It's not a song he even particularly likes, but it's one of those phenomena, he finds, that goes hand-in-hand with growing older; remembering, with bright blue clarity the moment he first heard the song – what he felt at the time, how it plucked at him with nimble fingers. Not the lyrics, not the tune, not the baseline or the artist – simply thetime, and it is the time that makes him, now, walking into the kitchen in Grimmauld Place, stop still in his tracks and stare.

He lingers silently by the doorknob, fingering it with an open palm so that he can pretend he has only just entered if Sirius ever elects to turn from his cooking. He's good at being quiet – living alone has given him a lot of practise – so it's not much effort to lull his own breaths, to get slow in his lungs, so that he won't break the moment with his own foolish presence. Sirius turns, though, because he's a bastard like that, and Remus still isn't really used to the way those eyes hit his face and he smiles.

"Morning." Sirius chirps, much more cheerful than he was the night before. Remus was surprised to see him awake at all; last night had been drunken, angry, unstoppable. It had crawled into bed with him, even as they went their separate ways, dark tendrils curling around his legs and chest until dawn, whispering insidiously against his skin.

But this Sirus is, for the moment, his; smiling with his teeth bared, his ragged hair done messily up, the way he used to when they were young and he thought it was 'bohemian' to look like he lived on the street. He's got the radio on and he's tuned it to muggle stations somehow, and if Remus didn't know better he might think it was 1979, their twilight era, that perfect morning before it all went wrong. He can't help it; his lips curl up of their own accord. He smiles.

"Morning." He repeats, and walks over, and finds that he's lighter; the memory and the morning are crossing over like the lines of light on this kitchen floor, blending, and for a moment he's not sure if he's nineteen or nearly forty, and he comes up behind Sirius (who is making bacon, which for some reason almost makes him laugh) and loops his arms around his shoulders, leans his chin on the curve at Sirius' neck and speaks into his ear. "You're up early." But Sirius stiffens at his touch, and the fantasy abruptly ends. It's tentative; sort of a pretending, playing a role. Not because he has to, but because it's easier this way. He doesn't want to be old and tired and waiting, at the moment. He wants them to be something else. Sirius laughs deeply and he can feel it against his face.

"Just felt like it, somehow." Then, quieter, "When did this song come out? '76? '78?"

"'79." Remus replies, with absolute surety, then feels bad because Sirius looks almost hurt. His brain is different now, gets dates muddled, gets the facts wrong. He gets his wires crossed at least once a day, often not out loud; Remus will just see him stop for a second and frown, and know that Sirius has either remembered or forgotten something, and neither of those is inherently good.

"Seventy nine." Sirius repeats into the air above the cooker, in wonder, and Remus doesn't blame him. At once, it seems like hardly fifteen years and yet much longer. He tilts his head down against Sirius' neck, and breathes a sigh.

One of the nice things about their time apart is that Remus has had ample opportunity to think on each perfect, crystalline memory and preserve it, hard and transparent as a piece of glass. He can hold each in his hand, examine them, rub at their faults with a thumb; or, at least, he could, until Sirius – this warm, ragged, half-threateningbeast of a man - came juddering back into his life, and now, pressed against that well-known, well-worn shoulder he can feelit, liquid, come rushing uncontrollably back.

Sirius dragged him in through the doorway by his tie and pressed a kiss to the edge of his chin, thumb bruise-hard against his cheekbone. He shrugged him out of the jacket, dropping it on the shitty lino at the door as Remus laughed against him, staggering, unbalanced both by Sirius' insistence and the fact that Sirius had his tie wound around his fist, and was using it to guide their faces together.

It was a game, sortof, that they never really organized but which they played; Sirius kissed his face, anywhere except his mouth; the corner of his eye, his too-big, bumpy nose, his jaw, trembling from laughter. He pulled him fully into the room and nudged the door shut with his foot, so that they were, finally, completely alone. Mouth on Remus' jaw, he muttered, "Couldn't fucking wait to get you home." Remus was laughing; because he always did, because it was funny, because they were in love and he was a tiny bit drunk. He let Sirius pull his head down slightly and kiss the bridge of his nose. "Thought it'd never be over."

Remus stilled him, put a hand on his wrist, where the tie was still wrapped, and ended the game early, leant in close and touched a kiss to Sirius' full lower lip, still murmuring his amusement against that beautiful mouth. "Don't be a twat. They're our best friends."

Sirius' chin is rough against his face, stubble from two, three days now brushing over his eye when Sirius turns slightly from the cooker to look down at him. "I'm sorry." He says, low, onto Remus' face. He doesn't have to clarify; Sirius said awful things last night, desperate things; not about Remus but about himself, and that was almost worse. Remus pulls his head up again and lets go of him; moves to stand beside him instead, so that Sirius can cook properly.

"Don't fret about it. It's alright."

Sirius' eye, turned to him only briefly, is critical.

