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Remus swatted fitfully with the hand not holding his shopping, flipping the switch back and forth until finally the dim light hanging above the table sputtered back to life. Three weeks ago, his landlord had promised to send someone over to look at it; naturally, here Remus stood anyhow, wet coat hanging limp off his thinning shoulders, light fixture still far from respectability. Brownish though the bulb was, it still tittered in and out in mocking, hyenic laughter. Remus found himself too tired to care.
Passing his bag back and forth between his hands, he shook his arms loose of their sleeves and dumped his coat to the floor in a wet thwack, heavy and heavier-still material oozing rain out onto the linoleum. He stepped vaguely around the puddle and unloaded his shopping onto the counter—a loaf of weak looking bread and a box of discount tea bags, bitter cranberry juice and a half carton of eggs. His eyes blurred as he clicked in and out of the fridge, inspected the insides of the cabinets to find homes for the other odds and ends he’d picked up. Tomorrow he might find his canned goods in league with his dinnerware, but for tonight it was all shuffled away.
Coasting ever again around his drowning outerwear, he relieved a bored looking mug from a hook fastened beneath the barely lopsided upper cabinets. Once upon a whim it bore writing—something crude either James or Sirius had brought back to him after a summer abroad, if memory prevailed—but now it was scuffed down to the shape of his hand, a perpetual brown ring stained inside, a chip ‘round the rim he always knocked his incisor on.
A sigh metered off his tongue as he hunched himself over in front of the fridge once again, one spindly elbow propped on the door, mug hanging loose on his fingers. There were a few pieces of perfuming fruit from earlier in the week when he’d taken a walk down to the stalls that came and went in the breeze; a jar of baking soda shoved to the back of yellowed rungs that grasped fouling smells better than any charm; and then there, behind all that and the new acquisitions too, was the putrid yellow and green tonic he was in search of.
He drew the bulbous glass bottle between his fingers as if it were a particularly unsavory piece of dirty laundry and pried the cork out same as he had been, his teeth nestling into the faint grooves they’d already worked in. Being forced to breathe out the corner of his mouth was a blessing, now if only he had the free hand to plug his nose. The tonic in question, while generally an easy fix—even when one had to mail-order the ingredients, much like Remus had been made to do—was still a full frontal assault upon all the senses. Worse still on his when they were heightened by the encroaching moon. A shade that would make a colorblind man gag, a smell that would make a ghost heave, and if that wasn’t enough, then it was a dual hit on both the tongue and ears in being a thick, sloppy texture with slimy bits suspended throughout.
Like a good little boy, he measured out a healthy serving before replacing it to the far corner of the fridge where it would stay coldest. Knocking the door shut with his hip, he sighed again, peering into his mug as if to will the concoction away. When it didn’t move—and wasn’t that a disappointment, sometimes it seemed ripe enough to sprout legs and make off with itself—he steeled himself for his fate.
Murmuring a quick Welsh cheers between lips already thinning into a grimace, he knocked the mug back in one go and tried not to think much about it. Once it had been properly disposed of, he set about a full-body cough, his throat constricting in revolt for want of a better taste. The mug cracked against the counter and he flattened his palm neatly beside it, leaning hard into his aching wrist as his body shuddered under the tonic’s ministering fingers. It was a good batch, surprisingly strong—he’d made it in the kitchen sink, so there had been worries—and though it instantly began relieving the pain, he never enjoyed the way it lingered. Like it had colored his pink tongue in its own image, turning him green inside and out.
Though there was still the matter of his coat and dirty mug and paper shopping bag, he returned to the switch by the door and fumbled around with it until the light was extinguished. Silent lightning now colored the room, a sickly shade of near-purple that bruised the pale flooring with each strike. He watched it through the haze of weariness wreathing his head like laurel, lulled into the bitter wonder of it. It was only once a particularly nasty smack of thunder rattled the silverware in its drawer that he started to amble to the living room, through which he would find himself in the bedroom should his compass hold out. If not, there was always the couch, plenty room enough for him there.
