Chapter Text
Sirius closes his eyes, overcome and humbled by an acute rush of desire. The association of watching Remus and wanting something more evokes the memory of Remus’s body after the full moon, shipwrecked on the mangled four-poster bed hidden in the depths of the Shrieking Shack. Artfully draped and marred in bruises like some kind of battered mythical hero, Remus’s naked body was the twin image of a muggle painting that Sirius had encountered on a trip to the Tate museum in London at the tail end of the summer before their seventh year.
Two days before Sirius had been due back at King’s Cross to commence his final year at Hogwarts, he’d flooed with James from the Potters’ homestead to the Leaky Cauldron. They’d concocted a plan to meet Remus for an “End of summer treat” — the name supplied by James’s mum. Mrs. Potter had begrudgingly accepted the overnight trip to Diagon Alley, booking a room for them with the promise that they wouldn’t stray outside of wizarding London.
Peter’s mum had declined the request on his behalf after a string of highly publicized disappearances among top-level ministry bureaucrats. It could only be guessed that Peter hadn’t put up much of a fight when the plan for the day had been revealed.
An afternoon roaming a muggle museum hadn’t been Sirius’s idea of a good time either, but back then he’d been desperate to oblige Remus’s girly tastes in an effort to regain his favour. While James hadn’t been keen to openly disobey his mother’s instructions, he’d seemingly understood the necessity of such an excursion to the ongoing vitality of the Marauders.
The museum itself had been unremarkable, but Sirius had managed to refrain from sharing his assessment of the utterly lifeless immobile artwork, knowing that Remus would likely decry his views as elitist and wizard-centric. The late Victorian section of the museum had been particularly stodgy and after hours of viewing seemingly endless rows of paintings, Sirius had been itching for an excuse to leave when they’d stumbled upon a painting depicting Icarus’s ruined body, tragically sprawled like a fallen angel. The beauty of it had been startling.
“The painter mucked it up.” Sirius remembers the sibilant exhale of Remus’s voice as he’d carefully approached the painting. It was only the third time that day that Remus had actively directed a comment towards Sirius. Not that he’d been counting. “It’s his wings, you see?”
Remus had extended his hand towards the paining. “They’re unharmed, perfect really. But it’s all wrong… in the myth, the waxen wings melt from the heat of the sun. Icarus should be ruined having fallen so far.”
Sirius fails to recall his response but is unsettled by the thought that he’s imbued memories of the vulnerable, fleeting — and inarguably painful — moments between the moon setting and Pomfrey’s arrival in the Shrieking Shack to attend Remus with the same kind of false sensuality and romantic perfection as the painting in the Tate museum.
Sirius knows better than anyone that Remus is no Icarus; there’s no glory in Remus’s suffering, no higher purpose or meaning that can be ascribed to his affliction and yet the vision of Remus’s wiry body, supine and bruised like a peach, cock draped elegantly on a thigh, recalls another-worldly beauty, a mythic being from a bygone era.
Remus shifts beneath his touch and Sirius, drawn back into the present moment, gently moves his hand from Remus’s thigh to his knee only to retrace the path. Sirius considers all of the ways he’s touched Remus before – like a caregiver and a confidante when discreetly preparing Remus for Pomfrey’s arrival. He’s cleaned the gravest of wounds without giving evidence of an intervening force. But mostly, he’s touched Remus like a friend – careless tussles done in jest; a firm handshake to inaugurate a pickup game of quidditch; two arms linked together to better secure cover under an invisibility cloak.
“It’s different in the shack,” Remus supplies, as if he’s finally cottoned on to Sirius’s train of thought. “I never wanted you or the others to see me like that.”
“What, naked?” Sirius jokes.
“Yes.”
Sirius cocks an eyebrow. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“It’s not just that.”
“What then?”
“The scars, I mean. It’s not just my body that I’m talking about.” Remus tenses under Sirius’s touch and bites at his lower lip, displaying a familiar reticence that’s been somewhat dulled until now from the weed. “It’s more than that. Having you watch over me after the full — taking care of me, months on end and year after year. It’s a lot to ask from your family, let alone your friends. It’s too much, don’t you think?”
“I’ve never felt that way about you, or James and Peter for that matter. I can take all of you, however you are. It’s not a question for me.”
A flicker of surprise — or is it distress — traverses the plains Remus’s face. “I didn’t know that.”
“I’m not so keen to see them naked, mind you.”
“I’ve seen Prong’s arse more times than I can count over the last seven years. I’m surprised we haven’t swapped names or at the very least, dubbed him Moony Junior—”
“Can I kiss you?” Sirius blurts out, his grip on Remus’s thigh tightening.
