Archive of Our Own

1981, September

"You're not coming back," Remus says as Sirius puts on his overcoat.

Sirius looks back at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What was that?"

Remus considers biting back the answer, but what's the point? His heart's racing, his teeth are clenched, he might as well let the words out. He gestures at Sirius vaguely, who looks down at his outfit. It isn't all that unusual for a chilly autumn afternoon in London. But it’s his most comfortable, favourite shirt, and he’s not wearing his new boots. "I saw you took the wedding picture," Remus says, looking at his jeans.

Sirius' hand goes over his jeans pocket, where the picture is. "Jamie doesn't have a copy of this one. Thought he might like to have it," he says, but he's not denying Remus’ accusation.

Maybe he thought he was being subtle, maybe he thought Remus hadn't been dreading this since their increasing rows in the last two months. No, there's no large trunk filled and floating behind him, but Sirius doesn't need that. Especially if it really is the Potter residence he'll go to. He can share clothes with James, or buy a brand new wardrobe.

"You don't have to pretend, you can— Won't you want your records? Some of them are special editions, aren't they?" Remus says, and his throat burns.

"Remus— Moony— I'm not— I'll be back. I'm just having dinner with Prongs."

It's funny to think that Sirius Black, the silver-tongued Gryffindor and walking explosion of emotions, doesn't have the courage to break up with Remus. No, he's going to use the fact that Remus can't go into the Potter residence since they're in hiding, and just hide away until Remus has to accept the de facto break-up.

"You're a better liar than this, Sirius," Remus says sadly. And he really is, he's fooled every professor and each and every Marauder at least once. But, Remus supposes, those were all unimportant fibs, in the grand scheme of things. This matters. They're not just breaking up as partners, this is breaking up the Marauders too.

"Remus," Sirius sighs, and turns back around fully, facing him. He puts his hands on Remus' shoulders, who won’t meet his eyes. "I'm just having dinner. Don't start."

Remus does look up at that, blinking slowly, and searches Sirius' beautiful grey eyes for a sign. Of what, he's not sure. Of love? Of anger? Remus isn't even certain why they've been fighting so much. Yes, they're exhausted with the war, and yes, they're on missions all the time, but is that really enough to kill what they have? Aren’t war marriages more common than war break-ups?

"Alright," he whispers, and Sirius smiles. It's a false smile, but Remus will take what he can get. At least no lamps are being shattered, and they're not screaming at each other over a stupid comment about money, or the werewolf registry, or too-slow reflexes in battle.

No, Sirius — Sirius Black, of all people — is leaving Remus' life rather quietly.

Sirius tilts his head to give Remus a soft kiss. It feels like any other gentle kiss they've had before going somewhere. It's over too quick, same as any other kiss they've ever shared.

~

1990, September

Of all the owls Remus doesn't expect to receive, an Order of Merlin nomination would've been less surprising than one from a lawyer regarding The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black almost a decade after Sirius Black was imprisoned.

Once he's read the first two sentences of the letter, he goes to the kitchen to put the kettle on, and doesn't come back to his desk until he has a big mug of tea, a long parchment, and fresh ink for his quill. He's in no hurry to know why he's received this nauseating correspondence. He's done a decent job lately of not thinking about Sirius more often than he has to, and has a feeling whatever's in this letter is about to make that impossible for the near future.

The letter's about Pollux Black. Apparently he passed earlier in the year, and his estate's being settled. Remus is confused about what that has to do with him as the next few paragraphs go on about what beneficiaries' duties are. Eventually he gets to the why of his involvement: Pollux Black, Sirius' maternal grandfather, had actually eventually become the owner of Sirius' flat in London, through a series of inheritances triggered by Sirius' imprisonment and his mother's power of attorney privileges.

The flat where they'd lived for about two years. The one he'd moved out of, or Sirius had, it's a bit difficult to know the truth of it now that Sirius isn't here.

He sighs as the letter continues to explain that Sirius' original will left the flat to him in the event of his death, but this was an unenforceable contract at the time as werewolves could not inherit non-familial property. Apparently, the laws had changed since then, but Remus was still only inheriting a quarter of it, the rest going to Cygnus Black.

Still, a quarter of a flat in London, no matter how small, is worth a large sum of money. Remus' mind is already running away with all the things he could fix in his cottage, the small personal loans he could settle, the new potions he might buy.

The catch — and of course there is one — is that as the last physical resident of the flat, he's expected to pack and label its contents. He has to go back to that place that presumably hasn't been touched since the night Remus had given up on the hope of Sirius returning, and left it. It's been years, but he can still see it all in his mind's eye.

Sirius' records in the library, Remus' unreasonable collection of kettles just above the stove ("This one boils differently, I swear, Padfoot!"). Their mismatched thrifted kitchenware that Sirius had loved so dearly. The notches on the bathroom door — perhaps from someone measuring a kid's height — that couldn't be fixed no matter what spell they tried, that somehow added to the charm of the place. He even remembers the exact light bulb that kept burning away in their Muggle lighting fixture in the living room.

