midst of this cold, deadly winter. Voldemort’s forces continue daily to gain in strength, and they find themselves more often than not passing like strangers in the corridors of Hogwarts, receiving orders and reporting on missions with little more than a glance to spare between them. Remus has often thought longingly about the restricted section of the library, but is reminded each time he sees Fabian Prewett smirking at him from the corners of Order gatherings of the disadvantages of that notion.
“Nothing,” replies Remus, his hand unconsciously threading itself into Sirius’ shaggy hair.
“Liar.”
“Am not,” responds Remus, half-heartedly, not wanting to ruin the warm, hard-won silence of this stolen moment.
Sirius’ eyes are liquid and amused, the shadows and the strain of the last two years masked in the flickering light of the fire. There is quiet humor in them, the sharp edges of anger and fear smoothed over with the affection that Remus is still sometimes shocked to see directed at himself. The smile on his handsome face is gently mocking, but there is no malice there—only what Remus thinks must be pleasure at finding himself in this rare moment of reprieve.
Remus feels it too.
“You’ve got ‘Moony-thinking-face’ on,” Sirius accuses, wiggling himself further up Remus’ body until they are chest to chest and Remus’ face is just inches below his own. “And as much as I like your face, Moony, I’ve seen the ‘thinking’ version far too much recently. And I happen to be very fond of the faces you make when you’re not thinking, soooo…”
He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, rolling sheet-clad hips in a way that does, in fact, cause Remus to lose the thread of the conversation for several seconds. When the breath returns to his lungs, he fixes the man above him with a stern stare, the hand in his hair tightening slightly and eliciting a kind of pleased little whimper from Sirius.
“Just happy I remembered what you look like,” he murmurs, the fingers of the hand not currently in Sirius’ hair reaching out to entwine with Sirius’ on the sheets. “It’d been such a long time since I’d seen you—I was afraid I might wind up chatting up the wrong bloke.”
“Well, wouldn’t that have been embarrassing,” drawls Sirius, flopping onto his back while still keeping his fingers entwined with Remus’. “To use all your blindingly brilliant powers of seduction only to wind up in bed with some improbably good-looking Muggle chap, who would then become inevitably and tragically terrified at your frankly revolutionary use of the tergio charm. Good job you got lucky this time—perhaps I should start wearing a little tag… ‘If found, please return to Remus Lupin’ or something.”
Remus chuckles softly, not altogether hating the idea. With all the life-risking Sirius does in the course of his work for the Order, he can’t help but wish they had some tangible sign of belonging to one another.
The gold bands glittering lately on Lily and James’ fingers flash into his mind.
He gives himself a little mental shake. Not possible, he thinks sternly. And he doesn’t want that from you, in any case. Just a laugh and a shag and that’s it. No use getting sentimental just because it’s Christmas, you enormous poofter.
Sirius stretches luxuriously beside him, spreading his arms and legs out wide and still not reaching the edges of the immense fluffy bed that they’re currently occupying. The bed—and the room it’s in, actually—belong to a quiet country inn off the west coast of Ireland.
Remus had been poring over maps of the latest Death Eater movements when the severe-looking eagle owl had nipped at his ear and broken him from his reverie, sticking out her leg and allowing him to untie the message there before flying away, leaving inky clawprints across half of Devon.
Moony—
It’s a Christmas miracle! The crisis with the MacLaggans has
been averted—free time to be had at last! Prongs owled Evans
last night and they’ve been disgusting and smoochy ever since,
and it’s making me miss you and you are inconveniently not here.
I am running away to an island before I am forced to brutally
murder my best friend and his wife, if only to stop the argument
about who loves who more. Faff off whatever old papers
Dumbledore has you fondling and get your truly excellent arse to
Inis Mor this instant. And bring chocolate. I demand this.
--Padfoot
P.S. Yes, I know it should be “who loves WHOM more” but you
and your grammar books can just kiss my arse. In fact, I demand
that, too.
