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There’s always a stretch between winter and springtime that’s especially miserable. The bright lights of the holidays and cozy fireplaces have disappeared, leaving behind only the gloom and the wind and the rain. It’s truly awful, everything bleak and grey and damp, but there’s always a little pocket of spring that hides among the melancholy. A false spring, where everything, for a few days, is bright and happy and dappled with sunshine. It’s discouragingly fleeting, but it’s so lovely when it comes.
Remus hates it, hates how fickle it is, how quickly it disappears, how it lulls you into a false state of happiness before ripping it away with months more of the darkness. You love it though, love shedding your layers and tilting your head towards the sun, acting like it really was spring even though you know it’ll slip through your fingers in a few days’ time. It’s a preview of spring and of summer, of the lighter months full of sunshine and friendship and infinitely long days, a promise of what’s to come.
The ice in your cup clinks together as you stir it with your plastic straw, the color lightening the more you mix.
“It seems like you don’t actually like coffee,” Remus quips before taking a drink of his own coffee.
“I don’t,” you respond before taking a sip, your eyes fluttering closed in delight, “I just need a vessel for all the different flavors.” You smile, lips shiny from the lipgloss you’d meticulously applied only moments before, just to leave a sticky ring around your plastic straw. Your head tilts back into the sunshine, seeking out its warmth even with your eyes closed, and then it finds you and you’re alight like an angel, the sunlight beaming down onto your face as if it shines only for you.
You, unlike Remus, were born for the sunshine. You were destined to lay out in the sun with not a care in the world, for backyard poker games and meals on the porch, for citrus fruit and clover fields, for the seaside and painted skies. You’re the sun, his sun, and he’s drawn to you the way a moth is drawn to a flame. For him, it’s enough just to sit like this, just to be near you and listening to the way you hum every time you take a sip of your drink.
“Wanna come to the store with me?” You ask, setting down your mostly empty cup and breaking Remus out of his stupor, “I wanna make sandwiches for lunch, with the good bread.”
“Course I’ll come,” he stands, grabbing your hand to help you out of your chair the way he always does, partly to be kind and partly to feel your hand in his, the way you squeeze his hand tightly just before letting go.
The two of you always do things like this, spend your mornings in coffee shops and bookstores, keep each other company while grocery shopping or going to the bank. When you’re together everything feels a bit like an adventure, even the boringest of chores turned into something wonderful when Remus is by your side. It just feels right, spending all these wonderfully meaningless moments with each other, even though people tend to think you’re a couple. You don’t mind, don’t find it the least bit embarrassing, and you often play along, even as Remus’ cheeks tinge pink.
“Good boyfriend, he’s a keeper,” an elderly woman comments with a wink when she sees Remus holding your basket as you inspect tomatoes.
“Oh, he’s the best,” you agree, smiling at the woman as she walks away. Remus has surpassed pink and gone straight to red, matching the tomato in your hand perfectly. “You must’ve gotten some sun while we were outside.” You say it innocently, not a hint of anything malicious in your tone as you press your palm gently to the side of his face. He thinks you must be trying to kill him, what with your sweet smile and unassuming words and your soft touch.
“You don’t like tomatoes,” he says instead of anything substantial, his brain rebooting as you make your way to the bakery section.
“No, but you do, and I can find something to do with the leftovers,” your words only confirming that you do indeed mean to kill him. You’re so absurdly sweet, Remus wonders how you manage it, but he’d never mention it, never want you to feel even a shred of self-consciousness around him.
Watching you grocery shop has always been something of a spiritual experience for Remus. There’s something so captivating about the way you inspect the produce, pressing gently with your thumb to find any soft spots or turning containers this way and that to check for ripeness. He loves the way you stand in front of the shelves, internally debating whether or not you need something, whether you should go with the cheaper option or the better tasting. Maybe he’s just so in love with you that everything you do seems extraordinary, but he’d be happy to grocery shop with you forever.
Instead, though, you finish with your shopping and he drives you home, and you make him lunch. You never have to ask what he wants anymore, just direct him to the kitchen table while you get out your ingredients and your cutting board. Instead of sitting, though, he folds himself over, leaning his elbows on your countertop just to share the same space as you.
“Wanna help with my garden this year?” You ask, not even bothering to look up from slicing your bread into thick slabs.
“It’s gonna get cold again,” he warns instead of any sort of real reply.
“I know,” you look up at him, setting your knife down, “but when it’s warmer for real, wanna help?”