Closing his eyes makes the memories starker, so he opens them back up and gets up to have a second cup of tea. Any excuse to delay finishing the letter for a few more minutes. Eventually he does read it to the end, and makes notes about the deadline and how to contact the firm to confirm his receipt, acceptance, and later completion of the task.

They've given him three months, something about fiscal years, but they needn't have worried. Remus won't procrastinate. Every day this job isn't done, it will loom over him like the Grim. It's better to get it over with. He does some quick mental maths of how quickly he could arrange to be off work, and responds to the letter.

He hadn't expected further correspondence until he was done with the task, but he receives another letter in two days, the day before he's expected to be at the flat.

We would like to convey our appreciation for your acknowledgement of the arrangements. Kindly find enclosed the key to the premises.

He smiles, looking at the keys. They still have the small, familiar leather keyring on them. Proof that Remus had been right, that nobody's visited the flat since they took it over. He had wondered, momentarily, if Walburga would have gone in to purge it, but apparently not. Maybe she'd been glad that her son had 'seen the light' and served the Dark Lord in the end. She did love him, he thought, in her own twisted way. Or maybe she'd received the keys and didn't even bother touching them, telling Kreacher to put them away, far from her sight.

Well, no use speculating, is there? he thinks, and puts the key back in the envelope. The short moment that his hand touches the keyring is enough to make his hand shake a little, almost like he's touching Sirius again, in some weird transference. He'll use his own key.

It takes him longer than he would like to admit to pluck up the courage to open his Black Box, as he calls it. It's morbid, he knows, but what else could he call the box containing his previous life, full of mementos of a time bygone? It's exactly like a Muggle aeroplane's black box. Records leading up to the crash. Maybe, if he were cleverer, he could find the moment in the pictures and the letters when Sirius had turned against them. But he's not. The pictures he can still bear to look at, with only James and Lily in them, he has in the study. Anything he's kept that includes Sirius — which is a lot, as he was attached at the hip to the rest of the Marauders — lives here in this box.

He looks away from the stacks of letters and picture books, and shuffles the contents around until he finds his own set of keys. He's had plenty of reason to throw them away, throw all of this away, but it's easier to keep them locked in the attic than burn them. Now he's glad he has, because he can't imagine having Sirius' keys in his pocket. Not that his are that much better, mind. He hates key rings and chains, actually, but James had bought a little Snitch one for him with a Gryffindor striped thin chain attaching it to his keys, and he'd had to admit its cuteness, and keep it.

He strokes the Snitch which twitches back to life, moving satisfyingly around his palm, and pockets it before he can think any more about James. He's thirty now, and he's lived longer without James than with. He doesn't need to cry about him today.

His hand's shaking like a leaf as he opens the door, and he feels himself hyperventilate when he steps in. He's gasping for breath, and his chest aches. At first he thinks he's been stupid, that it's been a trap, that this place was cursed by the Blacks. But quickly enough he recognises the symptoms, they feel more like the anxiety attacks his Muggle friend Michael has sometimes, than a curse. He's never had one before, but it doesn't feel magical, just… overwhelming, and a little scary.

Breathing as deeply and slowly as he can, he closes the door behind him. The air is musty and he can literally see the dust layer on the floor as well as the coat rack. Somehow their wall clock is still working; a beautiful, intricately decorated old clock in burgundy that Sirius had insisted they hang at the entrance and not the kitchen. It's dusty too, despite the moving hands, and there's a spiderweb surrounding half of it, as intricate as the clock's frame. Below it are Sirius' old boots, the ones he hadn't taken because they weren't worn in enough to be comfortable yet, and he'd packed light. Next to it is Remus' scarf that had dropped that same night, the one Remus hadn't had the heart to grab back. It still feels oddly right, having Sirius' old boots and his old scarf together.

The abandoned nature of the flat abates his fear for some reason. He's not relaxed per se, but he feels a bit less tense. Sirius isn't here. Nobody's been here since Remus. This is just a photo of a moment in their lives. Nothing more.

That's not necessarily true, there's plenty memories can do to hurt you, but part of Remus had been scared that Sirius had returned in '81, that there'd be a sign of something that would be new to Remus. He's not sure what would've been worse; more proof of his supposed relationship with Voldemort, of his betrayal, or the opposite. Every now and again he falls back to questioning the betrayal — of James more than of Remus — but Dumbledore's right, all the facts lead to the same inevitable conclusion. But what if there was a letter saying he was Imperio'd, or blackmailed, or…

But of course there isn't.