He’d barely taken the time to roll up the maps and banish them back to the cabinet in the Order’s strategy chambers before flooing to the Three Broomsticks and apparating with so little caution that he’d damn near splinched himself. His left little finger hurt like mad, anyway, and was an angry shade of bright, throbbing pink.
But when he’d walked into the cozy little local pub and met Sirius’ eyes through the chattering crowd of wizards and Muggles, it’d been as if any pain he’d ever felt had been imaginary. Superfluous.
Unimportant.
They’d manhandled each other to the little inn, sneaking as unobtrusively as possible up to the top floor room that Sirius had let, and had tumbled into bed before Remus had even had time to scold Sirius about the evident expense of the richly furnished room and adjoining balcony.
And now they are lying here in a downy haven of pillows and duvets, with the elegantly decorated Christmas tree twinkling at them from one corner and the wrappers of Honeyduke’s Best Chocolate littering the floor and the tops of the nightstands. Sirius has not let go of his hand, and Remus feels perfectly entitled to give an affectionate little squeeze before pulling Sirius closer and resting his head on the ropy muscles of his shoulder.
“I’ve been saying for years we should get you a proper collar,” murmurs Remus, tracing fingers around the circumference of Sirius’ long neck. “Only appropriate, really, with the ridiculous get-ups you manage to put together.” He gestures to the haphazard pile of Sirius’ clothes, which includes dragon hide trousers and a Sid Vicious t-shirt.
“Oi!” Sirius shoves at his head indignantly, and then Remus shoves back, and before long they are tussling in earnest, each of them trying to get the upper hand, until Remus pins Sirius’ lithe body beneath his own, trapping his hands above his head with a whoop of triumph.
The sight of Sirius, flushed and laughing, with all evidence of the sharp, bitter anger that so often haunts his eyes lost to bright merriment, stops Remus’ breath for the second time that night. And suddenly there is nothing for it but to kiss his smiling lips again and again, until their shared laughter has melted into something deeper, more serious. He looks down at this impossible person beneath him and wonders, for perhaps the millionth time in his life, what he’s done to deserve this man’s attention. His affection.
His love?
No. Surely not. It’s just fun, what they’ve been doing all this time. And someday soon Sirius will tire of the game, and Remus will just have to be fine with that: with just being Sirius’ friend again and ignoring any… feelings… that may cause him to have. He can. He’s done it before.
Sirius grins up at him, tracing a finger down the faded scars that run the length of Remus’ face.
“I like it when you laugh, Moony,” he murmurs, smoothing Remus’ hair away from his forehead. “Your eyes squint up and all the muscles in your face loosen and it makes it look like the stick up your arse has briefly gone on vacation.”
He yelps as Remus smacks him about the head, squirming away with little regard for where he’s heading. Gravity gets the better of him, and he tumbles to the floor in a flurry of pillows and expensive cotton sheets, roaring with laughter at the stricken look that appears on Remus’ face as he peers over the edge of the bed, an apology already on his lips.
“Sirius! Merlin, are you alright? I’m—“
“Don’t apologize, you silly sod,” sniggers Sirius, wrapping himself regally in the burgundy flat sheet and using Remus’ outstretched hand to pull himself to his feet. “’Bout time we dragged ourselves from our little nest of debauchery, anyway.”
“It’s three in the morning.”
“Always something to see, Remus, old boy,” chortles Sirius in a ridiculous plummy accent. “Whole wide world at your feet, and you’ll miss it all if you insist on wasting away in yon den of truly mind-blowing iniquity.”
“It’s two degrees outside.”
“Oh for the—“ and Sirius produces his wand from seemingly nowhere (a disconcerting habit he’s picked up since working as an Order field agent) and points it at Remus’ chest. “Garami aajati!”
Remus flinches, sure he is about to grow an impressive coating of yak hair or something equally charming, but nothing happens. Until Sirius grabs him by the arms, yanks him off the bed, and pushes him—still very casually dressed—onto the balcony that looks out over the moonlit limestone cliffs to the sea.
