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“You love me really.” Sirius quips from the kitchen table at his best friend, who is complaining egregiously about his habit of singing muggle musical tunes at seven in the morning.
“Hmm debatable..” He replies with a yawn.
Sirius glances over his shoulder to find Remus scuttling about in the grey morning light, his form silhouetted with a faint halo from the window behind him. A jigsaw of old rain-worn cream apartment blocks with navy-slate gabled roofs stacked with walls of red-brick, stout chimneys and bay windows stretches out from their living room window.
“Hush, you. When will you be back?” The kettle squeals. Sirius fills one green ceramic mug with lemon and ginger for himself, and a thermos with a sticker of a Robert Frost quote, with earl grey for Remus, sealed with a quick warming charm.
“Shift ends at 3, but we’ll be understaffed, so probably later.” Remus slides the thermos off the table with a habitual nod of thanks, before gathering a mish-mash of belongings in his drowsy state and throwing them haphazardly in a brown hemp tote bag. His set of keys which Lily crocheted tiny sweaters for, a black umbrella with one broken rod that Sirius insists he replaces, but he never does. A tattered copy of Great Expectations he certainly won’t have time to read, four sticks of chewing gum he scoops up from the entry-hall table, a pepper-up potion, and a lighter for the cigarettes he says he’s quitting.
As he leaves, draining the flat of noise and life on his way, Sirius settles down with his tea and drifts into admin work for the youth outreach program he co-manages.
It’s just past 5 when Remus returns, wearing one of his thick woollen jumpers that Sirius always imagines to be scratchy and unpleasant, but never are. He bustles through the door shaking his umbrella, damp curls sticking to his forehead and cursing under his breath. Sirius is standing by the stove, with oil hissing and stinging from the pan holding his stir fry, staring fondly down to the entrance hall.
“Bloody fucking north winds! Positively atrocious out there Pads.” Remus shakes his curls out and shrugs off his corduroy jacket, flinging his tote bag on the couch as he slides into the kitchen, leaning against the counter.
“Whatcha makin?”
“Chicken stir fry” Sirius hums. “How was the bookstore?” He asks. Remus works part-time at one of those chain muggle bookstores with cafes inside, selling watery coffee and overpriced notebooks. But, the building was once an old casino in the late 19th century and has grand raised ceilings with intricate golden linings and painted murals, dotted with chandeliers and tapestry rugs and great stretching bookcases with kitschy sliding ladders and armchairs fit for old ladies. Sirius is surprised the manager even needed to interview Remus, surely just one glimpse at his endearingly beige appearance meets all the qualifications.
“Slow, but I got to work the Records section and talk up Marc Bolan to the customers.”
“A noble pursuit, Moony.” Sirius waves a hand to the counter wordlessly. Remus levitates him the ramekin dish of chopped chilli. It’s always been like this between them, they just understand each other. As if they can anticipate the other’s words before their thoughts have fully formed. Back in Hogwarts, they had an unspoken alliance as the ‘troubled kids’, with fractured families and fractured skin, but instead of the James Potter style sit-down-and-talk-it-out, or the Peter Pettigrew signature pat-on-the-back-and-never-talk-about-it-again, it was all silent gestures, pain potions, escapades to hex the Slytherins, benders in the common room, becoming animagi, forgiving brutal betrayal, moving in together. Such and such.
“Oh and err..” Remus scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tic more natural than breathing at this point. “I got a date!” He chirped awkwardly.
Remus had come out to them in the seventh year winter break when he was particularly plastered during a game of truth or dare, and while everyone, especially James - who was practically painting himself rainbow - had been accepting, Remus was still painfully apprehensive talking about his love life.
“Oh? Score! What’s his name?” Sirius asks casually, his tone feeling slightly forced.
“Uh Damian, he’s blonde, fit, kept talking about Oscar Wilde with bedroom eyes.” Remus chuckled to himself. Sirius quells the squirming in his gut. He really isn't sure where it's coming from, he has no objection to his best friend being gay, or anyone for that matter, but maybe it the pureblood in him still rejects it, or maybe it's just the idea of ‘elbow patches personified’ Remus Lupin paired with the phrase ‘bedroom eyes’
Sirius tests his satay, licking the spatula, while Remus flips through the Daily Prophet. Grandpa. Sirius snickers under his breath.