Remus jolts upward, fitfully coughing, the question having seemingly caught him by surprise and upended his dissemble of calm disinterest.
Ying and Yang, Peter liked to say offhand about Remus’s character. Or behind his back, Jekyll and Hyde. “It’s uncanny how good he is at lying,” Peter would remark, after Remus had once again concocted a story on the fly, cunningly excusing a late-night excursion to the kitchens or a prank gone wrong when caught after hours in the castle corridors by a professor.
But what Peter perceives as a flaw in Remus, a disturbing inconsistency in personality, Sirius has always found intriguing. He suspects that beneath it all Remus is a mess of confusion and desire just like any other eighteen-year-old. A kiss, Sirius thinks, might be the start towards knowing for sure.
Clearing his throat, Remus brushes his nose and shrugs. A towering pause and then, “Alright, I suppose.”
“Merlin, you’re withholding, making a man work for it. I shouldn’t be surprised with the way you hoard chocolate.”
Sirius rises to his knees, angling his torso so that’s he perched directly across from Remus, who observes the translation of movement with quiet curiosity. Tilting forward, Sirius presses their lips together in a chaste kiss.
Remus’s lips are warm and dry from the smoke and taste like weed and stale butterbeer. Sirius kisses the border of Remus’s mouth and traces his fingers along the curve of his jaw before clasping the nape of Remus’s neck to draw him closer. Remus bows forward like a branch in the wind and securely grasps Sirius’s arm as if to steady himself.
The kiss deepens when Sirius’s hand edges downward, fanned fingers dancing along the slope of Remus’s back before rushing to untuck Remus’s shirt from his trousers. Remus emits a startled gasp as Sirius firmly explores the ladder of his spine, caressing each delicate bone without detaching his lips.
Sirius shakily exhales, overwhelmed and a little bit lost now that’s he’s been granted access to touch and kiss the one person who’s been off-limits for so long.
Sirius deepens the kiss, licking into Remus’s mouth before daringly running a hand across Remus’s chest and tracing a scar that bisects a peaked nipple. Remus shivers at the brush of fingers, his mouth pliant as Sirius settles his hands on the pulse point of Remus’s neck — the thrum of blood circulating beneath the warm surface serving as a loving reminder of the sheer being-ness of Remus, the remarkable fact of his existence.
“Have you done this before?” Remus asks, panting ever so slightly as if to catch his breath.
Sirius groans, pressing his face into the crook of Remus’s neck, not entirely thrilled to rehash any of his past dalliances. “Yes, a few times now. But never with…”
He pauses, unsure how to explain that he’s only been with girls.
Remus nods, as if confirming some abstract knowledge.
“Have you ever—” Sirius hesitates.
“Can we—” Remus interrupts.
“Fuck, yes, come here.” Sirius hurriedly moves into Remus’s orbit with re-focused purpose before fitfully pulling away again.
Remus looks up sharply, his kiss swollen lips pitched in a familiar frown.
“I’m sorry, it’s just…” Sirius emits a frenzied laugh. “Fuck, I think I’ve gone round the bend — I don’t know what’s up or down anymore. I’ve never wanted anyone like this before. I just need to know, are you alright?”
Worried he’s somehow offended him when there’s no forthcoming response, Sirius follows the line of Remus’s thighs to rest his hands on the firm, satisfying swell of Remus’s arse. “Er— I mean, is this alright?”
Remus glances away, eyes shifting momentarily to the doorway.
“Never known you to ask for permission before.”
Sirius scoffs and starts, “Moony—”
“Yes, Sirius… It’s bloody brilliant, alright?” Remus sounds almost annoyed at the revelation. “But I’ve got to tell you something. I’m not going to move in with you.”
“What? No, no that’s just like you—”
Before Sirius can advance an argument against his friend’s well-worn retractions and insecurities, he’s muted by the determined collision of Remus’s mouth and the scramble of limbs as Remus almost launches himself into Sirius’s seated lap.
Sirius’s startled laugh quickly morphs into a low moan as Remus tongues along Sirius’s neck while purposefully working to unlatch the button of Sirius’s jeans. Stomach clenching in anticipation, Sirius gropes at Remus’s arse, desperate to narrow the space between their bodies and enable Remus to settle astride his hips that can’t seem to still. Sirius inelegantly bucks upwards as Remus manages to cross the threshold of the holy zipper, his warm enclosing hand remarkably confident in its ministrations.
Over the course of their friendship, Sirius has come to know Remus’s physicality, its gifts and limitations, but marvels now that this is perhaps a shared literacy. Has Remus been watching him in turn?
