Author's Note: Originally posted to various LiveJournal communities. rainydaykisses1's rather belated birthday present. Happy Birthday, Rissa! Based on the idea that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and also that third time's the charm.
Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder
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Remus sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face. He couldn't feel anything. Wouldn't feel.
"Lumos," he said, and the wand on the bedside table flared into light.
He shuffled downstairs, careful not to disturb the portraits, and fixed a cup of tea. The kitchen was full of leftover cardboard boxes: the last moving day for the Order of the Phoenix.
A clock ticked silently. It was not yet four.
The wooden chair scraped noisily against the stone floor as he sat, a sound forever embalmed in memory.
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The sun shines cheerfully over Platform Nine and Three Quarters. The air is full of laughter and tears; they are leaving now, and some of them will not come back. Sirius slings his arm around Remus.
"Moony, Moony," he singsongs, "come visit me in London this summer."
This summer, Remus is starting work with a researcher-historian in Shropshire. He is a little apprehensive, a little excited, and slightly terrified of this suddenly imminent adulthood.
"I'll," Remus says noncommittally, "try." He feels Sirius breathing into his ear, and squirms. "Or you could come visit me. In Shropshire."
Sirius sighs despairingly against the side of Remus' face. "But Shropshire's so boring," he whines, "nothing but sheep and, and –"
"Well, I'm certain the sheep would enjoy your exhibitionist flights of fancy."
"Hum." Sirius nibbles absent-mindedly on the collar of Remus' shirt. "Voyeuristic sheep." Once, this physical proximity would have been unsettling, but now, it's taken for granted. Sirius has always been overly affectionate with everyone, even (disturbingly enough) his teachers. "I'll think about it."
Remus shrugs, awkwardly shouldering his bag. His parents should be here soon. "Yes, well, when you make up your mind, owl me."
Sirius scoffs. Remus can feel it through the line of his body, good-naturedly scathing. "Owls are for the slow and finicky. Wouldn't you rather it be I myself in person in all my handsome glory?"
Remus admires Sirius' ability to speak without any commas whatsoever. "I think Mr. Nortel is of the slow and finicky type, and though redoubtable your handsome glory may be, I'm not sure he'd be particularly impressed."
"Nonsense. I shall come, in a blaze of morning splendor, and my fair Moony shall be blinded by my very brilliance."
"But I need my eyes," Remus protests weakly. "Oh, look, isn't that James' mum?"
"Oh, fair Madame Potter!" Sirius yelps, and launches himself onto a rather surprised James. "There's your mum there's your mum let's go!"
"Where's mum?" James peers about, and by the time Sirius has discovered that his lady Potter is not actually present, Remus has made his escape.
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First
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Remus likes it here in Shropshire, despite the lack of Others with which to Gallivant About. (It means he misses them, his subconscious says cheerfully, he misses them and he won't admit it because he spends all his time with his panties in knots over exactly how delinquent they are. Remus tells it to shut up.)
It is true that there are sheep, but they are, on the whole, fairly inoffensive if one is not too close. The neighbors are quite kind, despite being a mile away; the weather is fairly pleasant, if not just a bit wet sometimes; Mr. Nortel is one of those rather absentminded gentlemanly sorts, and he is always asking his housekeeper where his slippers are, and if that good boy would fetch that book it would be quite nice.
Remus likes it here in Shropshire.
And he never knew exactly how lonely he was until Sirius appeared early one October morning in a faint drizzle of rain, heralded by hordes of frightened sheep baa-ing and carrying on as a great roaring motorcycle descended among their midst.
"Bloody –!" Sirius swears, "get the fuck off my precious you fucking –! Fuck! Fuck!" He scrubs valiantly at his motorcycle with his leather jacket, and gives a loud AUGH of frustration.
"Hallo, Sirius, care for some breakfast?"
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Remus is ridiculously happy. He is ridiculously happy because Sirius is shoveling an appalling amount of bacon and eggs into his mouth all at once, because the housekeeper has found this motorcycle-riding hooligan absolutely charming, because Mr. Nortel is completely inattentive and thinks that Sirius is his nephew or something, because Sirius is unexpectedly, suddenly, surprisingly, all at once here.