“Hmm, how does that work, you know, with guys?” Sirius asks.
Remus snaps his head up and meets him with an incredulously raised eyebrow. “Are you seriously asking me about-”
“Merlin NO No-” Sirius flushes bright red at the implication.”-I meant like, the dating, cause y’know you can’t exactly hold hands and kiss in the park.”
“Oh! Ha." Remus laughs nervously. "Right. Yeah. Well, it'll be a round of appropriately platonic drinks at some bar, and then we'll just go back to his.”
“Well, don’t get murdered.” Sirius quips.
“Hmm I’ll do my best.” He muses.
That evening, with a headache splitting his skull from staring at charmed spreadsheets and parchment and wavers for hours on end, Sirius traipses, freshly showered, into the living room. Well, it wasn’t so much of a living room as just the rest of the flat- a cosy little open-plan thing. On the couch, of course, is Remus, reading.
The familiar scene is so quotidian it brings a pang of affection and comfort to Sirius. The scar that juts through Remus’ eyebrow. The lips he worries between his teeth. The worn neck of his Queen T-shirt under a cream knit jumper with an old mandarin stain near the hem. The ceramic mug which ironically reads ‘Alpha Male’ that Pete gifted him for his birthday earlier in the year, with the tea bag still in, saturated. Brown trousers, thinning at the knees. Silly Nepalese patterned socks, orange, red and lime green - horribly clashing - propped up on the coffee table. Moony. Good old, reliable, comforting, Moony.
Smiling, Sirius flings himself onto their peeling faux-leather sofa, feet resting on the arm, head strewn over Remus’ lap. He drags his hands over his face, groaning in exhaustion. “I can’t do it anymore, throw me to the wild, I’m not cut out for professionalism.”
Remus smiles down at him fondly, a tawny curl hovering over his forehead. “Wow, you’re awfully pathetic this evening.” He remarks light-heartedly. Sirius feigns offence. Remus tuts and rolls his eyes. “Godric, I can’t believe you never grew out of pouting.”
Sirius scoffs. “I do not pout. ” He insists.
“Hmmm no I’d say you do. It’s part of that whole Black Family dramatics thing you have going on.” Remus says through a smirk. His hand makes its way to Sirius’ hair and cards through it absent-mindedly. Sirius hums in satisfaction.
“Still. I don’t pout.” Sirius grumbles stubbornly. Remus chuckles.
“Oh really? Then what’s this?” He presses a finger to Sirius’ forehead, smoothing out the furrows in his brow, before tracing his hand down the slope of his nose to drag his lips down from their frown. Sirius’ breath hitches. Quill-calloused fingers linger a little longer on his lower lip, parting his mouth slightly. He supposes this is the part where he playfully snaps at Remus’ fingers and makes some joke about his canine nature, but the words die in his chest, drowned out by the incessant thumping of his heart. Remus’ fingers are still drifting over his bottom lip. Sirius keeps his gaze firmly fixed on his feet at the end of the couch, as Remus’ fingers leave his mouth and trail down his chin to his jaw, tangling themselves back in his hair as if they had never left. Sirius feels the ghost of the touch burning into his skin. He swallows down his heartbeat and lets himself relax into the steady silence once again.
For the first time since maybe fifth year, Sirius has no idea what Remus is thinking.
The week goes along steadily. Sirius pours hours and hours of work into a yearly budget, trying to cover all bases with their scant funds. He stays a little later than usual at the office, Remus cooks for him those nights. Shepherd’s pie. Red wine stains his flatmate's mouth. He does his correspondence work and helps set up a foster family for a crass 15 year old boy with a split lip. He looks furious, but so, so young. Sirius has a hard time reconciling that image with his own story; he remembers clinging to his independence like a lifeboat, feeling every bit of his Gryffindor courage, but really he was just a boy. You were just a child Pads . Sirius hears James’ voice ringing in his head, feels the phantom touch of Peter’s hand jostling his shoulder or Remus’ quill-calloused fingers shaking him from nightmares.