Remus makes his way to their bedroom quickly. He'd packed most of his things, but he'll check, just in case. He has half a mind to Incendio the entire wardrobe when he first opens it. But beneath Sirius' clothes, he sees one of his old Muggle t-shirts poke out. Well, it had become Sirius' pretty quickly, he supposes it makes sense that it's in his drawer instead of Remus'. With timid fingers, he pulls it from underneath a grey summer robe, and looks at it. It's bunched up in his hand, but he doesn't need to open it to know that it has The Cure written on it in shoddy white and red letters. The others had claimed not to want any shirts, but Remus had insisted he needed one after the concert. It hadn't taken Sirius a month to commandeer it and make it his own. It looked better on him anyway, or so Remus thought.

His mouth feels shut with a spell, his lips glued together. He takes laboured breaths through his nose, aware of his chest rising up and down. His hand clenches around the shirt once or twice, then he lets it go. There's nothing worth saving here. He bets there's mothballs all over the clothing, nothing to salvage even if he wanted to. He waves his wand to summon a bin bag, then enchants it to be much larger than it looks. As the bag hovers in the middle of the room, he waves over items he sees to go in it. Soon enough, the only things remaining are the furniture, even the sheets on the bed have been stripped off. He hadn't even stopped to look at them, knowing he'd just see Sirius on them.

The bathroom, guest bedroom, and kitchen are similarly easy. He does set aside two kettles, but everything else he chucks. Either too old, or too old and too full of memories. The living room is the hardest. That's where they'd spent the most time. There's a few photos still hung on the walls, and he gently places them in his own bag instead of the bin bag, more fodder for the Black Box. The paintings might be worth something, Sirius had bought them from local artists, so he leaves them as they are for the estate lawyers to gather. Then there's the library. His heart aches, there's no use denying it. The middle two rows are full of Sirius' records. He'd been an avid collector, endlessly fascinated by Muggle and Magical music both.

He glances at the rest of the bookshelves, to see if there's any books worth trying to donate or sell, but the few remaining ones are mostly old Hogwarts textbooks he has no idea why they even kept after graduation. Into the bin bag they go, along with a few old books he had no desire to re-read, and wouldn't be fit for donation either. No secondhand bookstore needs another copy of "Blood Brothers". He's worked at one before, knows they all have stacks of it already.

The magical snow globe does make him pause and think, briefly, of their vacation in Sweden. He shakes the feeling off, and fights off the urge to shatter the thing into pieces. Instead he walks over to the floating bin bag, and throws the globe with all his might, watching as the blue and white glitters light up over the huskies running in circles within it.

How cruel, to remember good times. He has a good enough life now, but he's had better times, and comparison is the thief of joy. He likes his job at the grocer's, he gets a discount at the attached bookshop — an odd but welcome setup — and he likes his colleagues, even the twenty-year-old girl who insists on speaking in odd acronyms and talks about Muggle telly a lot. But he doesn't love any of it. He's had a life he loved, it was right here within these walls. With a man he will never see again, a man he should wish dead.

As the corners of his eyes sting, he can only remember how gently Sirius touched him, how his eyes sparkled at a well-thought-out prank plan, how he could make his friends laugh hard enough to cry without even trying, how fiercely he loved and lived.

"Remembrance of the past isn't necessarily the remembrance of things as they were." Isn't that what Proust said, or something like that?

Who knows what Sirius really was thinking, at the end. How muddled his mind must have been, to live that double-life. There's no doubt in Remus' mind that even if — and that's a big if — Sirius had suddenly decided Voldemort had the right idea, he still would have struggled to put James in danger. Even if Voldemort had lied and made him believe James would be safe, just locked up. The Sirius Remus knew, and knew well, didn't even like telling James Potter white lies.

He leaves the flat feeling heavier than he has in years. He'd forgotten, almost, how much he missed his friends. When he gets home, he reaches into his left pocket to put his keys in the envelope along with Sirius'. His hand catches onto a bottle, instead. He takes it out. He'd meant to throw it out too, but had put it in his pocket just for a moment. Sirius' favourite aftershave, back in the day. Sandalwood, he recalls, was the main scent, he can't remember the name of the flower mixed with it. He plays with the bottle a bit, turning it this way and that in his hand. He decides to take it to the Black Box along with the few photos he'd put in his bag. There's no harm in having one more little memento he'll never look at, is there?

~

1994, September

“You’d like it here.”

Remus laughs as he reads the postcard. Leave it to Sirius to invite Remus like this. “Explore the stars” indeed. They’ve exchanged very few coded letters since Sirius’ escape; all factual, bland. This latest correspondence gives Remus hope that his old friend is feeling more like himself, again.

He turns the postcard back around to look at the image. It’s not that Sirius’ handwriting is painful to look at, it’s more that he wants to see if there’s a message beyond the obvious in the picture. Is that a specific spot he’s meant to find a Portkey to? Is there a clue about the timing? Surely Sirius isn’t expecting him to drop everything and immediately travel?

Well, he thinks. That would be rather Sirius-like, wouldn’t it?