There is a pleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach, and his subconscious gloats as he thinks to himself, I've missed this; I really have.
"How are James and Lily and Peter?"
"Oh, Peter is quite jolly," Sirius sprays bits of chewed up bacon everywhere, "we've found him a job, I think, with James' dad." He swallows, and Remus is faintly relieved, if only for the safety of his shirt. "And James and Lily are all over the place with their what-have-yous and things."
"What-have-yous," Remus repeats.
"Well, you know." Sirius takes an obscenely large bite of his toast and crunches thoughtfully. "I think they're going to get married."
Something of the forty year old in Remus sputters indignantly about age and youth and various health-related things. Remus himself sips at his tea and says, "oh really."
Sirius grunts acquiescently in his toast. He looks distinctly less pleased, and slightly indigestive. Remus gets the faint idea that he is jealous.
"Well, that's good, then." Remus clears his throat. "Do tell them not to forget their Moony in their what-have-you-ing."
Sirius says something rather inarticulately full of crumbs. He swallows and says, "Let's go!" and "Thank you very, very much, my sweet lady" to the housekeeper, who has fixed them a hamper full of good-smelling things.
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"SIRIUS, I THINK I MAY BE DYING," Remus howls over the terrifying roar of the engine.
"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT THERE AREN'T ANY FRYING PANS HERE."
"DYING. DIE-ING."
The motorcycle is shaking him to pieces, Remus thinks, and his hipbones will surely fracture, and if not his, then the hipbones of the forty year old inside of him.
"MAKE IT STOP," he screams.
And suddenly, there is blessed silence.
"ah there we go."
The engine fairly purrs, a deep throaty hum of content. Remus is glad that no one's hipbones have been broken, and wonders how Sirius manages. He comforts himself with the idea of osteoporosis, which, though generally only applied to forty year old women, is quite conducive to bone-breaking.
"See, isn't she brilliant? Let's have lunch."
They land, and it feels as if, for a horrifying moment, his hips are going to shatter again when the engine finally sputters to a stop and sighs contentedly into the grass.
Remus tumbles off the motorbike in mad, desperate love for the ground. Sirius tumbles off too, but only because Remus' foot snags in his jacket.
"owshitfuck!"
They land messily on each other, and there is an awkward silence as Remus contemplates how large Sirius' nose is and wonders why he never noticed it before.
"Hey, Moony," Sirius says, and kisses him.
Something in Remus goes phuttphutt.
(Later, he secretly likes to think that phuttphutt is the sound of true love, even though the dead snitch in his pants is evidence to quite the contrary. Why he has a snitch in his trousers pocket has been, ever and anon, a great mystery to him, but nevertheless, phuttphutt is the way to go.)
Sirius tastes like bacon. He tastes of chocolate and eggs, but not chocolate eggs. He tastes, quite inexplicably, of adventure and wilderness and dogginess and freedom and the sort of violence that breaks hipbones. He tastes good.
This, however, does not prevent Remus from going "gnaa!!" and flailing himself into the stream.
He blinks and coughs water as Sirius drags him back up onto the grass.
"A shame," Sirius is saying, "that my kisses should be so truly horrendous so as to drive someone to suicide and no one has thought to tell me, in all these long years."
"Hgrkh," Remus says, and wonders if he can get Sirius to kiss him again if he pretends to asphyxiate on seaweed.
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They never really, you know, talk about it, this, this thing. It simply is. Remus feels a little anti-climatic inside, a little mushy and gooey and like those chocolates with caramel in them, you know, like that, and when Sirius kisses him and kisses him behind bedroom and library doors, behind the hedge, in a tree, the caramel sort of goos up and dissolves Remus into a small puddle of brown mush.
Caramel mush, Remus thinks dizzily, as Sirius kisses his neck and gently nips his ear. Remus makes a low, shivering sort of noise in the back of his throat as fingers trail down his chest.
