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December brings cold with it, the kind of cold that seeps in through the windowpanes and brings Remus’ breath up short. The little pot of dittany on the front stoop withers and dies in it; he feels bad, when he steps out into the quiet, frozen outdoors, bundled head to toe.
“Poor thing,” Sirius says, muffled under layers of Hope’s knitting.
“Poor us,” Remus corrects. He twists around and fiddles with Sirius’ scarf, breath puffing out in frosty clouds.
“I’ve got you to keep me warm, Moony,” Sirius says, winding his arms around Remus’ middle. “What’s Brittney the Dittany got?”
*
The snow falls thick and heavy overnight, and they wake to a world awash in white. Sirius won’t walk the quarter mile to James and Lily’s house in it, claiming he’ll slip, fall and die, Remus, do you want me to die?
They Floo over, Sirius’ pockets filled with charmed snowballs, and by the time Remus emerges from their fireplace, the Potters’ living room is a battlefield of snowballs being lobbed left and right.
Lily’s standing in the kitchen doorway, steaming mug in her hand, sparkle in her eyes.
“Cocoa on the counter, Lupin,” she says. “Come watch with me.”
*
Remus loves winter. He loves the cold, and an excuse to curl up with a quilt and a book. He likes to press against Sirius in bed, to hide under the covers and make their own warmth.
He especially loves how Sirius looks in winter, all thick wool robes and scarves, eyes quicksilver like the clouds on a snowy day. He likes how his hair looks, raven-black against the crisp white backdrop of the rolling hills behind their cottage while Sirius’ cheeks pink from the cold.
Winter is cold, but their home is warm. Remus likes the reminder, every year.
*
“It’s a game,” Sirius Black had said, holding a dreidel in the palm of his hand ten years ago, as knobby-kneed first years in Gryffindor Tower. Stripped of brashness, almost shy, he’d taught them the rules. They’d sat on the carpet in the middle of their floor and played until, somehow, Peter took the lion’s share of Sirius’ stash of chocolate coins.
Remus didn’t know a thing about Hanukkah the first time he spun a dreidel. He doesn’t reckon he’s an expert now, but his heart’s filled to bursting as he watches Sirius let Harry help him on his turn.
*
Euphemia and Fleamont host a Christmas party every year on Boxing Day. It’s a riot of color and sound, the kind of thing that Remus would shy away from if he didn’t feel vaguely obligated. It’s too many people for Remus’ sensibilities, who would rather spend the day picking at leftovers from Sirius’ brisket and taking a series of luxurious naps.
He doesn’t mind, though; he likes the way Sirius’ eyes find him from across the room, or how drinks magically appear in his hands. There’s worse ways to spend an evening, he supposes, than being wooed by his husband.