It was a testament to how hard tiredness wracked his body when Remus didn’t divine the hairs at the base of his neck standing on end until they became too painful to ignore. He stalled out on the threshold between the kitchen and living room, blinking into the darkness. His fingers twitched toward his wand—pressed into the small of his back by way of his waistband—and his eyes sharpened, one of the handful of ways the wolf liked to make itself apparent. He clasped his wand firmly and slipped it free to sweep the room, left to right.
Much like the kitchen, it was efficiently furnished, though most might deem it something more accurately connotative. Sparse, perhaps. Spartan, Remus might correct if he were feeling in the mood to do so, but it was all the same.
Ahead, pushed against the far wall between the corner and the window, was a heavy bookcase filled with what remained of life before war: fraying record sleeves and some tattered volumes with his fingerprints probably still pressed between the pages for all the times he’d read them. There were a few photos too, so subtly magical that any Muggle that might happen through would think it was just a trick of the light when James’s shoulders heaved harder under the weight of his delight or Sirius’s warm skin flushed deeper in matching opalescent, teenage laughter.
Just in front of Remus was a ruddy plaid arm chair, cushy and welcoming to sink into when he had the sense to force himself into taking a moment just to breathe. And beyond that, flattened against the same wall as the door to his bedroom, was a sturdy couch with solid wooden feet and square shoulders. There was a table at the end closest to Remus now and on that table a lamp he usually left switched on when he knew he’d be getting in late. Either it had been snuffed or he hadn’t remembered to cut it on in the first place, but he wasn’t sure which prospect troubled him more.
And there, on the couch, back pushed into cushions so he could face the room, was a familiar length of rope form. If his sight weren’t heightened, Remus might have walked right past him without ever realizing he was there. He was a quiet sleeper, after all, always had been. Necessity for the home he’d spent his early years in that he’d never grown out of.
First year—and Remus used to smile thinking of this, but now it made his skin crawl—he and James and Peter had gathered themselves around Sirius’s bed early in the term, barely even friends but bound by the sense of duty only eleven year olds could conjure. James had whipped the curtains back before he roused Remus and Peter, so they all had a good look when James—the only one sure enough between them all—had taken Sirius’s shoulders in his hands and shaken him awake because had to be sure, mate, you looked dead.
It hadn’t frightened Remus then, but it had been unnerving, the way his chest barely rose and fell. The older they got, Remus got used to it, even learned to pick out the hint of a whistle that sounded when his breath bottlenecked past the tooth that had come back in crooked, much to the elder Blacks’ chagrin and Sirius’s delight.
He looked much the same as he had back then, shoulders tucked and brow furrowed. His hair still fell fitfully around his face, down past his chin now and coiled faintly over the still soft line of his jaw.
Closing in on three years out of Hogwarts, and months since they’d last stayed the night beside one another, it had been some time since Remus had seen this particular sight. He tried not to think too hard about it, instead letting himself fall into fond amusement and huff a quiet laugh as he returned his wand to its concealment. It pressed comfortingly there, loose in his waistband and weighty where it poked out and over his thick jumper.
Though it was tempting to wake him, pass hands over his shoulders and feel that he was still real and whole, Remus decided to leave him until morning. No sense in making him stand anymore of the night and no telling what of it he’d already seen. If it were important—the reason he was there—he’d be up pacing the kitchen waiting for Remus to get back. At the least, Remus would have been able to look at the skin around his eyes and tell if he’d been crying.
Sweeping a quick look over Sirius’s face, he only saw the tense way he slept now, not so different from how he looked the first week or so after coming back from holidays spent at Grimmauld Place. It had disappeared for a couple years once he began staying with the Potters, but it had come back in full force before they left school.
Remus stepped into his room and returned a moment later with one of the extra quilts he stowed away, quietly unfolding it until it fell down to his feet. He settled it over Sirius, making sure it covered him from jacket to the shoes still on his feet. Hard to begrudge him for that, but Remus would find a way come morning if only to have reason for him to stay a few minutes longer.