Remus braces himself for life-altering cold, but it doesn’t come. Oh, he’s not toasty warm like he’d been in the bed, with Sirius’ body heat mingling with his own, but he’s certainly comfortable. It’s as though the entire consideration of temperature has been rendered suddenly moot. He hears Sirius say the incantation again before he strolls onto the balcony, looking for all the world as if they are at the beach in July.
“What was that?” Remus inquires interestedly, as Sirius—still clad in his deep red toga—joins him at the stone balustrade.
“Norgay’s Warming Conjuration,” replies Sirius, brushing snow from a deep stone bench set into the wall and flopping down, looking like some sort of beautiful Roman hedonist, with his aristocratic features and unconcerned elegance. “Dead useful, that. Saved me n’ James from losing some rather important bits a couple of times, I can tell you.”
“Then I’m certainly thankful for it,” Remus drawls, rolling his eyes as he flops down next to Sirius, who obligingly lifts the sheet and tucks it around him so they are sitting hip-to-hip beneath it.
“As you should be,” Sirius deadpans, but then grows quiet.
Remus, content simply to sit beside him in the silence, says nothing for long moments, but lets his head fall to the side a bit, observing Sirius out of the corner of his eye. He’s gazing up at the sky, which is full with the most astonishing array of stars that Remus has ever seen. They’re mirrored in Sirius’ dark eyes, and Remus finds himself unable to look at the real thing, so captivated is he by the reflection.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” He breaks the silence, wanting to know what has made Sirius’ face fall back into well-worn lines of unhappiness.
“I suppose,” he replies, not sounding convinced. He tugs at the sheet so it once again covers his shoulders. "Can't really appreciate them just on their own merits, I guess."
"Meaning?"
Sirius sighs, his eyes taking on that sad, angry look that Remus knows so well from all the years he's been Sirius' friend. Wanting to make the expression go away as quickly as possible, Remus scoots even closer to Sirius, tangling their bare legs together and resting his chin on Sirius' shoulder, kissing clumsily at his cheek but miscalculating and winding up with his ear, instead. Sirius doesn't even seem to notice.
"That one's Regulus," he points, and Remus can hear the regret heavy in his voice. "That one's Arcturus. And Antlius. Over there, Carina. And Lyra. Narcissa. Bellatrix."
Ah.
“Funny, right?” Sirius mumbles, pulling away from Remus and wrapping his arms around himself protectively. “Can’t even appreciate the stars without having it shoved in my face what a blood-traitor I am.”
Remus can’t think of anything to say to this. Instead, he sits quietly beside Sirius, who is stiff and tense with either anger or sorrow—Remus can’t be sure. They remain this way for long moments, until Sirius sighs and loosens slightly, turning his head to grin a little sadly at Remus.
“Fine Christmas cheer I’ve got,” he jokes feebly. “I didn’t even like the little bastard. I don’t know why I—“ he bites off the end of the sentence with a choked sound, and turns away from Remus again, his eyes directed upward toward the star he’d identified as Regulus.
“Do you—has there been word about him at all?” Remus asks the question tentatively, not wishing to add to Sirius’ current state of reluctant sorrow, but too curious not to ask.
“Nah. But there doesn’t really need to be, does there?” Sirius sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair distractedly. “Easy to guess what happened. Got in too deep, went all chicken shit and tried to save his own skin, didn’t he? Not something you really get to do, though. You’re either a Death Eater or you’re dead, and Regulus…”
“You don’t know he’s dead, Sirius.”
“Yes, I do.”
And Remus sees no point in arguing, because Sirius is most likely right about his brother. And he knows that the loss hurts Sirius in a way that he—only child that he is—will probably never be able to understand. So he chooses again to sit quietly beside his friend and lets him grieve in silence.
After a while, Sirius shivers. “Think the charm’s wearing off. Do you want to—“
“Do it again. I want to see how it’s done,” replies Remus. “And it’s a nice night, in spite of the stars. I’d like to stay out here a bit longer.”