There is a tiny part of Remus that is screaming WHAT IF THE HOUSEKEEPER in capital letters and WHAT IF YOU PUKE ON HIM OR EXPLODE OR SOMEHOW MALFUNCTION but a landslide majority of Remus is shouting back WHAT IF HE STOPS?
It's wet and unappealing at first, with funny-shaped body parts and bits of hair on things generally preferred to be not thought of. (The level of grammatical incorrectness that Remus' head has sunk to is extraordinary. But then again, he does have his cock shoved down – well.) It's wet and, in retrospect, highly unsanitary and perfectly disgusting, but it's amazing just how much Sirius' mouth feels like – and how much Remus likes it when – and how they shiver in bliss afterwards, lazily, stickily, happily resting against each other in the sort of clichés romance authors are forever hawking.
It's wet, and sort of unattractive, but Remus likes it anyway.
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Sirius stays on for the winter, to the delight of the housekeeper, who thinks they are adorable. Remus is not entirely sure she understands that they are probably really very gay and not just play-acting, but he is rather relieved that she isn't gathering the entirety of Shropshire together to burn them at a stake like the Sodomites of Olde Tymes. Mr. Nortel mumbles confusedly under his breath and thinks perhaps his nephew is in fact a niece, and that you can never quite keep up with the times at this age.
Sirius helps out around the house, goes to fetch groceries every so often, stares cross-eyed at dusty books and diagrams of old spells and graying incantations. He has endeared himself to Mr. Nortel by being academically argumentative and intelligent about what sorts of things ought and ought not to work; he is really rather good at theoretically practical things.
Remus walks about with a vague happy smile on his face, and Mr. Nortel adores him because he is brilliant at making things work as they ought to, and also because he has catalogued and organized the entirety of his colossal library. He, too, helps out around the house, and Sirius usually drags him along into town for the groceries.
It is just December when they get a letter proclaiming in grand old style, Thou Art Invitedest Unto this Holy Matrimony of the Grande Olde Families of Potter and Evans. Scribbled across the bottom in messy ink is, BRILLIANT, PADS, MOONY, ME AND LILY ARE GETTING MARRIED, and also, p.s. i know about you two (I HAVE BEEN WATCHING MOOHAHAA), brilliant, really, congratulations and whatnot but honestly, pads, shall i be the only one to carry out our grand line of the Marauders? There is an ungainly blob, and then, oh and you all should come up mum wants to see you all again and so does Lily and Peter cheers mates! also, little insecurely and very small towards the end, hey pads you never er you know on me right?
There is still something of a little boy in James, Remus thinks. "Grande Olde Families," Remus says.
"They're going to have babies?" Sirius looks appalled. "What sort of terrible monsters do you suppose they will be?"
There is also still something of a little boy in Sirius, too. "Oh, go on, Sirius."
They arrive halfway through December, motoring in this fairy-tale snow. James tackles them both and Peter grins at them and Lily smiles and puts her arm around her stomach – Holy God in Heaven, forty year old Remus thinks belatedly, already? – and Mr. and Mrs. Potter say, "Hello, boys!"
They stay on for a bit, and a great horde of Potter relatives flood the house, mostly congratulating James on his excellent fiancé, and sometimes saying, Well, an early start is good, but then also, Aren't you a bit young?
"Pish posh," Sirius says, inebriated head in Remus' lap. "'Are they too young.' Of course they're too young; everyone's too young, they're all great poofing old bofters anyway."
"Well, they've got a point," Peter grunts.
James shrugs. "Hey, help me find a house."
And it is Christmas.
The house is bustling with wrappers and turkey and presents – Sirius, how did you get? Oh, I know – all these unknown Potter relatives have gotten Lily and James all sorts of baby things – Prongs, what the bloody hell is that supposed to be? I think it's a pair of . . . booties? – these meals are stuffing Remus uncomfortably full, and suddenly, it is nighttime, and Sirius is in Remus' bed.
"Moony," Sirius says, "Moony, can I come and live with you?"