Needless to say, Sirius is relieved when the weekend rolls around again. Ah, Friday night, Remus has a date. That much is evident as soon as Sirius slips through the flat’s wards and is met with a very stressed werewolf, standing, hands on hips and surveying an array of shirts laid on his bed. Sirius is leaning in the doorway, scratching a tender spot of his scalp with his wand. Bad habit.
“Pads, I need help.” He’s chewing his lip again.
Sirius cocks an eyebrow. “Psychiatric? Yes, desperately.’ He jokes. Remus fixes him with a deadpan stare. Sirius’ eye catches on a navy button-up. “Wait- is that my shirt?”
Remus rifles through his wardrobe, barely pausing his fretting to reply. “Well yeah, you have all the fancy shit. I’m tryna make a good impression here.”
Sirius breathes a laugh. “Well you’re probably right, it is your best option.” He snatches it off the bed and flings it in Remus’ direction. “There, change, and chill out.”
Twenty minutes later, Remus leaves the flat in Sirius’ shirt and a smart pair of jeans, which Sirius had assured him a million times looked great, to which Remus had flushed awkwardly, never one to accept a compliment.
He doesn’t come home that night. Which Sirius is fine with, just fine, thanks. He makes dinner, and puts half in a Tupperware container in the fridge. He always cooks for two, it's instinct now. He plays Bowie on the record player, answers an Owl from an investor, and apparates to the wizarding pub to meet James and Lily. He has a few pints and laughs so hard his ribs hurt when James trips and knocks Lily’s stool out from under her. He stumbles home, giddy and beer buzzed, finding the flat empty and not at all minding one bit. He showers and takes himself to bed.
But as he stares at the ceiling willing sleep upon himself, his mind drifts to his best friend. What is he doing now? With this Damian bloke? Is he laughing at his jokes? Pulling a lopsided smile or a sly smirk? The one that showed just a touch of his canines, not that Damian would know why they’re so sharp. Is he leaning over him, eyes heady with desire, pressing rough kisses down his jaw and sucking love bites into his collarbone? And why is Sirius’ whole body tingling with heat at the thought? And why, if he closes his eyes, can he almost imagine Remus leaning over him now, breath hot on his body? And why-
Fuck.
Sirius is trying his best not to be an arsehole. He likes to think he’s matured a fair bit since he was a moody seventeen year-old and applauds himself for acting pretty much completely normal. He reckons he’s putting on a pretty believable appearance. For example, when Remus clambers home just before midday with bed-tangled hair and another man’s jacket covering Sirius’ button up, Sirius does not burn the jacket off his back or rip it to shreds in his dog form. Neither does he take Remus by the shoulders, shake him, scream at him or kiss him senseless as the boiling tension in his gut demands. Instead he flashes him a signature grin through slightly gritted teeth.
“Good date?” He asks, hoping his tone doesn’t betray the burning hatred he feels.
Remus blushes. This makes Sirius absolutely furious.
“Yeah.. well, I’m gonna..” He gestures to the bathroom down the hall. Sirius musters an unconvincing smirk.
When Remus emerges, hair wet and cheeks flushed, Sirius finds an excuse to get the fuck out of the flat so that maybe, maybe he can fucking breathe again. He, of course, goes grocery shopping.
He’s tapping his hands and picking his skin obsessively. Remus looks at him oddly. “You right, Pads?”
Sirius laughs nervously. ‘No, not at all, I’m thinking very unsavory things about one of my best friends and about to ruin absolutely everything.’ He thinks.
“Do you need anything from the store?” He says.
Now, Sirius is, at this point, a grown man, so of course he only permits himself a few moments of deliberation on this abrupt change of his very much platonic relationship. However, in truth, the thoughts plague him as he answers owls at the office with tawny-colored feathers, as he picks up crates of tea at the Tesco on the corner, as he puts a deep-conditioning mask in his waves and scrunches them to definition. He ruminates obsessively as he runs through the forest and cleans Remus’ wounds post-moon. He broods as he watches Remus shuffle about the flat in Nepalese socks and shimmy awkwardly to Bowie, and as he meets investors in stuffy ministry offices with a placating smile, as he passes florists and bookstores and cafes and stacks of T-Rex records and blonde fit men who might read Oscar Wilde. And the worst part is, Remus, ever observant, has begun to notice.
