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Sirius needed a coffee. He needed a coffee because it was Tuesday, and on Tuesdays he had Professor Slughorn’s chemistry class that he didn’t even really want to take in the first place but needed to in order to fulfill his science requirement. He needed coffee because this class was an absolute bore and was also at 8:30 in the morning, which Sirius really thought should be made illegal, along with science requirements and whatever it was in the body that required caffeine to function.
He pushed open the door to Puddifoot’s at 7:59, which really gave him only sixteen good minutes to get his drink and leave to get to Slytherin 406 before Marlene McKinnon took the one good seat in the back that Slughorn never called on. It resided in the shadow of the ceiling lights and was actually a war zone for the last three months. He'd usually been lucky, but the last time he got there after her, he'd had to sit in the front and endure the humiliation of not knowing what the atomic mass of oxygen was. It was 8.
Now it was 8:01 and there were five people in line in front of him—five! Maybe he didn’t need coffee. Oh, who was he kidding, yes he did. The lecture was two hours long and Sirius could only guarantee one hour of attention without the intervention of dark roast or java or plain old espresso.
It was only when Sirius turned his head 22 degrees to the left when suddenly he didn't give a single fuck about coffee, or whether he'd get the good seat, or even if he graduated school at all, because his eyes had fallen upon the single most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. This thing was sitting at one of the cafe tables, his long legs tucked up on a comically tiny chair, a pencil in his mouth as he flipped through a novel at the pace of someone who was actually reading it. Walnut-colored hair fell in graceful but enigmatic curls framing a face that was probably 90% freckles and 10% everything else. Every time he blinked—yes, he was looking at him long enough to notice when he blinked—thick black eyelashes gave sight to eyes that were just perfection, though they were arguably the same color as the caramel sweets Sirius had gotten sick on the week before.
Two years later, when Sirius finally let his eyes drift past his soft jawline, he saw that this thing—this beautiful thing—was wearing a jumper that was his very favorite shade of green, and even lower, burnt orange corduroys that made Sirius do a full body shiver—corduroys were not supposed to have that effect on someone!
And the cherry on top was what was on his feet—not that Sirius had a foot thing, 'cause, ew, he barely liked looking at his own, but he was of the very correct opinion that you could tell everything you needed to know about a person based on their shoes. His best mate, James, for instance, wouldn't be caught dead without his Nike Air Zoom Pegasus 3000-whatever's, the gym rat prick; his girlfriend Lily almost always wore some sort of knee high boot because she was ready and willing to step on catcalling assholes at a moment's notice, as she should; even Marlene McKinnon wore the same pair of dirty, purple checkered Vans every day, which meant that, yes, she was a lesbian.
This Thing wore Docs, and not the low riding, half-assed Mary Janes, or the look-at-me-i'm-totally-secure platform, studded beasts that Sirius owned, but the classic, stomp on my neck , probably-listens-to-Sweater-Weather matte black lace-up boots, which were currently kicking against the table leg as their owner, completely now staring at him was silently reading his book.
Wait.
Sirius turned his head up again at warp speed and saw that yes, the Thing was staring at him now, and even worse than that, he was smiling.
Nope, alright, that does it, college was nice but Sirius had to go jump off a cliff now, or, if he wanted it to be quick, maybe just run to the toilets and drown himself.
And then something even worse happened: the Thing slowly closed his book, got up from his chair, and started walking over.
Okay, screw the whole suicide plan, because this was it actually; Sirius would die of a heart attack before he even made his way over.
And then the Thing was before him. And he spoke.
"Hey," he said.
"Hi," Sirius said back.
The Thing, this man in front of him grinned like a coy son of a bitch, and scuffed the floor with his fucking. Boots.
"I noticed you were staring at me," he said, his voice probably infused with liquid gold because holy shit how do people just sound like that without any effort? Sirius was trying really hard not to pass out, but he needed to say something to show he wasn't an idiot.
"I...need to...drown toilets," he said, and he was actually so amazed at how stupid he was that he forgot to be embarrassed.
"Well, I think that'll be hard considering they already got water in them."
"Ha. Yeah," Sirius choked out.
There was a moment of silence; the man had a mysterious glint in his eye. Sirius wasn't sure whether it was from confusion or the realization that he was talking to a complete fool. Then he spoke again:
"Once you're finished doing that, why don't you give me a call?"
And just as Sirius was going to say 'Huh?' a small slip of receipt paper was being tucked into his jacket pocket.
Now Sirius really said it—"Huh?"—but the man just laughed and tucked his own hands into his pants pockets. The corduroy pants!
"You're cute," he said, as if he was talking to a small animal.
"I'm not cute," Sirius fired back immediately, that response hard-wired into his brain enough to combat any of his nerves.
"You are," the man said with another smile, and suddenly, yes, he was. This man was so right. About anything and everything.
"I'm Remus by the way," he went on. "So you know what to call me when you...call me."
Sirius was in awe. How could he say that—a pun!—and still sound all sexy and smooth as hell? Something Sirius would have butchered and made all awkward inked out of this man like butter—this Remus—like butter.
"I've gotta go butter," Sirius said, and, okay, now he understood why James was the one with a significant other.
But Remus just smiled and chuckled again, like he knew something Sirius didn't, and headed back to his table. He sat back down, opened back up his book, and was back to kicking the table leg again before Sirius had even registered he'd gone.
In a flash, he felt around in his left pocket, and brought out the receipt paper.
317-624-5018
Close your mouth; you'll catch flies. ;)
Sirius was red from head to toe as he put the note back in his pocket and looked back toward the table, but Remus was gone. He looked around the café, no sign of him. At this point, Sirius was beginning to consider if he was imaginary. No, he couldn't be; he had his phone number. And yes, he was sleep deprived, but even he knew he wasn't that crazy.
"Next!"
Sirius was still in line, he realized, and the people around him were looking really pissed off. He hurried to the front and ordered his coffee, and then he left.
He checked his watch. 8:08.
Damnit! McKinnon had gotten his seat by then. If only he could put his name on it...
His name! Remus didn't know his name! Oh, how daft was he? He saw the most beautiful thing he'd ever laid eyes on, and actually managed to get his number while acting like he took one too many of his anxiety pills that morning, and he didn't even tell the guy his fucking name!
He found a bench on the sidewalk and pulled out the torn receipt again. He typed in the number and held the phone to his ear and waited.
"Hello?"
"Sirius," he said excitedly.
"Huh?"
"My name is Sirius."
The other line was silent for a couple seconds, and then Sirius heard a chuckle, and his insides lit up orange.