Sirius obliges, performing Norgay’s Warming Conjuration on both of them as Remus watches his wand movements closely. Then he spreads the enormous sheet out on the bench, pulls Remus close to him, and wraps them both up in the same deep red cocoon. And Remus doesn’t feel the need to speak for a long time, content just to sit and gaze out at the lovely desolation of the cliffs and the sea and pretend, for a moment, that this can last.
“Where is Sirius?” he asks finally, his eyes fixed on the sky.
“I’m right here, you—“
“The star, idiot. Which one is Sirius?”
“Oh. It’s over there,” Sirius replies, gesturing unconcernedly to the west.
“Where, exactly?”
“See the really bright one near the top of that tree?”
Remus nods.
“That’s it. They actually call it the Dog Star, you know? Ironic, that.” Sirius snorts, rolling his eyes at the random little accidents of the universe.
Remus gazes for a long time at the star Sirius has indicated. He’s very likely biased, but it seems to shine brighter, more constant, than any of the others around it. It sparks and flickers and demands to be noticed, and as much as Remus loathes Sirius’ mother with every ounce of his being, he cannot help but think she got it right for once when she chose this heavenly body to memorialize in the man sitting beside him now.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“It is, though.”
Remus can’t tell for sure in the moonlit darkness of the balcony, but it appears that Sirius’ cheeks have colored rather a lot, and there is a tiny, pleased smile eclipsing the lingering sadness in his face. But he doesn’t reply, and Remus feels his heart beat faster. Should he not have said anything? Was that too much? They haven’t been together—haven’t really even seen each other for any meaningful length of time—for months. They’ve smiled in passing and they’ve brushed against each other while pretending to listen in strategy sessions, and they’ve even stolen a heated snog or two in those rare moments when all fronts are quiet and they wait with baited breath for the Death Eaters’ next move.
But it’s not like they’ve said anything. Not like they’ve spent each waking moment pining. There’s been work to do, and Remus has been focused on doing his small part to ensure that the very world around them doesn’t fall apart at the seams. And Sirius has been, too. He’s been out with James saving the world, and Remus would be surprised if Sirius has spared him a thought a day in the midst of all his death-defying.
No. He shouldn’t have said that Sirius is beautiful (even though it’s true) because now Sirius knows that Remus is an enormous, soppy, poofter-y girl and will laugh at him and rumple his hair and tell him to stop taking life so seriously and relax for Merlin’s sake and Remus will not be able to handle it he will not he will say something stupid again or he will start crying broken-hearted tears and eat his weight in chocolate and—
“Want to know which one reminds me of you?”
“Huh?” Remus is jerked rather abruptly from his spiraling panic by the sound of Sirius’ voice very close to his ear. He’s buried his nose in Remus’ neck without Remus even noticing, and is gazing up at the sky with his breath warm and damp on Remus’ collarbone.
“The stars. There’s one that makes me—I just. I think of you whenever I see it.”
“Oh.” Remus tries to suppress the embarrassed twist in his stomach, to no avail. He’s jumped the gun again—theorizing without all the facts and jumping to conclusions and not really being here, when this is the first time he’s gotten to see Sirius, really see him, for months.
He’s an idiot.
“I just kind of assumed it would be that one,” Remus says, gesturing to the waning crescent moon above them.
“No, dolt. I mean, well, yeah. Of course I think of you when I look at the moon, Moony, but I think of you when I look at linoleum, too, so that’s not really—“
“Linoleum?” Remus isn’t sure if he should be insulted or not.
“I just mean—shit. I’m just pants at this making-sense thing tonight—“
“Just tonight?”
“Shut it. I just mean that I think about you a lot, so it’s not really surprising that I think of you when I see the moon. Bit obvious, really. I’m disappointed. But there’s a star—I just. When James and I are out on a stake-out at night and I look up and see it, it always makes me… think. Of you.”