Remus is faintly surprised and mildly sleepy. He hasn't really thought of this. Hasn't really thought about this thing, of being together forever always. The thoughts are hazily muddled in his head. "I thought you were already doing that," he slurs.
"I mean, really come live with you. Like a, a house and things. Like Lily and James."
"House. That'd be nice."
Sirius shifts against Remus, pulling him closer. "Like in Shropshire, close to Mr. Nortel so you can keep doing whatever it is that you do."
"What about the sheep?"
"Oh, the sheep are okay."
"Yeah. What about buying the house?"
"I've money."
"Enough money?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. You can come live with me."
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A little into January, and they are back in Shropshire. The housekeeper greets them happily, and Mr. Nortel notices aloud that they've returned.
They buy a small cottage about half a mile away, and Sirius is forever painting things, or planting things, or fixing things and cooking abominable meals. Sometimes the sheep herd by, leaving their dung and hoof marks everywhere, and Sirius goes out and paints things and plants things and fixes things again.
They go and work with Mr. Nortel on Whatever It Is He Does, that is, old magic and old history, and usually bring home something from the housekeeper to eat. It is a pleasant existence, especially when it snows and they've got heating charms and anti-wind spells about the house. Sometimes Sirius will change into a dog and just sprawl in front of the fire.
In April, when the snow stops and the rains begin, they go to Lily and James' wedding, and hear vague rumors about some new radical organization, Good Sirs of the Black Masques Campaigning for Wizarding Rights or something.
In May, they go to France for Mr. Nortel to attend a convention.
In July, Harry James Potter is born, and Sirius is named his godfather.
In October, they go to Italy and have sex a ridiculous amount while presenting to another convention.
In November, Remus realizes that they really are sort of a committed couple (this isn't normal, the forty year old protests, you are too young to be committed!), and they throw a little party to celebrate.
In December, Peter comes to visit, say hello and whatnot. It is nice, seeing old friends again, but it makes Remus a little uncomfortable. They celebrate Christmas with Mr. Nortel and his housekeeper, and send off quirky baby things for Sirius' godson.
In February, they visit Harry, and find that he is absurdly charming.
In April, they go to Lily and James' anniversary and hear a little more about this radical new organization. Terrorists, it seems.
They move to London and join the Order of the Phoenix.
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Sometimes, Remus wonders how Sirius was ever content to live in Shropshire when he seems so attracted to danger. Sirius loves this life, and he comes home to Remus, exultant and cheerful after his life has been threatened in some mission or another.
Remus' tasks take longer; weeks, usually, spent with werewolves in the dark forests of Europe. He writes every so often, once after getting hit with a silver bullet, once after being staked to the ground, and twice after losing significant amounts of blood – Dear Sirius, I think I may be dying. I love you a rather absurd amount; I hope you know that. Bloody cold around here. Love, Remus.
Remus knows that Sirius writes letters; they just don't ever get to him. He knows this because of the bloody remains of owls that decorate the trees around him in the mornings.
When he comes back, tired, defeated, failed, Sirius is waiting for him at the headquarters.
Sirius seems faintly resigned to waiting; he is snoozing with a Witch Weekly over his face. Remus sits next to him, and gently touches Sirius' wrist.
"What – oh god, Remus," Sirius says, and mashes his knee on the armrest trying to stand up.
"URGH," Sirius says loudly, and doubles up in pain.
This is not really how he expected to be greeted, Remus thinks, carting Sirius into the medical bit of headquarters. At least it's interesting.
Remus goes to report to Dumbledore after a Healer takes over, prodding Sirius' knee with her wand. Dumbledore nods and frowns but says anyway, "Well done, Remus, you have done a better job than I expected; they are not hostile to us entirely" and something about the burden of adulthood and rising to meet the occasion and then, finally, with a twinkling smile, "Go on, then, Sirius is waiting for you."
Sirius' knee, it turns out, is not broken, and they have celebratory sex on the makeshift cot to observe this extremely good occurrence.