Not daring to dwell, he passed his gaze over Sirius one last time while scrubbing his hand through his hair. Satisfied that he seemed all right for the time being, he turned on his heel and crept back to his bedroom.
“Moony?” Sirius’s voice was hoarse, coming out deathly quiet like he dared not break the silence for fear of the fall. He squinted curiously up at Remus, and not for the first time, Remus wondered if Sirius might not need to usurp James as their resident glasses case.
Said softly, though without much insistence, “Go back to sleep.”
Sirius, ever a stubborn one, swung his feet around and brought himself upright in one swift move. The blanket fell lamely into his lap and he peered at it curiously, thumbing the untwining threads for a moment before he looked back to Remus with a softer expression.
“What time’s it?” he asked while Remus switched the lamp on.
Not late, but getting there. He might have been able to tell the time just by the way the moonlight scattered across the floor through the curtains, but given the storm still pitching outside, he deferred to the leather-banded watch on his wrist to report back, “Half past ten.”
“Damn.” Sirius brushed his hair back from his face, holding it in place so he could blink himself free of lingering sleep. It was easy to see the makings of greenish-purple smudges beneath his eyes now, diametric to the blue-black ones beneath Remus’s own.
Remus came close to blurting something like it’s good to see you, Pads, and it was only by the strength of his will that he didn’t. It had been five or six weeks since they last saw one another in the flesh at all. Right after a moon, and Sirius’s thumb had brushed the fresh scar along Remus’s face, lips drawn up as he no doubt shouldered the blame.
“How long have you been waiting, then?”
“Not long,” Sirius assured, climbing to his feet to stand in front of Remus. “I didn’t mean to…” he trailed, throwing a look to the couch that wavered on guilt. How long had it been since he slept, Remus wondered idly.
“That’s fine, Pads,” Remus said, “You’re always welcome.”
He hadn’t meant for it to come out so strained, but he could tell by the way Sirius’s eyes cinched toward the corners that it had anyway. Sometimes he felt as though he didn’t know how to speak to humans anymore, not wizard or Muggle alike, and not Sirius among them all.
Sirius’s mouth unspooled still, a comforting hand raised palm up to the wolf. “I didn’t know if you’d gotten the fireplace in working order, let myself in the door. You’ve got quite the nosy neighbors—the one across the way practically tried to have tea out in the hall, could barely remember the charm to get through your wards.”
Cecilia did that with everyone in the building, but Remus didn’t think Sirius needed to know that, so he said easily, “You’ve got that look about you; I’ll make sure to thank her.”
They each cracked in a waxing grin, tension ebbing away so they could gravitate now, one to the other. Remus got one hand over Sirius’s shoulder, fine bird bones steady under his touch, and Sirius clapped a palm to the crook of Remus’s neck, thumb hovering at his pulse point.
“How’ve you been?” Sirius asked in earnest, overlapping with Remus’s, “Where have you been now?” and each betrayed just enough.
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to obliviate you,” Sirius joked, handsome face scrunching up to laugh at himself. Remus followed after, trying to pick out which of the Bonds that was supposed to be because Sirius’s best Connery was barely different from his Moore, and all together they both sounded just like Sirius himself after a dash too much firewhiskey. That he even still remembered Remus showing him the movies was enough to keep a smile on his face.
“I made up my tonic beginning of the week,” he said, knowing not to repeat his question because he wouldn’t get anything different. Offering his own reassurances, however, wasn’t something he found himself prohibited from. Truthfully, it was nice to say what he meant. And if he lied, well, Sirius would figure that out, too.
He was the best of all of them at telling Remus’s ticks. James used to say it was because they were so close: just simple logic, boys. Pads and Moony are both of the canine persuasion, close as you can get. And Remus and Sirius would laugh, the kind that made their eyes crinkle and Remus’s breath rattle in his chest. All the while, James getting mock put-out about it until he cracked too, not understanding the joke, but not needing to. When he found out, years later, why exactly that had been so funny—Sirius trying, for once, to keep his explanation delicate, saying, Prongs, Rem and I, ever so gently—James had clapped them both on their backs and collapsed into Remus’s shoulder to laugh right along with them.