“Do you need to go see Reg?” Remus asks delicately one afternoon, kind golden eyes. Fidgeting fingers, scratching at the nape of his neck. Habit. “I know there are things the two of you just, understand.”
Stupidly, Sirius feels his throat cloud up and swallows thickly, biting back tears. Godric, he's just so kind. And he just knows him. Just understands. “Yeah. Yeah I should go see Reg.” He nods to the floorboards. Remus is right, Regulus has a funny way of detangling Sirius’ spirals with his astute bluntness and a touch of shared trauma. He would help.
“So. You do love him then?” Regulus asks, phrasing it more as a statement, as he flicks his wand and a little bar cart with crystal glasses and a decanter filled with shimmering nectar appear.
Sirius frowns, startled. “What?”
Regulus smiles a little as the whiskey pours itself. The expression always looks a little out of place with his carefully-ironed appearance, coiffed hair, pressed slacks, glinting silver rings. “Well before I left Grimmauld, I remember seeing you and Lupin around school and thinking you could’ve been… something.” He taps his finger on the table. His head turns towards the townhouse window, great dregs of natural light filtering through and feeding his houseplants. “But you were always close to Potter as well, and I suppose it was no different to how I was with Barty or Evan sometimes, so I brushed it off.” He pauses. Sirius sips the whiskey and feels it burn. “Was I right the first time?” He asks simply.
Sirius pinches his brow, exhaling harshly. “It’s all so fucking confusing. I just- I don’t know.”
Regulus snorts. “Honestly. It’s clear as day from where I’m sitting. You love him, or there’s certainly something more than friendship there. Now you may as well admit it to yourself rather than wasting my whiskey supply for no reason.”
Sirius narrows his eyes at him and stays silent. He sips in lieu of an answer. What does Regulus know? Honestly.
He doesn’t go back to the flat after that. He thinks about going to James and Lily but they just feel too connected to him and Remus. As if James would look into his eyes, right through to his skeleton and find every pestering heated thought and lingering fingertip and spit it all back out to him, real and concrete and earth-shattering. He floos instead to the Hog’s Head, where he drinks alone. The rickety beams and cold brick walls close him in, safe from crooked smiles and nine years of friendship culminating to something as embarrassing and teenage as desire and infatuation. After several glasses of house brewed beer and Daisyroot Draught, Sirius’ brain is satisfyingly fuddled.
“Moooooony.” He slurs once he stumbles back home. Remus is, predictably, on the sofa, with a book and a mug, wearing his Nepalese socks.
“Are you drunk?” He seems upset. Or maybe concerned? He’s just so nice. His eyes, brown, no, hazel, no, amber, are squinting at him. He’s a mosaic of warmth, all wool and swatches of burgundy, cream and clay. Sirius wants to wrap himself up in it. So he does. He takes his place next to Remus on the couch and snuggles into his side, hoping for a repeat of a few weeks ago, to feel Remus’ hands on him again. Quill-calloused.
“Hello.” Remus chuckles, stretching an arm over Sirius’ shoulder.
“Hi.” Sirius smiles up at him lazily. “You’re really very lovely.”
Remus shakes his head. “You do seem rather fond of telling me so when you’re inebriated.”
A distant part of Sirius’ mind registers this as mortifying. The dominant part just wanted to kiss him. So he does.
He surges forwards and cradles Remus’ face with his hands, bringing their lips together in a searing kiss. The other man freezes, hands stilling, before he reciprocates and mouths begin moving in tandem. He tastes like peppermint tea. Something fragile and useless inside Sirius shatters with a satisfying crunch. He lets a small gasp slip at the feeling of Remus biting softly on his lower lip. At some point he begins licking into the other man’s mouth, a muffled moan comes from somewhere, swallowed between the two of them. Sirius’ hands trail down the long lines of his neck and to his back and shoulder blades, sharp and cutting. Sirius feels him shiver and registers those godforsaken large, rough fingers gripping the angle of his jaw and tangling through his hair, pulling just right. Only when Sirius clambers up closer to Remus, straddling him and rolling his hips down, does Remus falter.