“You feel so good,” Sirius breathes. “I didn’t know it could feel like this.”
The kiss that follows is an excavation of desire, the languid slide of tongues working to extract more ungodly sounds from Remus as Sirius securely envelops him in his arms.
Remus smiles against his lips as the kiss becomes increasingly frantic, the cadence of movement losing its rhythm. Sirius’s grip on Remus’s backside tightens, his right hand alternating between squeezing his bum and dragging his fingers along the seam of his trousers, demarcating the crack of Remus’s arse. A sudden shift in position elicits an intoxicating frisson of excitement, the friction of Remus squirming in his lap coupled with the persistent, loose grip of Remus’s hand almost too much to handle.
Remus’s breath quickens as Sirius carefully lifts his shirt to caress his belly, rubbing it in almost soothing maternal motions as if he’s remedying an ill stomach. With his free hand, Sirius dextrously flicks the button of Remus’s trousers, desperate to touch him and even the playing field. Sirius struggles to part from the unyielding kiss to ask Remus’s permission once more. The brief separation results in a frustrated whimper from Remus that has Sirius groaning in return.
Before he can utter another word, Remus’s hands are curling in his hair to pull him closer.
“Please,” Remus says, voice resolute but dampened from the press of lips against Sirius’s neck. Against his ear, Remus hotly whispers, “I need you.”
Simple and true like the spell for light, Remus’s words overcome Sirius, inspiring a burst of pure happiness.
Sirius laughs at his good fortune and hastens to assess how he can give Remus everything he wants. A rush of movement follows, beginning with Sirius determinedly reaching into Remus’s trousers.
A blissful ten minutes pass – Sirius not entirely pleased with his stamina but optimistic that it can only improve with practice. After, they lie next to each other in silence, Sirius only now becoming attuned to the discomfort of the cold and uneven stone flooring.
“If I’m being honest, I could probably go again,” Sirius admits with a grin, blindly reaching for Remus’s hand.
Remus sits up but doesn’t withdraw his hand. He looks down at Sirius. An undercurrent of desire, and perhaps, disbelief at what just transpired persists in their shared gaze.
“Christ, this is strange. I think I might be in shock.” Remus forces a laugh.
Sirius narrows his gaze in consideration. Sitting up, he releases Remus’s hand to quickly vanish the wetness on his stomach and fasten his jeans. Searching for words, Sirius inches closer to Remus and turning more fully, he runs a hand across Remus’s brow, arresting the impulse to kiss him again.
“I suppose I’m feeling a bit unsettled by all of this. Or perhaps, surprised is a better term? I didn’t know you wanted this,” Remus inserts into the quiet of the room.
“It’s been a while now, if I’m being honest,” Sirius counters, trying to tamp down his brewing irritation at Remus’s predictable response to something entirely unpredictable.
“What do you want?”
The ‘from me’ is suppressed but Sirius hears it so acutely it’s as if Remus is screaming it out loud. The thing is, detaching yourself from others gets increasingly difficult the moment you start snogging your friends.
Sirius wants to ask, Are we better now? He wants to demand that Remus move in with him. No man’s an island, but in practice, how do you ensure this? A binding spell?
I want to take care of you, Sirius thinks, but hoping to spark a laugh and pierce the rising austerity, he pounces on Remus, yelping, “I want to lick your nipples and suck your toes!”
“Argh! Padfoot! Fuck off,” Remus groans, pressing his palm into Sirius’s face. The touch gentles after the initial tussle, Remus’s hands more carefully caressing the hard line of Sirius’s jaw.
“I don’t want to waste any more time,” Sirius pleads at last, his gaze unwavering.
“We didn’t know we were wasting time.”
“I did.”
At Remus’s look of disbelief, Sirius blushes and amends, “Alright, maybe not consciously, but in the last few months I’ve had this unrelenting feeling that I’d forgotten something… almost like I’d forgotten to submit a transfiguration assignment. I suppose that lately something has felt unfinished. Who knew it would be a shag with my best friend?”
“James is your best friend.”
Sirius laughs at the familiar quip. “Right, should I call him up here, then? I wasn’t lying when I said I could go again.”
Remus snorts before pulling Sirius forward by the collar of his shirt. The kiss unfurls languorously, the press of Remus’s mouth infusing a warmth that seems to spread throughout the room. Sirius loses himself to the heady feeling of touching Remus before excitedly jolting backwards.
“You did it again!”
Remus blinks at him and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I want to talk to you about this — about us,” Sirius says, gesturing between them, “but your pretty lips are distracting me.”