Now, Sirius hooked one of his fingers under the collar of Remus’s jumper, a fingerprint lacing into his skin over a silver scar that had lacerated his shoulder when he was thirteen. It was a decidedly sweet touch, not tentative—Sirius hadn’t been tentative with Remus as long as they’d been, one of the many reasons Remus had fallen in love, surely—but still quietly affectionate. His eyes were fixed on the tightly stitched threads, and Remus’s were on the bridge of his nose. If they weren’t on the verge of closing to take in this bliss, that was.
“You know,” Sirius said quietly, “I like you in red.”
Remus couldn’t help but snort, squinting out of one eye to gauge what he was playing at. Instead of a sly smile, he found Sirius with a quiet look to him, eyes flicking between where their skin met and the mole just below Remus’s right eye.
“Yeah?”
He hummed, melodic like a dog’s whimper. “Well, you know, because of Padfoot colors aren’t….” He gestured something fond, spindly fingers neat as they wound through the air. His mouth twisted to a smile when he added, “Can always tell when you’re in red, though. ‘s a good color for you, that’s all I’m saying.”
Never could he shake the fist-sized lump below his ribs where he stowed his own love for Sirius—and oh, what was the use of trying when it was his favorite piece?—but sometimes, these days, it was far too easy for Remus to forget this. That for all the years between them, he had been so thoroughly loved by Sirius Black. That hell or high water, he still was, shown in these moments of peculiar knowing.
In school it had seemed simpler. Not entirely simple, but still nothing compared to their lives now. Back then they had worries, but life had a drifting quality about it. It wasn’t real unless it took place on the Hogwarts lawn or within the castle’s hallowed hall; in secret passageways charmed to muffle laughter or throughout the looping track of Hogsmede.
Now, though, time had come for them all faster than they’d ever anticipated, and Remus had lost his grip some time ago. With it, he’d thought he’d lost Sirius, too. That they were meant to keep passing one another by, never getting close enough again.
“I wasn’t aware you’d been paying such close attention, Pads,” he exhaled, barely anything more than breath and missing. For most his life it seemed, if he wasn’t unabashedly loving him, Remus was missing Sirius. Every summer holiday, every unsure day now. It startled him to realize that as Sirius twisted his fingers tighter into the knit like he was trying to keep him from fading away, he was steady missing Remus as well.
Clucking as though it were a ridiculous thing to say—and it was, but Remus was due in for a bit of preposterousness—Sirius asked, “What else was I to do?”
“You might’ve studied,” said Remus lazily, waiting for the particular grin he knew would break out soon enough—and there it was, so wide he could see the beginnings of Sirius’s gums. His eyes grazed the smile lines at the corner of his mouth, glad to see that for all that hard work they’d put in as boys, they were still pleasantly apparent.
“I studied plenty,” he insisted, thumb taking to rubbing slow circles into Remus’s collarbone. “You just didn’t see it. Had to be sneaky about it so you’d still think I was cool.”
If it weren’t for the fact that it was of the utmost importance that the lie be maintained, Remus would have delightedly shot back that he’d never thought Sirius was cool. Best not to discuss it then, lest it go to Sirius’s head—and it had only been for a few days after they first met, anyhow. By the time they started dating he’d been under no such delusions—still loved him anyway, because of, one or the other or both.
“Spent a lot of time in the library, did you?” he asked instead.
“Oh, loads. They put a plaque by my spot when I graduated; real blow to Madame Pince. ‘Charming young man, that Sirius Black. Very studious, very cool.’”
“That the inscription?”
“Right beside a photograph of me with my head in a book.”
Remus tucked his laughter tight against the pocket of his cheek, biting down hard because the skin there was already used to the sensation from the monthly row. “I’m sure it was very touching,” he allowed, albeit haltingly so as not to give himself away, but Sirius already knew. Best of them all, remember?