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They are too young, Remus dreams, they are too young to be this old; they haven't had that familiar limbo between adolescence and adulthood. They rush on like tidal waves, already condemned. Too young to be so old. Pushed, shoved into neat ranks of two by two; quick – love before you're scarred, give birth before you die. But above all, keep going, keep going.
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A letter comes from James the next day.
Sirius, it says, Lily and I have to go into hiding. There's this prophecy. . . .
They travel to Godric's Hollow. It is a grave ceremony, and it touches Remus and Sirius strangely, more than being staked to the ground several times over ever has.
"Fidelius," Dumbledore whispers. "Remus, come here."
Remus stands automatically, then thinks, What?
Remus Jonathan Lupin, do you swear . . . ?
I do.
Fidelius.
Baby Harry starts to cry.
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Remus is Sirius' secret keeper now. It's even better than marriage, Sirius jokes, but Remus knows he's secretly wondering behind laughing grey eyes.
They get another letter. Mr. Nortel and his housekeeper have been murdered.
Late that night, Sirius pushes against Remus as if trying to burrow into his body. He rubs and touches as if impelled to reassure himself that Remus is still there, still there and whole and alive.
"Ahh," Remus whimpers.
"I love you," Sirius says into the sharp just of Remus' hipbone. "I love you." He repeats it over and over, an aphrodisiac mantra against Remus' neck, the planes of his stomach, the swell and curve of body.
Remus shudders and moans, but beneath the haze of pleasure, he is terrified of this strange desperation.
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They find him when Sirius is out.
"Where is he?"
"Get up, werewolf!"
"Tell us where he is!"
Remus screams as they shatter his ribs, vomits on the floor, feels his right leg momentarily disconnect from his body. He arches and spasms in pain, feels dull blades slice into his body and the hot blood puddle in the hollow of his chest. Bites through his lip trying not to scream, screams anyway when boot connects with face in a horrifying parabola of agony. Screams until there is nothing left to scream with.
He wakes up in a hospital ward, aching. Sirius touches his cheek and presses lips to his forehead.
"Hey, Moony."
Remus can taste the salt of Sirius' tears.
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One day, the sun shines into the clean hospital room and Sirius is not there. There is a note left on the bedspread.
Hey, Moony. Going to take care of some stuff today will be back asap pronto immediately etc.
Remus has a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach, like something has dissolved and broken, but he ignores it and asks the nurse for some toast.
Sirius comes in later, looking triumphant and celebratory. He is carrying a tremendous bouquet of flowers and a box of Honeyduke's Finest Dark Chocolates.
"Hallo, Sirius. What's the occasion?"
"You!" Sirius grins, and plops onto the bed, jangling of boots and leather and plants a very large, sloppy kiss on Remus' cheek.
Remus is getting out of the hospital tomorrow.
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A week later, Remus wakes up to an empty bed and a torn Daily Prophet.
YOU-KNOW-WHO SUSPECTED DEAD, the ripped headlines scream, POTTER FAMILY KILLED. Remus collapses to his knees.
THE BOY WHO LIVED – HARRY POTTER
HOGWARTS ALUMNUS SLAIN
SIRIUS BLACK CONVICTED IN POTTER-PETTIGREW DEATHS
BOY HERO – YOUNG POTTER WHISKED AWAY
WHAT WAS HIS MOTIVATION? MINISTRY STATEMENT BRINGS LIGHT
BLACK TO SERVE LIFE IN AZKABAN
DEATH EATER ACTIVITY DECLINING
For the next thirteen years, Remus will think that Sirius betrayed Lily, James, and Peter because of him.
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Second
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Remus is evicted from the London apartment for being associated with Sirius Black; turned down at five others for being a werewolf, and accepted at one for being Lily and James' friend. He sells most of his things to buy the incredibly expensive Wolfsbane potion, and when he runs out of money, borrows a hundred pounds to buy a steel cage.
He finds work at the Leaky Cauldron a bit, is fired after missing the first full moon. He is offered a job at an ice cream parlor, but is laid off during the winter months. He moves to Wales to work with an admirer of Mr. Nortel's, moves back when she dies. He picks up temporary jobs here and there, scraping together just enough to eat and mend his clothes.