His grip tightens and he pulls himself away from Sirius, looking him dead in the eyes with a calculating expression. “You’re drunk.” He sounds downright morose. “Right. You’re fucking drunk.” Remus gently pushes Sirius off his lap. Sirius’ eyes are scanning Remus’ face frantically. What did he do wrong?
“Moony…” He tries.
Remus stands up from the couch. “Sirius, I think you should go to sleep.” He starts to walk towards the hall. If Sirius knows anything, it’s that he wants Remus here, with him, forever. He sits upright. “Wait, Remus.”
Remus pauses, looking over his shoulder warily. Whatever words Sirius wants to say are lost. Remus sighs and turns away again, the pair left in a familiar silence, this one weighing uncharacteristically heavy in the air.
Sirius wakes and bolts upright. He’s on the couch, and… nauseous. Whether because of the alcohol or the all-encompassing dread settled in his stomach, Sirius isn’t sure. It’s early, maybe five or six, early enough that Remus won’t be awake. Thank Merlin. He grips the couch cushions, knuckles white. Not a single coherent thought makes it through his internal monologue, the only thing he hears is a rush of blood through his ears as he swallows his bile. He curls his hands into fists and feels the little stabs of pain from his fingernails. Crescent moons. He almost laughs.
What the fuck did he do? This is Remus. His best friend. His roommate. Everything had been perfect, golden, comfortable. And he’s fucked it up royally, because that’s just what he does. And now Remus will hate him or move out or at the very least never look at him the same again. James will be torn forever between him and Moony and most likely harbour some poorly concealed resentment towards him for causing a rift in the group. Again. Fuck.
He needs to get out of here. He needs air.
Tiny fallen birch leaves cling to the damp soles of his boots. Strokes of warm yellow light from street lights still on in the dark morning, reflect into the pavement puddles. The tips of his fingers, going purple. A dog off its leash. An old man spitting on the pavement.
The woollen coat he threw on at the door scratches uncomfortably against his neck. The wind is freezing against his cheeks. His jaw is clenched. His stomach squirms unrelentingly.
Leaves crunch. Wind whistles. A man spits on the pavement.
Petrichor. Air pollution.
He licks his lips, he tastes Remus.
Sirius scowls and bunkers on, stomping through seedy London streets feeling like the worst possible friend to grace this city. Eventually, head no clearer than he when he left, Sirius hesitantly sneaks back into the flat, praying to every god there is, that Remus is still asleep.
His wish is not granted. Typical. Remus is on the couch. With a book, and a mug of tea. It makes Sirius want to burst into tears. Normalcy being so close but just out of reach. Remus doesn’t look up when the door clicks shut. He doesn’t flinch when Sirius shakily sits down on the couch with him, on the furthest cushion possible. Maybe that’s a good sign, maybe not. The anticipation is bubbling under his skin.
The pair sit there in silence, the words not said hanging heavy between them, thick and sticky as molasses in their throats. But it was never words for them. Actions were so much simpler.
Remus swivels to face him, lanky legs taking up the middle cushion, his arms leaning on his knees. Sirius, stiff as a board, does not meet his eyes.
Remus reaches out a tentative hand, placing it on Sirius’ own. “Pads..” Fingers drift up and down knuckles. A match strikes, lights, burns. Sirius twists his body and crashes into Remus. “Moony.” No less feverish than last night, Sirius presses his whole body over Remus’, lying back into the couch as he attacks his mouth with fervour. Remus responds in kind. Hands trail up his back and grip his hair. Teeth bite at his neck and jaw. Sirius’ hands ride up his jumper, mapping out the raised, scarred skin. “Fuck.” Remus bites out, head thrown back. Sirius licks a stripe up his throat. Remus fucking growls and flips them over swiftly, pinning Sirius to the couch as he bites down his collarbone. Sirius is exceedingly happy with this turn of events, and finds his mouth going bone-dry. Merlin.
It’s all a blur of sensation, a tangle of honey curls and inky waves and in the aftermath, breathless and dazed, they share a glance. Sirius huffs a disbelieving laugh as he meets his eyes.
It’s small, simple, yet dreadfully significant. Pools of honey melting mercury. A soft smile curling over Remus’ mouth. Nothing heavy between them now, just the lightest, featherest quiet wrapping them together.
