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🍂
It’s autumn, which Remus loves. The air tastes crisp and the sun doesn’t sit so heavy in the sky, leaving him sweat-damp and over-warm. Autumn means Hogwarts; means Sirius most of all. And nature’s colors suit him; cheeks apple red, skin pale like the clouds in the sky, hair inky black like the ever-creeping night.
It’s been a slow revelation, learning that he’s in love with Sirius Black. It doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it might. It feels like autumn feels, melancholy and crisp, and it’s warmed in his chest as if by cider when Sirius is near.
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On school breaks, Remus works at the cafe. It’s mindless, boring work, but they don’t mind that he needs time off, or that he disappears off to his strange, Scottish boarding school. Remus likes that he’s got endless access to cups of tea, to small-talk, and to Mrs. Basker’s excellent scones.
It’s only strange, winter break in seventy-seven, that Sirius comes and sits every day with a book on the table and a tiny espresso cup, to wait for Remus while he finishes his shifts. He asks, sometimes, why he isn’t off with James, but all Sirius does is smile.
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Before Sirius ran away from home, when he left all his earthly belongings in his childhood bedroom, he had a pair of leather gloves that made his hands look elegant and gorgeous. Remus secretly loved them; he loved the warming charms woven into the leather, the tailoring charms that meant they always fit perfectly. He loved how Sirius would peel them off and hand them over when the wind got sharp and chilling and Remus’ own gloves had holes in them.
So for Christmas, Remus thinks, he’ll do his best to find some second-hand. They’ll look nice under the tree.
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The day James Potter gets charmed bald is both the worst and best day of Remus’ life. It’s the Slytherins, they think, and Sirius nearly pisses himself laughing whenever he glances at James out of the corner of his eye. Remus has to haul Sirius away by the elbow, down out of Gryffindor tower and out of the castle entirely. The autumn chill leaves them both huddled together under a tree by the lake, sharing cloaks like blankets; still laughing, right until the moment Sirius looks up, suddenly solemn, his eyes bright, and leans forward to press their lips together.
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The morning after the first Quidditch game of the season in slow and quiet; there’s hangovers in Gryffindor Tower from the fourth year dorms all the way up the winding stairs to the sevenths. James is sideways across his bed; Peter’s under his. They’re awake, if barely; Remus is reading out of his book, voice a low murmur. Sirius has his head resting on Remus’ stomach, arms curled around him.
“Do the voices,” Peter says from under the bed.
“Yeah, Moony,” James agrees; it sounds like it hurts to say.
He winds his fingers in Sirius’ hair. “Alright,” he agrees.