Sirius snorted. "Not anymore. Prongs. What a fucking tosser. What a berk." He said, inbetween kissing Remus, all pretension given up, letting him suck a little on his lower lip. "Getting married. Fuck the lot of them." He stumbled a bit, moving backwards, and Remus found it funny, his obvious manovreing towards the bedroom, another pretending they'd not quite given up, pretending not to want, pretending it's not where they'll end up. He didn't wish for honesty, though; it was Sirius' way of making an effort, of being 'romantic', and he appreciated every foolish stumble through a doorway like it was their last.

He stilled them, though, in the kitchen, detecting something else in Sirius' facetiousness. He left him in the middle of the floor – Sirius made a noise like a teenager having the bedclothes pulled suddenly away – and went over to the radio, and turned it on. Remus' mum had given them an old Wireless as a present, for moving in, and Sirius loved it, even though it was a piece of shit and it went all crackly if you did any spellwork near to it. It buzzed to life, a dull throb at first, and then, like someone speaking in a wind tunnel, the voice of John Peel, talking slowly under the static, clear on anyone elses' set but theirs.

Remus knew the voice though, knew the station from sitting on his own front step over the summer holidays, listening, waiting for his favourite song to come on so he could record it on tape, holding the tape recorder as close to the radio as possible, hoping the recording would be better than it inevitably would turn out to be.

On the radio it was 'Can't Stand Losing You', number seven in the charts that week apparently, though Remus couldn't have told you what was first, or second, or eighth.

"No." he says, after a moment, and Remus raises his head from where he's been staring awkwardly into the pan.

"Mm?" he asks, and Sirius looks at him earnestly.

"No, it's not alright." He repeats, and something clenches inside Remus; fear. Sympathy. "I can't throw all of this on you. I can't behave like you're a sounding-board, like things are the same, I-"

Remus cuts him off by touching his arm, Sirius' hand still wrapped around the pan. He jumps, and the gesture makes Remus' heart twinge again. "It's fine." He says warmly, and squeezes Sirius' elbow. "We don't have to talk about it. I understand."

Sirius sighs, his shoulders dropping visibly. "I know you do."

He crossed the room to Sirius, who was looking at him, amused with only a tiny edge of pissiness, and took his hand. "You're a twat." He said, and wrapped his fingers around Sirius' palm. He stood for a moment, grinning foolishly at Sirius' completely unimpressed expression.

Sirius opened his mouth to speak and Remus chose that moment to move him; with his hand in tow he started to dance them around the room stupidly, not even in time with the music, bumping into the table because there was hardly enough room to move in this kitchen, let alone dance; but he kept on, nontheless. Sirius, dragged along, was laughing and trying half-heartedly to pull away.

"Merlin, Moons. What the fuck are you doing."

Remus smiled enigmatically and continued to pull him around, dipping his hands up and down, lacing their fingers together, smiling infuriatingly and shaking his head when Sirius, inevitably, continued to question it. "Moons." He said, again, looking him seriously in the eyes as Remus continued to half-waltz, half-drag him around the kitchen floor, kicking his shoes off into the corner as he paused only briefly, and then slipping in his socks on the lino.

"Pads. Ssh."

"But-"

Remus let go of one of his hands briefly and put a finger to his lips, then joined their hands again. He swung Sirius to the side, and it was silly, and Sirius was laughing even though he was still confused; he shut up, finally, and let Remus drag him bodily around the kitchen until the song, crackly, faded out and John Peel came burbling over the airways again, his voice all but unintelligible over the static. Remus stopped just as suddenly as he'd begun, and Sirius, not letting go of his hands, eyed him, suspicious.

"What was that?"

Remus shrugged. "I just-" the kitchen seemed too quiet, he felt suddenly ridiculous; under the music it had seemed like what he was doing was perfectly reasonable, but now, with just the radio's voice in the kitchen, he felt a little bit mortified at what he'd done. What could he say?

I wish I could give you what they have, Pads, but this is the closest I've got.

He wanted to say it, but there wasn't enough space for such big words; he loved Sirius, knew it more sharply now than he'd ever known it before, but felt clumsy and too-big inside his body, the words shapeless against his tongue.

"I can't expect you to be what you were." He says, though he knows that neither of them really want to talk about it. "It's been a long time."

Both of these things are true. It has been twelve years since James and Lily died, twelve years since Sirius went to Azkaban, and in-between they've grown into different people; Remus knows he's not the same boy who bought Sirius stupid things out of affection, who made the first move, who, slightly shy, had never told his mother what went on between them.

Sirius, of course, was changed even more noticably; no longer did he light a room when he entered; no longer did everyone gaze longingly at him, idolise him, flirt like hell. He remembered the horror in Sirius' eyes when Harry and his friends recoiled at the very sight of him – it's not a reaction he's particularly used to.