“Oh,” says Remus again. And he can feel his cheeks warming up and a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, now. Sirius thinks of him. A lot. The revelation makes his stomach do pleased little nervous flips. “Which one is it, then?”
Sirius, whose face is noticeably warmer now against Remus’ shoulder, points up towards the middle of the dark sky above them, to the bright fixed point of Polaris. It may be the only star that Remus could identify on sight, having never had much of a knack for astronomy.
“The North Star?” He’s not sure what to think of this, so he just says—because being redundant is apparently his new hobby—“Oh.”
“I just mean,” Sirius hastens to explain. “It’s always there. When I’m bored or lost or terrified that I’m about to be blasted into a million little pieces by insane wankers in masks, I can always look up and find that star and it… it makes me hopeful that I can get out of it. Whatever stupid thing I’ve wound up in. That I can get home, and you’ll be there, and I can—“
“I love you.”
The words come out of Remus’ mouth too fast for him to do anything about it. Heat floods into his face and his heart leaps into his throat and his stomach drops to his knees and he can feel Sirius stiffen against his side, the surprise radiating off him like heat.
“Oh god,” moans Remus, trying and failing to extricate himself from the sheet and getting hopelessly tangled as he slips off the bench and lands with a thump on the flagstones. “Oh god. I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, Sirius, that was stupid. It’s just you said—and I thought—and oh Merlin—“
“Remus. Shut up.”
Sirius’ voice is soft and amused, and some of the immediate panic drains away as Remus looks up to find him smiling that fond, affectionate smile that he’s always so surprised to see directed at him. He reaches out a hand and gently pulls Remus up by the elbow, turning him so that they are sitting face to face on the bench. Remus can feel the cold of the stone through the sheet. The charm must be wearing off again.
Sirius’ eyes are soft, and the sadness and anger that have been clouding them off and on all night are nowhere to be found. He looks as happy as Remus has ever seen him, and the tight knot that has taken up residence in the vicinity of Remus’ heart loosens just slightly.
Sirius traces the scars on Remus’ face gently. “Did you think I didn’t know that?” he asks softly, a note of teasing in his tone.
“Don’t see how you could have,” mumbles Remus, finding it difficult to meet Sirius’ amused, affectionate gaze. “I didn’t even know about it until I just said it, so…”
“You’ve been in love with me for almost as long as I’ve been in love with you, you ridiculous idiot.”
And then Remus is fairly sure he’s having some sort of fatal episode, judging by how fast his heart is beating. He can hear his own breathing, harsh and quick in his ears, and the look on Sirius’ face shifts from playfully teasing to seriously concerned.
“Remus? Moony! Breathe, damn it. I didn’t realize that was going to kill you—Merlin, and everyone thinks you’re so clever, honestly…”
“You—“ it’s hard for Remus’ tongue to make words, all of a sudden. “You love me?”
“Well, yeah,” says Sirius, looking confused. “Have done. Something close to half my life, now. I thought I’d made that clear.”
“When on earth has that ever been clear?!?!”
“Well,” says Sirius, looking a little hurt. “We’ve been together since we were seventeen, Remus. We spend every free moment together, and when this thing with the MacLaggans fizzled out and I suddenly had Christmas Eve to myself, there was only one person I’d ever want to spend it with, so…”
Remus stares at him stupidly, his brain unable to connect with his mouth. Sirius has loved him the whole time. Sirius. Has loved him. For years. It hasn’t all just been passing time. Sirius spends every free moment with Remus (blimey—those are all his free moments? The man must never sleep!)
Sirius loves him.
Sirius loves Remus.
He realizes he’s been staring mutely at Sirius for something like three minutes when he sees his face fall, and he looks away from Remus quickly. “It doesn’t matter. I mean, when you said… I thought. But it’s fine, real—“
And then he can’t speak anymore because Remus’ mouth is on his, and he is winding his fingers into Sirius’ hair and climbing into his lap, the sheet tangled and forgotten between them. Sirius gives a happy little whimper and clutches at Remus’ shoulder blades, pulling them even closer together as the stars begin to fade with the faint light of approaching dawn.