Years pass.
A bar of the steel cage has snapped; Remus must eat nothing but bread and drink nothing but the water that leaks from the tap to pay for repairs. He spends his days at the public library because there is no heat in his apartment.
Remus refuses to think about all of this, because if he does, he will surely go mad. Instead, his mind tiptoes around the still-oozing scab as if it were gangrenous, diseased, and occupies itself with other things. He buries himself in the esotericism of literature, of old magic and books, and contents himself to live his life like Don Quixote inside his head.
Years pass – six more.
Remus comes across an old chest of Sirius' things nestled amongst disintegrating packing boxes and tape; it stands out, gleaming and wooden, and he wonders why he has never noticed it before. Something in his chest constricts; the blood pounds in his ears.
He goes through it, carefully lifting out scarves, school ties (it seems like a day and forever ago; were they really so young, then?), old photographs, trousers, books, chocolates, shirts, records, bracelets from concerts, quills, papers, hats. . . .
Something along his spine shivers. He can still smell Sirius' scent: doggy, of chocolate, of violence and adventure and freedom and early morning eggs and bacon.
Remus presses his face to Sirius' clothes, and the scab heals over, flakes away.
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There is a knocking at the door. Remus starts from a doze, knocking Kafka's The Metamorphoses from his table. He is wearing one of Sirius' old school shirts.
He opens the door. "Oh! Albus."
"Remus." Dumbledore inclines his head.
"Tea?"
"Certainly, thank you."
Remus puts on the kettle and gets out several tea bags.
Dumbledore sits at the kitchen table, looking strangely out of place against the shabby backdrop of Remus' apartment. He steeples his hands.
"Remus. Sirius has escaped from Azkaban."
Remus freezes. The tea falls from his hands.
Dumbledore looks at him gravely. "I do not truly believe that Sirius would have betrayed Lily and James. But if he did, we must be wary of him."
Remus half-falls, half-sits in a chair. His lips form Sirius' name.
"I am offering you the post of Professor of Defense against the Dark Arts."
Sirius, Sirius. "Yes," Remus says, barely understanding.
SIRIUS BLACK BREAKS OUT OF AZKABAN
DEMENTOR'S UNION STRIKE
HOW SAFE IS THE BOY WHO LIVED?
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Harry looks like James. Harry looks like James enough so that when Remus half-shuts his eyes and allows himself to drift, he can see James laughing, grinning with friends that are not his, but Harry's. It is disconcerting to see these two eras overlapped and intermingled, and Remus has to be very, very careful not to blur the line between them.
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Sirius Black, the map says, Sirius Black The Great Sir Padfoot Le Gran Monsieur de Lupe. Remus' stomach thuds about in the cavity of his chest, like an asphyxiating fish, or an exploding artichoke or –
Remus bolts to the Shrieking Shack, even as the full moon hovers behind the sunset.
Something inside him is exploding with a sound that goes like shitshitshitshit shit like a stuttering drum like his feet pounding up the stairs of the dilapidated prison that once held him. He can't breathe, can't think, can hardly see for the purple blood stars that are bursting from oxygen deprivation in his brain.
His hands claw, for seconds of eternities, at the knob of the door. It breaks – he tumbles into the room. The blood thunders in his ears he sees lips move and oh god that can't be Sirius.
It is.
Something goes phuttphutt inside Remus.
"Remus?" Sirius breathes. "Moony?"
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Later, after Sirius has – thank God – escaped, Remus gets a letter.
Hey, Moony.
I love you.
Have been Hiding Out in various tropical locales (although not frolicking about in the nude; unfortunately too skinny and ugly for that – damned Dementors) which puts me in a Very Good Mood – ha, ha, I remember that time we met McGoogles on the beach, ha. Missing you very very much and am glad you haven't completely declared me a nutter.
Plus am missing kinky sex and your arse.
And all the rest of you, of course, even your terribly protruding nose (it was a very lovely sight after thirteen years of no Moony, a very lovely sight indeed, don't ever change it, in fact you had best send me pictures of it and your arse okay kidding don't hurt me).