Remus doesn’t have a job to miss, but the full moon is in a week. New Mexico has plenty of room to let the wolf free with Padfoot, but it’s doubtful that Sirius is planning that. All might be forgiven, so to speak, but they’re not exactly practiced at this anymore, it wouldn’t be safe. Maybe if he carried a week’s supply of Wolfsbane…

He shakes his head, and lets out some air through his nose, almost huffing like a canine might. Why’s he even considering this?

He means to travel immediately after the full moon, on a Tuesday, and arrive in New Mexico by Wednesday. He’s in worse shape than usual, unfortunately, and he finally makes it to Santa Fe on Friday. The Muggle shuttle takes him to the monument a couple of hours before dusk. He disappears into the closest trailhead, trying to put some distance between himself and the tourists, so he can find Sirius in the evening.

It takes longer than he thought it would for it to get dark, but sitting on a rock and resting is a welcome break for his still-weary muscles. It really is unfair how unnecessarily strong he is close to the new moon, and how unnecessarily weak after the full moon.

Once it gets dark enough, he casts a deflecting spell on himself to ward off any remaining park rangers, and gets up to look for Sirius. He’s not even at the trailhead when Sirius — or rather Padfoot — finds him.

He smiles at Padfoot’s lolling tongue, and gestures with his head for him to lead the way. They walk in comfortable silence until they reach a spot Remus can’t tell from others they’ve passed, but clearly Padfoot can. Because behind one of the rocks is a small bag, obviously Sirius’, and Padfoot shifts back into Sirius right next to the bag.

“Hello, old friend,” Remus says as soon as Sirius’ eyes are human again.

“Immediately with the insults, Moony? You’ve got more grey in your hair than I do, I’ll have you know,” Sirius says. His voice is rough, as if he doesn’t use it often, which is probably true. His tone’s light though, and Remus feels a weight lift off his shoulders, one he hadn’t known that he was carrying.

“Ah, but it makes me look distinguished. Rugged, even,” he jokes back, repeating Sirius’ words to him when he’d gotten his first grey hairs back when he was nineteen.

Sirius’ face looks confused for a moment, and his eyes flicker with recognition before he lets out a forced chuckle. “Well. I hope you brought dinner and tea, I’m afraid my kitchen setup is lacking three kettles and a state-of-the-art oven.”

Remus has, actually, packed a frankly unreasonable amount of food. He sits down on one of the larger rocks, and drops down his satchel. “Dunno if the charm held,” he says apologetically. “I’m always too scared to use too much in case I ruin the food, somehow. But it hasn’t been too long since they were made.”

He takes out three big glass containers. One has take away lamb curry from an Indian place by his flat, the next one has chicken fried rice, and the last one has shepherd’s pie that Remus made. It’s a bit obviously home-made, but he doesn’t think Sirius will mind. He’s gotten a lot better at cooking, and Sirius has the best of spices: hunger.

Sirius’ eyebrows are raised in blatant astonishment. “Blimey, Remus, I thought you’d bring a single dinner and maybe a couple of sandwiches.” He looks up at Remus, a little guiltily. “I don’t—” Whatever he sees in Remus’ eyes, makes him stop short.

Remus nods. “I didn’t know what you’d like, what you’d be able to stomach. Myself too, it’s never certain what my stomach can handle after the Full.”

“I thought you’d come before,” Sirius says, a bit short. One might think it’s because his seldom used vocal cords are tired, but Remus knows better.

“Didn’t seem prudent,” Remus responds.

Sirius looks… Wow, Remus can’t read his look at all. What an odd, odd feeling. Sirius hasn’t necessarily been an open book, but Remus at least used to understand the general direction of his feelings. Right now, if he had to guess, he’d say Sirius looks dejected, but that seems silly, surely he can—

Remus laughs. A short, but hearty laugh. Sirius looks up in confusion.

I forgot you didn’t get older like me, Remus can’t say. “I didn’t think you’d mind,” he says instead. “Maybe next time, Padfoot. With a bit more notice.”

That perks Sirius right back up. Sirius really is acting twenty, isn’t he? Remus smiles at his friend, but it’s a sad smile. So many years lost to the nothingness of Azkaban.

“I don’t know about you, but I am famished,” Remus says, and takes out a couple of bowls and forks. He serves himself a decent portion of the pie, assuming that will be the least favourite, and starts eating.

He’s halfway done with his bowl by the time Sirius dares grab his bowl and fork. He’s been looking at the three containers for a full minute when Remus says, between bites: “The fried rice is pretty good.”

“You made the shepherd’s pie,” Sirius says, and their eyes meet.

Remus, thankfully, doesn’t choke on his bite. Once he’s swallowed, he says slowly “I promise it’s edible.”

Sirius doesn’t laugh or joke back, but he does seem pleased. He serves himself a very large portion, a little mountain in his bowl, and starts eating. Remus tries, in vain, not to watch. There’s nothing particular about the way Sirius is eating, really. He’s still not a fast eater, despite the hunger, and his manners are impeccable, his mouth is fully closed when chewing, his back straight. Remus feels a bit conscious about his own eating, but reminds himself that Sirius doesn’t care, never had.