Sirius idly traces patterns over Remus’ chest. He knows they need to breach their safety net. He knows he needs to speak. But for some reason, despite his mouth having been in some rather unsavoury places only moments before, he feels himself shy away, his throat constricting as he speaks.
“Remus,” his voice shakes. Sirius can hear Remus’ heart pick up from where his head rests over his ribcage. “You know, you’re my favourite person.”
Remus’ hands - quill-calloused - tighten their grip around his side. “Yeah Pads, I know,” he says lightly. “I love you too.”
Sirius’ heart soars.
Nothing changes. Well, not really. Sirius makes their tea in the mornings, Remus takes his thermos with his Robert Frost quote and goes to his shitty muggle bookstore job, Sirius complains about funding and legislation, they dance around each other in the kitchen seamlessly, the decipher each other’s twinkling eyes, full of mirth, without word or reason. They win pub trivia, the same floorboards still creak and the shower still either runs blisteringly hot or just a little chilly, no in-between.
But Godric, does it all change. There’s now a spare bedroom, for one. Sirius’ things are collecting dust as he always opts for the warm cocoon of Remus’ tea-filled patchwork of literature and trinkets and cacti. They share lazy morning kisses and heated nights and gentle touches and Remus rests a hand on his thigh under the table at the pub, Sirius feels the warmth seep through the denim right to his bloodstream. He revels in their sort-of secret love before they bare their silent, instinctive souls to the others.
Well, their honeymoon homebody bliss lasts all of 14 days before an extremely ungracious exposition.
A violently optimistic South Asian man fumbles his way through Sirius and Remus’ floo, ready to announce the spectacular news of his engagement to one Lily -soon to be Potter- Evans. What he finds instead is the extremely scarring imagery of his two closest friends, stark naked on a coffee table and…well…inside one another.
“WHAT IN THE EVERLOVING FUCK?” James bellows, kicking up soot and swiveling to face the wall, rubbing his eyes in hope to exterminate the image before it reaches long-term memory.
Sirius hears the commotion and the pair scramble apart. “Hey Prongs.” His voice wavers comically. He glances at Remus who has curled into himself on the rug, face bright red.
“AHHh. Ah AHh. AHHH.” Distressed screams seem to be the only sound Sirius’ best friend is capable of producing, understandably, Sirius feels quite similarly.
James is still facing the wall. Screaming. Ah, lovely, just how they wanted to break the news. After scrambling around for some form of clothing, Sirius manages to coax James into turning back around. James looks determinedly at the floorboards.
“Me and Lily are engaged.” He mutters weakly to his shoes.
Remus, still extremely red and cradling his face in his hands, seems to jolt at this information, lifting his gaze, then immediately thinking better of it.
“Congrats mate.” Sirius tries. He’s just about ready to throw up, no amount of pride for his best mate could overthrow the sheer fear he feels in the face of potentially upending a friendship of nine years…again. He shifts awkwardly from his position perched on the coffee table edge.
“So…” James starts. “What’s going on here?”
Sirius clears his throat. “Oh you know, the usual. Working at the foundation, seeing Reg, sexual awakenings, romantic revelations.”
Remus grimaces beside him. “We’re uh… dating?” He offers unsurely.
James raises an eyebrow. “You’re dating ? Wha-”
“Well that’s an awfully limiting expression for our situation don’t you think Moony?” Sirius interrupts. “I’d call us committed long-term life partners.” He finishes with a grin. Remus snorts and nudges him with his shoulder. Sirius nudges back, smiling to himself.
James is looking between the pair with assessing eyes. “You’re… in love?”
“...Yes” Sirius all but squeaks. “Is that… okay?”
His best friend stares at him blankly. “Okay?” Sirius waits with bated breath for the final blow. “It’s fucking marvelous!” He claps his hands together and spins around on the spot. “Lads this is wonderful news. Now we’re all wifed up-” Sirius frowns at the phrase. He was absolutely not wifed up . “- We can even double date! Oh and maybe a double wedding!”
Remus blanches. “Prongs, this happened two weeks ago. Also that’s not legal.”
James waves a hand non-committedly. “Eh, technicalities. Anyways, this is spectacular. I'll just… knock next time.”
“Please.” Remus mutters.