Am rambling a bit, but after thirteen! years of no Moony, even the slightest mention of you sends me off – oh look there I go – and I must (hem!) wank all over again. Kidding. But I have missed you obscene amounts.
I love you lots. And lots. And I really do enjoy doggy-ing about in the sand. And I love you. And I hated it in Azkaban lots.
indecipherable slobber mark
P.S. you probably shouldn't write back for a bit; am on the move and trying to be as difficult as possible to find. Send word, though, if you find yourself pregnant or something. . . .
Remus smiles and puts it in his very favorite copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.
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They send letters every so often. Remus is busy trying to scrape a living together and Sirius is trying to hide from Ministry officials, so they haven't much time to, you know, talk. Sometimes, though, once every month or two, Sirius will send a letter that goes something like I love you! Let us convene, eleven o' clock sharp.
Remus dozes in a foggy half-dream in his shabby armchair by the fire; his head has fallen back and his mouth is open unattractively. A spider swings above him. On the table beside him there is a cold cup of Earl Grey, and also a clock that reads a quarter past twelve.
Remus takes no notice when Sirius appears. Instead, he gives a tremendous snort of content that reverberates in his tonsils and nasal cavity. Rather, he snores.
Sirius jumps, scattering ash and woodchips. He sees Remus drooling slightly out of the corner of his wide-open mouth but looking adorable nonetheless, and smiles. He gently noses Remus' neck and transfigures the armchair into a sofa – a loveseat, if you will.
Remus sputters and chokes a little as he is abruptly awakened.
"Oh," he says, "oh."
"Hey, Moony," Sirius says. He runs his fingers over Remus' face. The touch is gentle and intimate.
Sirius is different. He is different in inexplicable ways that Remus knows are reflected in himself, yet he still doesn't quite know how. Perhaps it's in the bitter curl that tinges every smile, or in the way he wrenches on a clump of hair, or maybe the sharp protrudance of rib against stomach. Maybe it's nothing, everything, something.
"Sirius," Remus whispers, conjuring into tangibility his lover, his best friend. "Sirius."
They kiss. They touch and whisper and love like they haven't for thirteen years. They remind themselves of geometry of body, of V of legs, parabola of spine. They remember soft places behind a knee, and how a gentle lick behind an ear does just so.
They're a little out of practice: Remus, three years; Sirius, thirteen. It isn't long before they come, messily, frantic, unexpected yet anticipated, mouths open and breathing heavy.
Scourgify and I love you and It's been a while and You're skinnier, couldn't you have gotten to my Gringotts vault? and I want a shower; everything is a strange bliss of happiness that the hot spray of water marks with a strange fairy-tale quality. It can't last, and just before dawn, Sirius slips away into the fire, still holding Remus' hand.
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Number twelve Grimmauld Place is an unexpected blessing, and also a curse. Remus has a place to stay when he's not on a mission, but Sirius is forced to stay constantly. It makes Sirius edgy, angry, and Remus feels it when they have sex under silencing charms in the night.
Sirius is different from what Remus had imagined him to be over thirteen years. He's different, rawer, less ideal, and the memories and the reality clash painfully when Sirius bites down, hard, and Remus walks with a limp the next morning.
Remus can't bring himself to open the bedroom door, because last time he was thrown out.
Remus cries, silently, as he masturbates alone in the grimy bathroom.
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Third
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When Sirius died, Remus couldn't feel anything except Harry straining against his arms, screaming NO as they watched the black veil flutter in the currents of life.
Remus couldn't feel anything except the imaginary touch of Sirius' hands over his face, a gentle kiss shared in early morning confusion, the phuttphutt and the river water, chocolate eggs and almost-broken knees. Couldn't feel the bite marks that lined his inner thigh, the burn marks around his wrists, the angry clash of teeth against teeth and a tongue thrust too far in. Couldn't feel anything except the happy memories, the good days, the simple pleasures of teenagers just out of school.
Couldn't feel, because absence makes the heart grow fonder.