“That’s the best meal I’ve had in years,” Sirius says once he’s done eating. “And Crookshanks snuck me out some house-elf food.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Remus responds, but there’s no stopping the large grin and flush spreading across his face. He’s always had a weakness for pleasing his friends.

“Everywhere, eh?” Sirius says, but his eyes drop to the ground, and the fresh night air feels a little less comfortable than before.

They’re quiet as Remus cleans the dishes with a spell and starts putting away the containers. He hesitates before casting a charm on them, and Sirius clears his throat. Remus turns to him and gives him a questioning look.

“I could… I know it’s cypress, but it’s a simple enough charm.” For me, he doesn’t add. He and James have always had such natural talent and skill. Not that it matters now.

He has changed, a little, Remus thinks, and hands over his wand with a little flourish.

Sirius looks at the wand for a moment, then takes a deep breath, and waves it without speaking. The food has a dim glow around it by the time Sirius opens his eyes back up. “Float them in?” he asks, and Remus just nods.

What must it feel like, Remus wonders, to not be allowed to do any magic at all. No wand, nowhere for the magic in his veins to go to. At his worst and most shunned, Remus has still been allowed to have a wand.

Sirius hands Remus’ wand back over.

Remus smiles, because he knows Sirius’ mood is about to take a turn for the better. “Well,” he says slowly. “I was going to wait until your birthday, but…”

When Remus hands over a wand box to Sirius, his eyes are wide as saucers, and he reaches for it with trembling hands. “Blimey.”

Remus can just about hear the gears turning in Sirius’ head.

“I wasn’t hiding it from you, just… I was saving up, thought it would make a good birthday gift. When you owled, well, I had to adjust my plans a little. It’s not Acacia, Ollivander insisted that couldn’t be gifted, but it is a dragon wand, I hope…” His voice trails off. It’s silly to feel this wand he’s spent a fortune on, has had to borrow money for, is not good enough for a man quite literally wearing secondhand rags, but Remus feels ashamed nonetheless.

Sirius doesn’t cry or even get misty-eyed, he only takes a shaky breath, and thanks Remus. Remus looks away, trying to give his friend some emotional space, though it may be unnecessary. It’s easier for all of them, if Remus isn’t staring at the way the moonlight lands on Sirius.

~

1976, September

Remus spent the better part of years three through six mooning over his best mate, Sirius Black. But who can blame him? Oh, James and Peter wouldn’t understand, they’re straight, but any other boy living with Sirius bloody Black in their dormitory, just one bed over, barely covered with a towel as he exits their shared bathrooms, impossibly handsome,… What was Remus’ point again?

Ah, right, his hopeless crush.

It was a little excruciating in the beginning — who wants to feel their heart get squeezed and breath start to wheeze when their mate just winks at them in response to a joke? — but slowly it settled into a steady, pleasant hum. He now cherishes the moments when they inadvertently touch. When their thighs being side by side during dinner, or when their fingers brushing as they hand each other the Map. But he’s not pining, or upset that he only gets to think about kissing the other boy, not really do it.

Except, Sirius says something weird after James’ first — and surprisingly successful — date with Evans, and all of a sudden Remus’ framing of his one-sided affections shifts.

They’re sitting on the window sill of their dormitory, James and Peter are playing Snap down in the Common Room still.

“Well, Wormtail’s with Cassie, Prongs has actually got through a date with Evans without being burnt into a crisp,…” He looks at Remus with his beautiful grey eyes. “Should you and I shack up, complete the school-to-marriage train? I reckon McKinnon likes you well enough, and I can go with… What’s her name again, the Ravenclaw Chaser?”

Remus is relatively certain Sirius went to Hogsmeade with Sandra Hawkins last weekend, who’s a slim but pretty Hufflepuff. He chuckles, and hums in fake-agreement.

Sirius doesn’t realise what he’s said, of course, to make Remus laugh. Marlene and Remus could have a marriage of convenience, why not? Neither are planning to come out to their parents any time soon, or to anyone beyond the very few that already know.

Something must show on his face, or maybe Sirius simply knows him too well, because Sirius says “What? Don’t like her?”

“Marlene, or Morgana?”

“Who’s Morgana?”

“The Ravenclaw Chaser you’re marrying.”

Sirius snorts, and his fingers move as if he’s about to smoke, but there’s no cigarette in his hand, so he drops it back. “Either. We can share.”

This whole conversation is weird. Sirius and Remus never talk about girls. Even Sirius and James don’t, really, beyond Sirius taking the piss out of James every time Lily rejects him, and James calling Sirius a slag if he skips a Maraudering activity for a date.

“Why?”