“Moony, I’m tearing up just thinking about it.”
“Shame I didn’t get to see it.”
Their amusement tempered itself naturally, dimming to a calm, campfire flicker. Outside, the rain tracked their voices, waiting for steady enough silence before crashing down ever harder, an insistent knocking on the windowpane. And when that didn’t work, as thunder dousing them in anticipation enough for lighting to strike.
It was in one of these flashes that Remus slipped his hand to the back of Sirius’s neck, fingertips falling over the first notch of his spine. He remembered when he used to plant kisses there, how it would make Sirius jump every time, cursing him only as long as it took to turn around. How he’d smile and tuck into the crook of Sirius’s shoulder to inhale grass stains and soap.
The dark between missed them moving in, but the next bolt lit their lips a hair’s breadth apart. With something lodged in his throat, Remus had the brief thought that perhaps they shouldn’t—and then he brought Sirius’s mouth to his. It was unsure at first, until one of them tipped his head just so and they remembered how they fit together.
Remus was used to this—the bracing before the kiss and sinking into it once it was done—knew that was how it went now. To curb the hurt, he’d tried to barter with himself more times than he could count, say yes there was a war on now, but there wouldn’t always be. They had lives, gifted to them on equally cold days a season apart, and they had planned them. In the hushed voices of children who wanted for something different, again as teenagers who suddenly understood with all the fervor they could muster what that could mean. In the twilight he was almost convinced they would get to come home again.
As long as he could remember, Remus had wanted that, to have something to come home to. Where home wasn’t hurt and that something was more than resignation. He found it early on, lucky boy, with James and Sirius and Peter and later Lily, found family where he didn’t think he ever would. After that it wasn’t hard, not to him at least, to see that the way he felt for Sirius wasn’t the same as the way he felt for, say, James. That he wouldn’t mind being where he was, no matter where that was.
And what was the point of all this, really, if once it was over there wasn’t anything left to return to?
If things were different, they would have followed through on a conversation they had some three years ago, sitting at the edge of the Astronomy tower late into seventh year. Pressing deeper into their kiss now, so wanting that it hurt, Remus could still hear Sirius—a place for you and me, Moony. If he tried, he could remember believing it.
There wasn’t room for that anymore. Things were tumbling downhill so fast he had constant whiplash. More and more names read before every Order meeting, crossing off the class of ’78 one by one. More and more air accumulating in the hollow in his chest, leaving no space for him. And it didn’t even look like he’d be around to see it all, not with the way Dumbledore was talking.
But if he just held on long enough, maybe one day there would be. He seized one of Sirius’s lapels, digging into the leather and leaving marks behind. It had to matter more now, to choose this than to not. Because if it did, if he could just keep telling himself that, then it might eclipse the growing notion that it was pure selfishness to keep asking this of Sirius. To not let him go so he wouldn’t have to watch the inevitable crash and burn.
In the coming months they were all going to figure out exactly who they were, and that was Remus’s bitter secret, he didn’t know if he could watch. Could hardly bear to look in the mirror these days for fear of finding yellow eyes, let alone watch his best friends forced beyond their measures.
What he didn’t realize was that he could never take anything from Sirius, that all he ever had to do was ask and sometimes not even that, and it would be given freely.
Sirius pulled back first, keeping his hands firm on Remus, not letting him get too far away. They never asked one another to stay anymore, just don’t run. “Not that it’s not brilliant, but I didn’t come here just to do this, y’know? I needed to see you, for myself,” he said, insistent. You understand that don’t you? And Remus did, because to assuage his concern, Sirius had always needed to put eyes on wherever his worry lay, for Remus, reassurance always came best as touch, and that was how they learned compromise.
Again, Remus wanted to ask where he’d been. What he’d seen. But he knew if he did Sirius would tell him with full confidence, and he couldn’t ask him to compromise whatever promises he’d made.
So he said instead, “I’m right here,” free hand meeting the one on his shoulder. He squeezed. So are you.