He shook his head and took his hands out of Sirius' – cupped his face in both of them, slid them down to his neck, onto his shoulders; pushed the stuffy, too-fitted jacket off them, down his arms, onto the floor. He moved for Sirius' buttons, leant in to kiss him. "Nothing. Being silly. Bit drunk." He laughed, to excuse it, but Sirius still looked dubious.

"Are you sure?" he said carefully, grey eyes cautious, as they were when he knew something was going unsaid.

Remus, nose brushing his, undoing Sirius' shirt slowly, closed his eyes. "Positive." A kiss, in-between. He fingered the end of Sirius' tie with one hand as he hovered close. "Come on." He smiled gently, hoped his expression said 'sorry' more than it said 'don't ask'. Sirius acquiesced; nudged Remus with his nose, put his hands on Remus' waist, pushed him out of the kitchen, into the living room, onto the arm of the sofa. Remus laughed when he huffed against his neck.

"Missed you." He said simply, and Remus felt guiltier for not explaining his ridiculous feelings.

"We were together all night." He chided, and pulled Sirius' face up to meet his. "It was fun."

"Missed you before. Missed you when you were at work all day." He punctuated each sentence with a soft kiss. "Missed you this afternoon when you went to the shops for fags." Remus was laughing now. "Missed you when you went to the loo earlier-"

Remus interrupted him, pulled him to stand between his legs as he sat on the arm of the sofa, wrapped his arms around his waist, Sirius' own fingers pressing pad by pad into the flesh of his hips. "How did I ever take you seriously."

"Sirius by name, Sirius by-" Remus silenced him again with a deeper kiss, nose squashed against his cheek.

"Don't even."

But he was Sirius, if only to Remus' extra-sensitive mind. He was Sirius when he took too long in the shower, Sirius when he made a petulant fuss over nothing, Sirius on the rare occasions that he smiled. He was a different thing now, taller, haunted, but not so different that he couldn't be Remus', still.

Sirius, amused by his own favourite joke, pulled back and looked at him, grinning. "Hey, Moons. Guess what."

Remus mumbled, pitched forward to bury his nose in Sirius' neck. "Pads come on, I'm getting tired. I refuse to believe you missed me if you keep interrupting."

"Guess what, though."

"What?" He mumbled, thwarted. "What, Pads?"

Sirius kissed the top of his head.

"I really love you."

"I know, Pads."

It is quietest of admissions; under his breath. Sirius can't even bear to look at him; he's turned away, ashamed, burning the bacon now, and his weary skin creases at his mouth when he frowns, though Remus can hardly see his expression.

He considers that maybe they were both remembering; the song's played out now, has moved on to something else, but maybe this memory doesn't make Sirius smile like it does him. There's the chance that, instead, it makes him ashamed, and Remus falters at the realisation.

"I'd marry you in a heartbeat. Even though you'd be the most rubbish husband ever."

Remus smiled despite himself. "Yes, well. So would you." With his arms still wrapped around Sirius' waist, he overbalanced them on purpose, dropped over the arm of the sofa to lie on it with Sirius on top of him. "Are we doing this, or not?" he said, as Sirius floundered, eventually pushing himself up with both hands to lean over Remus' face.

Sirius sighed. "Knackered now." He mumbled. "All that dancing, I think." He said, grinning snidely, but Remus let it go. Sirius lowered himself to lie on his side, beside him on the sofa, and touched his lips to Remus' nose. "In the morning. I'll rock your world. You won't know what hit you."

Remus laughed low in his throat and yawned. "Fine. Fine. Honestly." He said, groggy, "You don't live up to your reputation at all."

Sirius, eyes half-closed already, slumped so he was lying half on top of Remus, his hand on Remus' chest, leg slung over his hip. "You've ruined me with domesticity. You've made me a fucking lapdog." He mumbled, and buried his nose in Remus' neck. Remus fell asleep almost as soon as he did, Sirius' breath softly whuffing in his ear.

Remus reaches a hand for his arm; Sirius jumps, again, sends the frying pan skidding across the stovetop and looks entirely distraught by it; looks at Remus with such fear in his eyes that his chest feels as if it has been cleaved, quickly, in two.

"Oh, you stupid dog." He mutters, and before Sirius can reply, he presses one hand to Sirius' temple, pulls himself close and kisses him, his own scarred mouth against Sirius' tortured one for the first time in fifteen years. He pulls away briefly, then puts his other hand to Sirius' temple as well, holds that shaggy, broken thing between his two palms and tips it gently forward so he can kiss the lines on his brow. "Stupid." He says again, under his breath. He kisses both cheeks, the ridge of his nose, the dark smudges under his eyes. He feels the hollow under his cheekbones with his thumbs, and is hopelessly, tragically lost. Again. Like always.

"Stupid why?" Sirius mumbles stubbornly under his ministrations, and Remus can't not laugh at him.

"Twat." He whispers thickly, eyes on Sirius'; but they both know what he means.