Remus is staring intently at the side of Sirius’ handsome face now, heart racing, wondering if his friend’s figured out another — his last — secret. He’s been careful, so careful. Even Marlene wouldn’t have found out if she hadn’t been cousins with James Atwood. It hadn’t even lasted a month, but the cousins were close apparently, and so Remus’ tiny queer circle had expanded a little bit.

“I think you’d be nicer if you were getting laid, is all,” Sirius says with an annoyed sigh, as if Remus has wronged him, somehow.

“I’m as nice as a werewolf can be,” Remus jokes, but he still feels tense.

Sirius hums. “Have you and McKinnon ever… I know you’re close.” He won’t look at Remus.

“No,” Remus answers honestly. “We’re just friends.”

“With anyone else?”

Remus considers how he wants to spend his last year at Hogwarts. Is it worth risking being shunned? He knows his friends can keep a secret, but what if they stop being his friends? They wouldn’t get him expelled, but they might not want him in the dorms, so close to their beds.

Not that he thinks they’re close-minded, just… They’re allowed to want distance. The boys and girls dormitories are separated for a reason, aren’t they?

“Yes,” he says.

“You dog,” Sirius says with a chuckle.

“That’s you, actually.”

Sirius’ grin looks pretty even from this angle, his perfect teeth appearing from underneath his perfect lips.

“Goodnight then,” Remus says, and starts getting down. He has one foot on the ground when Sirius turns to him and grabs his arm.

“Remus?”

“Yes, Padfoot?”

“You said you’d been with someone.”

“Yeah.”

“Over summer? If it was someone here, I would’ve noticed, right?”

Remus isn’t sure about that, they’re not attached to each other the way James and Sirius are. Sirius wouldn’t be looking too closely at his project partners, or a chess game with a Ravenclaw boy, either.

“Er,” he says, intelligently. “Kissing, or more?”

“Either,” Sirius says with a frown.

“I’ve kissed a couple students. But the more— Yeah, it was last summer.” And what a summer it was. He helped a junior camping group for a few weeks to earn some pocket money. Him and the other guide, a twenty-year-old Muggle, spent the evenings finding out how amazing blowjobs were.

“A bloke?”

Prongs might be the stag, but Remus sure feels like a deer in headlights, as Muggles say. He was right to be suspicious earlier, clearly. “Is it a problem?” he asks.

“Muggle?” Sirius asks back.

Remus nods.

Sirius then gives him a long, searching look. His mood is balanced on the knife’s edge, as usual. Remus can’t quite tell if he’s about to go on a tirade, or make a silly joke, whenever he snaps. Sirius, ever unpredictable, does neither. He keeps looking at Remus as if he’s a hunting dog that’s caught the scent of game.

“You can’t be owling him, so is your mother passing along messages?” ‘Are you still with him’, he’s trying to ask.

“It wasn’t like that.” Despite the open window, the room feels overly hot all of a sudden. Why does everything feel so dramatic when you’re seventeen? he wonders. Them confronting me about being a werewolf had been a more relaxed affair.

“Do you like blokes, like that?”

Oh, Remus thinks. The pieces click together finally, and he realises that Sirius and Remus have been having completely separate lines of thought. Remus, caught up in his own closet, hadn’t considered that maybe this is Sirius trying to come out as having thought of blokes that way, too.

Wow, he thinks. Is that just wishful thinking? Maybe he’s just trying to make sense of me, not… But Sirius’ look isn’t mere curiosity, there’s more behind it. Isn’t there?

“Yeah,” Remus whispers his half-truth. The full truth is that he’s never even considered love with anyone that’s not Sirius. Oh he’s planning to take full advantage of places in London where people like him go, as soon as he’s out of here, but… A relationship? Love? No.

Sirius looks uncomfortable, and Remus’ view tilts one more time. Back to walking on eggshells, then, he thinks. He needs to tread very, very carefully. Maybe Sirius had thought it’s alright to mess around with boys but not fall in love, but this made Remus properly bent. Maybe he didn’t like that.

“What’s your type, then?” Sirius asks, and lets Remus’ arm fall. They stand next to the window, a few feet apart. Him not running away is a good sign, probably.

“I won’t— Look, I would never—” Remus takes a deep breath, and composes himself as best as he can. “I don’t look at you all, or anything. If. If you’re worried.”

“Not at all, Moony,” Sirius chuckles darkly. “I know you don’t, at any rate.”

Remus sighs in relief, then furrows his eyebrows. “You know?”

“Whenever I glance over at the loo, you’re always looking ahead, or at yourself.”

“Oh.” He looks at the ground, not knowing what else to say.

“I thought, maybe… Sometimes I thought you might be bent, but then you never looked over.”

That’s not really true. Remus has looked plenty, he just knows how to be more subtle than the two most obnoxious Gryffindors to walk the halls of Hogwarts. Then again, Sirius talked about glancing over…

“Did you want me to?” he asks, hoping he’s reading this right, and is not about to get a broken nose.

“Yes.”

They’re quiet for a moment.

“Remus? Will you look at me?”