“You’re mental.”
“Tell me why you refuse to move in with me. What’s the real reason and none of that rubbish about being poor.”
Remus frowns and reaches for his wand but remains seated on the floor across from Sirius.
“I applied to the MLE, for the auror program. I knew it was a longshot but both you and James were so adamant about me trying and enthused about being all together that I started to believe it might actually be possible. I suppose I started to really want it, which I know is wrong—”
“To want things? Are you having a laugh—”
“Naturally, the MLE doesn’t accept lycanthropes, as we are all well aware.”
Sirius looks at him in horror.
“How did they know — of course, the blasted registry.”
Remus nods and with a pained expression, he confesses, voice cracking ever so slightly, “I’m ashamed by how angry I feel, knowing that what awaits me is a future shrouded in secrets and lies. And if I were to live honestly and open, at best I’d be unemployed or shunned, at worst I’d be dead.”
“You’re so good, Moony,” Sirius appeals in a hushed voice, reaching forward to run his thumb under Remus’s eye and chases the motion to kiss the bruised colour.
Remus closes his eyes and leans into the touch. Sirius aimlessly presses kisses to Remus’s face, distracted and unwilling to process the mix of tenderness he feels and a persistent haze of anger now clouding his thoughts. A rare and unpleasant thought crosses his mind – how can the Black name be leveraged to rectify this wrong? Surely his family has clout with the ministry. Satisfying visions of reprisal against the MLE are put on hold as music from the common room swells, disrupting the quiet sanctuary of the room.
Remus draws back and glances at the door leading downstairs.
“I’m going to resign from the auror program tomorrow.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Remus snaps and abruptly rises. He smooths out the creases in his trousers and hastens to tuck in his shirt. “It doesn’t matter anyways. I’ve got something else lined up. Dumbledore has some work for me.”
Sirius scrambles to get up, anticipating Remus’s swift exit from the room. “What kind of work?”
“He’s been a bit vague, but I expect it’s not unrelated to the recent acts of insubordination against the ministry, the increase in random attacks against muggle-borns and half-bloods, the surge of activity among dark creatures…" Pausing, Remus snidely inquires, "Shall I go on?”
Sirius looks at him sharply. “That’s no career.”
“What, mercenary? Spy?”
“I don’t want you to get hurt.” A lull and then, “You’re not the most careful sometimes.”
“And who do you think I learnt that from?” More soberly, Remus observes, “This isn’t about me or you. I suspect what’s coming is bigger than any of us.”
Sirius thinks about Regulus and the hushed rumours about a new mark on his arm, a blight on his skin that makes concrete the unreality of the current moment. The future that they’ve been pretending is wide open and free for the last few months seems to be increasingly narrowing like a corridor with only one exit.
“Well, you’ve already got the soldierly attitude down pat.”
In many ways, Sirius is not surprised by Remus’s abrupt adoption of this new mantle Dumbledore has carelessly bestowed on him. But in other ways, Remus’s sudden capitulation to his supposed affliction seems startling out of character. Sirius suspects, not for the first time, that there is an endless list of things you have to give up as you get older. He’s determined that his friends won’t be one of them.
“I thought Gryffindors were supposed to brave,” Remus says archly.
“Yes and also stubborn, clearly.”
With a wry smile, Sirius continues, “Wasn’t it Lennon who said there’s an alternative to violence — stay in bed and grow your hair? Let’s make a deal then. I won’t bother you about the future so much if you promise to enjoy this moment with me. I want to be with you.”
“Carpe diem? How much did you smoke? And your hair’s already plenty long — though come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind a kip.”
“Moony!” Sirius clutches at Remus’s hands and looks down at him in exasperation.
“Your hair’s fetching, you know that.” Remus brushes his fingers through the dark tendrils framing Sirius’s face. He says, “Tell me what you mean exactly.”
“Just what I said. You and me, and the party downstairs… the afterglow of the moment. I want you to be happy.”
“Oh Padfoot…” Remus stills, his gaze locked on Sirius. “And the apartment?”
“Sod the apartment. We’ll figure it out, we always do.”
Remus’s mouth twitches as his hands drift downwards, caressing the planes of Sirius’s chest before encircling his waist. Sirius palms at the inviting slope of Remus’s lower back and hooks his right thumb on the frayed belt loop of Remus’s trousers.
“Do you believe me?” Sirius asks after a stretch of silence.
“Yes,” Remus affirms, his lilting voice bright and assured. “I do.”
Sirius grins and sweeps forward to kiss him once more before together rejoining the celebration downstairs with their friends. With the touch of Remus's lips, the future sweetly opens.