They kiss for what seems like hours, but what can only be minutes, because it soon becomes clear that Norgay’s charm is well and truly worn off, and they are two young men, stark naked on a snow covered Irish balcony in the middle of December.
Sirius is shivering when Remus finally lets him breathe, but the smile on his face is dazed and silly and quite clearly pleased with this turn of events. Remus grins back at him from his perch in Sirius’ lap, smoothing the shaggy hair from off his cheeks, which are swiftly flushing with the encroaching cold.
“I love you,” he murmurs again. And this time when he says it, there is certainty and wonder and perhaps a little pleased bewilderment, but there is no panic. No reluctance.
“I loved you first,” counters Sirius through teeth that are beginning to chatter.
“Yeah, well, you’re a lot cleverer than people give you credit for,” drawls Remus, hauling himself out of Sirius’ lap and pulling the other man up and close to his bare chest.
“Do you think we could go inside now?” chatters Sirius, worming icy fingers into Remus’ armpits. “I know it was my idea, but I’m not sure the whole being bare-arsed naked in the middle of December was one of my more inspired notions.”
“Yeah,” murmurs Remus, smiling at him. “Just one more thing.”
And he kisses Sirius again, pulling the sheet more closely around them as the North Star and the Dog Star begin to fade into the dawning light of Christmas morning.
********
Remus shakes himself from his reverie, his fingers stiff once again around his wand. The darkness surrounding him is slowly growing less absolute, and Azkaban is emerging from the blackness of the night.
He is cold and wet and miserable, and it is stupid—beyond idiotic—for him to be here. This is as close as he’s ever come to the prison; he does not know where the prisoners are kept—if there are any windows where Sirius is through which he might maybe see the fixed point of the wandlight in the darkness of the starless night.
He does not know if Sirius is guilty of the crimes that brought him here. He doesn’t want to believe that he is, but how would that be any better? Sirius wrongfully accused and left to rot with the dementors might actually be worse than a Sirius who betrayed his best friend and sentenced him to death. Maybe.
Maybe.
He does not know if James and Peter are dead because Sirius betrayed them. Doesn’t know if Sirius was mad at the end, knows even less if he’s gone mad since. It seems likely, he thinks. He is at this moment as close as he’s ever been to Azkaban, and he can already feel his own grip on his mind growing unsteady. Sirius has been inside those dark stone walls for five years. It would be a miracle if he is not insane.
A miracle. Or a curse.
He looks down at the wand in his hand. He’s been standing here in the darkness all night, this tiny manufactured star held constant and steady in his grip. A star one might seek out in the hope of one day returning home… which is unbelievably stupid.
Sirius might as well be dead. It would be better if Remus could believe that—he might even find a way to be happy if he could just convince himself that’s true. And sometimes he can, actually. For entire months of the year while he’s occupied with outrunning the pain of the memories he’s fleeing or surviving the pain of his own body’s duplicity, he can forget entirely that Sirius Black is still alive. Alive and real and still so damnably present every time Remus forgets himself and looks up to find the Dog Star in the night sky.
This is the only night of the year he allows himself to hope. The hope of a small, steady light in pitch blackness that no one is likely to see.
Sentimental.
Foolish.
Necessary.
Remus pulls his coat ineffectually around himself again, the charm having worn off and left him shivering and miserable and resolved to see this through to sunrise. He doesn’t know why he does it. Knows that it is very likely an empty gesture by a morbid, miserable man longing for a lost love the might never have existed at all.
But still he comes. Each year, without fail.
It is stupid, and naive, and he cannot for the life of him bring himself to regret it.
“Happy Christmas, Sirius,” he whispers to the wind. And, extinguishing his wand at last, he turns toward the sun rising of Christmas morning and disapparates, the quiet pop swallowed up by the crashing roar of the sea.