Remus does, because he always does what Sirius asks, whether the other boy notices it or not.

Sirius’ long eyelashes flutter, making Remus’ heart do the same. It really isn’t fair.

They look at each other quietly until Sirius nods with conviction, and literally pulls Remus in by the back of his neck, and kisses him.

Remus’ surprise doesn’t last long, and soon they’re kissing, really kissing. Remus sighs into the kiss. Sirius takes advantage of the little opening, licking his mouth open further, digging his fingers into Remus’ hair. Remus gives as good as he’s getting, clings onto Sirius’ robes, pulls him closer.

Eventually they break, and they’re both panting like Padfoot after a long run.

“I thought you were considering blokes,” Remus says, shocked. “That wasn’t… This isn’t new for you.”

Sirius laughs, the first time all night he’s sounded normal to Remus. He shakes his head. “A couple summers ago, met someone in Spain. And Longbottom, once.”

Remus’ jaw just about meets the floor. “What?”

“It was just some snogging with the Spanish bloke. And even less with Longbottom, it was a dare kiss that went on a little too long.”

“Wow. This is really changing my perception on… A lot of things, actually. I never knew.”

“I never knew about you.”

Ah, and doesn’t that bring them back to the original reason they were hiding from each other.

“Er, so, what is this?”

“I just thought… It’s our last year here.”

“Oh.” Experimenting before real life begins, that makes sense. Remus tries to stifle down the dejection he feels. He’s done this exact thing over the summer with a Muggle, who is he to begrudge Sirius the same?

“Prongs said not to bollocks it all up, but it just feels like… We’re nearing the end, you know? And the attacks are becoming more and more frequent. I just don’t feel like waiting any more.”

“Bollocks what up?”

“You.” Sirius smiles, lopsided, and Remus just melts, because there is so much affection in his eyes. “He is of the probably accurate opinion that we can’t stay mates if we, you know…”

“You’ve talked to him about me?” Leave it to Sirius to shatter and rebuild Remus’ worldview twice in one night.

Sirius nods. “Back in fifth year, actually.” He shrugs. “But even a burnt cauldron’s good for some potions, and he was right. That decidedly would have ended poorly. But now…”

“Now what?”

“Now I want to kiss you.”

They share a short, stilted, hopeful laugh. Then come the quick pecks and slow kisses as they’re unhurriedly making their way to the bed closest to them. Thankfully it’s Sirius’, and not Peter or James’.

They settle onto the bed, and Remus feels positively giddy. His pining — and he can admit now that it’s been resolved that it had been pining — is over, and he’s kissing Sirius! Judging by the way Sirius’ left hand is roaming over his side, he might be doing more, too.

What a night.

~

1996, September

Remus, if nothing else, is a survivor. A bit too scared at times, a bit avoidant, but he adapts, perseveres.

But he can be restless, too.

By now, the Department of Mysteries is one more terrible event among many terrible events, but he can’t fully shake it off. The children have gone back to school. Harry writes to Sirius about timetables, Quidditch, rumours. Life’s going on, in its own way, but Remus just can’t let the unease leave him.

Sirius told Harry about the Mirror, and they talk now, although rarely. It’s new and a little exciting, perhaps, to hear a Potter every now and again. An indisputable way to know that Harry’s alright. But Remus just feels the danger in it. How, on the other side, someone might hear Sirius too.

Near-death has not made Sirius more careful at all. Remus wants to wish that it had, but instead he feels… Restless. Like he doesn’t want to be careful, either.

All summer, he’s been watching Sirius’ spark light up and dwindle away depending on his moods. Sirius casually eating toast, barefoot, in the kitchen with a smile. Sirius snapping at Snape. Sirius laughing — howling, really — at a memory about Prongs he’s telling Harry. Sirius, asleep in the drawing room, with one of Harry’s letters still open in his hand. Sirius throwing whatever’s close at hand at the fireplace after Order members leave.

Remus doesn’t mind any of it, he’s just happy they’re together breathing the same air. But it all feels so constrained, so boxed in when Sirius should be anything but.

Grimmauld Place is still a prison, just one that grants the illusion of more room than an Azkaban cell.

The conversation, when Remus finally is brave enough to start it, begins poorly. Important conversations between them have a tendency to do that.

“I hate this place,” he says, putting away another supposedly de-cursed book back onto the shelf, and frowning at his now-stained hand.

“Leave, then,” Sirius growls, and is about to say more, but Remus cuts him off.

“Yes, let’s.”

“What?”

“Let’s fucking leave,” Remus says, his grin a stark contrast against Sirius’ confused scowl.

“Sure, we’ll just move into the Shack,” Sirius says sarcastically.

“Well not there.” Remus almost rolls his eyes. “But I could see if I could sell the cottage, or… I don’t know, maybe we could even stay there, with enough wards.”