“‘Course I do,” and the weight of your gaze, your smile, is simply too much, so he reaches for your cutting board and steals a piece of the bread, just for the sake of hearing you laugh and scold him.
Some of Remus’s fondest memories take place in your kitchen. There’s you on a Friday night, eyelids sparkly and skin on display, the countertops covered in various bottles of booze and mixers, the overhead lights replaced with something funkier, your laughter ringing out over the music. The quieter moments are his favorite, though, where it’s just the two of you or a few more of your closest friends, crammed in the warm glow of the kitchen and sharing in a meal, either the creation of it or the consumption of it.
Mostly, there’s just something about you in your kitchen that Remus finds overwhelming. You can transform into so many different versions of yourself, reflecting the situation around you like stained glass but casting your own light just the same. You are steady and reliable and full of so much love it’s a little absurd, he’s only able to quantify it through your kitchen, as you bake something or cut fruit or serve drinks or make him lunch, just the two of you seemingly alone in the world and really, that sounds perfect to Remus.
He wants to know everything about you, all the little moments and expressions that build up to create you, and although he’d like to think he already does, it always seems like there’s one final wall that Remus can’t quite break through. He’s seen you in the early mornings, on vacations or days where you’ve needed to crash on his couch, he’s seen you at every point during daylight in every season, and he’s seen you at night, for dinners and movies and nights out, but that doesn’t seem real, not really, not in the way he wishes it did. He wants to wake up next to you, spend every second by your side, and fall asleep next to you before doing it all over again.
In his mind, you’re nothing but perfect, nothing but the girl of his dreams, but he couldn’t possibly tell you that. You’re his everything, and he can’t fathom that changing in any way, even for the better. It’s not a risk he’s willing to take. So instead, he says nothing, nodding along to the story you tell as you construct the sandwiches, heart bursting every time you pause in your work to look up at him, eager to see a reaction or share in a smile.
The sandwiches, once they’re done, are practically works of art, thick cut bread piled high with toppings, all of Remus’s favorites lovingly arranged without needing to ask and cut in half. You know everything there is to know about Remus, all of the little, seemingly inconsequential details like how he likes his sandwiches, how he takes his tea and his coffee, his favorite pizza toppings, his go to orders at all the local restaurants. You know what kind of books he prefers, his favorite brands of sweets and snacks, the spot he always chooses on your couch.
Remus can’t think about that too long, can never sit with the thought that you know him better than anyone and what that might mean. It makes him want to crawl out of his skin sometimes, the way you see him so completely far too overwhelming. It makes his heart ache, just a little, to know that someone, that you, love him enough to remember things about him, to remember practically everything about him.
He knows you too, can read every little facial expression that passes and every twitch of your fingers, knows when you’re tired or hungry or overwhelmed. Now, you’ve just had a thought pop into your head, something that’s taken your full attention because you’re setting down your sandwich and brushing the crumbs off your hands.
“We should run away to the seaside,” you swallow thickly, barely waiting to be done chewing before you share your newest idea with Remus, “and we can lie in the sun and read all day long and only eat fruit and ice cream.”
“I get burnt easily.”
“Fine, we’ll get you an umbrella to read under and I’ll read in the sun and everything else will stay the same.” You smile, and that’s enough sunshine for Remus.
“Not if you’re in charge of cutting the fruit,” he counters, making a pointed look at the plate of fruit you’d cut and set on the center of the table, lovingly prepared but with widely uneven slices. You just laugh and roll your eyes.
“Then you can cut the fruit.”
“Deal.”
The thought warms Remus to his core, almost as much as your smile does. He imagines you and him by the sea, salty and sunsoaked. He’s always believed that you were made for summer, for running around barefoot through sand and grass and wearing nothing but swimsuits and breezy shirts, letting the sun warm your skin and your soul. You’re mostly joking, he thinks, but he also can’t think of anything that would make him happier than running away with you.
He doesn’t say that though, and instead just grabs some orange slices from the plate, leaving his fingers sticky. You smile and shake your head, can sense the gentle teasing before it even leaves his lips, so instead he just eats the fruit and resists the urge to comment, just to keep you on your toes. You know him too well, though, and can tell what he’s thinking.
“Be quiet and eat your fruit, otherwise I’ll run away without you.” He puts his hands up in mock surrender, as if he wasn’t in the middle of planning out a snarky comment.
“You’d never leave me,” he retorts, playful as if the mere thought doesn’t make his heart ache.
“Of course I wouldn’t,” and even though you’re teasing, the both of you smiling, Remus can sense the truth of your comment.