“Dumbledore said,” Sirius starts, unsure, but doesn’t continue. He’s always wanted to take more risks. Remus has been the one quoting Dumbledore, and reining Sirius in at Order meetings.

“Fuck Dumbledore,” Remus says.

“Quite the mouth on you today, Mr. Moony.” It’s hard to tell if Sirius is amused or confused.

“Fuck Dumbledore,” he repeats firmly. “And fuck this. What the fuck are we doing, sitting around here with our fingers up our arses, waiting until the next bloody bollocky meeting and another set of orders to — surprise — stay right the fuck where we are to make sure none of your grandfather’s wine turns into troll’s piss or whatever other catastrophe it is we’re supposed to avert hanging around this bouldering fucking mausoleum. Fuck that.”

The laugh he gets back in response is full and loud and he takes a moment to just enjoy it. Then, his grin turns into a gentle smile. “Life’s short, Sirius,” he says, heartfelt. “Aren’t you always telling me that?”

“You don’t mean alone, you mean together, right?” It’s odd for Sirius to be the cautious one, but here they are.

“I’ve given up long ago trying to imagine doing anything without you, Sirius.”

His crooked smile could melt a whole iceberg, it warms Remus through. “Moony,” is all he says.

“And I don’t want to be your jailor, not any more.”

Quick as he’d accepted the happy offer, Sirius recoils. Before Remus can begin to figure out where he’s gone wrong, Sirius snarls. The house seems angry with him, somehow. Is it magically responding to its owner, or is it just Sirius Black’s inescapable aura filling whatever room he’s in? Remus isn’t sure.

Remus catches on to his mistake a few moments too late.

Sirius hates being pitied, or spoken about as if he’s a problem that’s burdening people. And Remus hadn’t been, he doesn’t feel that way at all. He can see how Sirius might’ve interpreted it, though. He waits for the cutting comment, but it doesn’t come.

“You’re not,” Sirius spits out. Remus can tell it’s meant to be comforting, in a Sirius way.

“I am. To both of us,” Remus insists. “So let’s leave. Your jailor will break you out.”

“This is the safest place for me to be. Harry can find me here.”

It’s not the seventies, we can’t just sneak out of a castle after curfew because we fancy a stroll.

Remus knows. But it doesn’t bloody matter. He wants to live, just a little, while they still can.

There’s a lot they still can’t do, but they can do this. Suddenly Remus is surer of this than anything else in his life.

“Let’s leave, Sirius,” he says, and holds out a hand.

Sirius looks at it as a Hippogriff might, then reaches out and joins their hands, and keeps looking at their intertwined fingers.

“What about the flat in Camden?” Sirius says suddenly. “I didn’t think— I mean, it wouldn’t have made sense for a headquarters, but for just us…”

“Ah,” Remus says, sad. “It was sold. I’m sorry.”

“Right, no, I’m sorry, Moony. Of course you’d— You’re not going to sell your family cottage over—” He’s tripping over his words, so he stops talking. Remus finds this flustered Sirius a little endearing, but it’s better when he oscillates back to his cocky old self.

“It was sold when Pollux died,” Remus explains. “I couldn’t inherit it, Walburga did, so…”

“I liked that place,” Sirius says, looking at their hands still and smiling a little. He had, too. Remus had never been to care too much about a place beyond having creature comforts and the Floo, but Sirius cares about spaces he was in, whether it was a four-poster at Hogwarts, his room at the Potters’, or even his Grimmauld Place room that he’d filled with posters stuck so well even Kreacher hadn’t been able to scrub away.

“Remember the light bulb?” Remus chuckles.

Sirius pauses, and Remus can almost see him thinking. Then he lets out an amused huff. “I remember your friend, when he visited— Michael? He asked why our landlord won’t fix it.”

“Lousy man,” Remus says with a grin, remembering the exchange.

“Hey, I tried,” Sirius jokes back. “I don’t know how to de-curse Muggle voodoo.”

They’re quiet again for a minute, but it’s a comfortable quiet, now. Wordlessly, they part and walk up to their bedroom. Pack their few belongings. They’ll come back here as they need, so they don’t need trunks full to the brim with everything they own.

The things they do pack are so mundane that it makes Remus smile. Their toothbrushes by the sink, Sirius’ mysteriously favourite pillowcase, a few robes, the book Sirius is reading right now. Their life together in everyday objects. It’s unbelievably pleasant, that they’re together again.

James and Lily are gone, the years since haven’t been kind to either of them, especially Sirius. Harry’s beyond their reach, family but without the familiarity of having grown up with them. Their Camden flat is probably with some very confused Muggle owners — Remus hopes they enjoy the view, he always had — and there’s a long way to go before life resembles normal, whatever that means for them.

But they can be together, and they can leave this house.

Sirius puts on his boots, then looks back at Remus, a little irritated, a lot fond. “Don’t make me wait now that we’ve started,” he says, and holds out his hand.

Remus takes it and steps into the fireplace with him, and the green flame takes them both.