Summary: January-October 1981. The past that they say they are putting behind them. Sirius/Remus. Mentioned James/Lily.

Warnings: language, drinking, war images, violence, dysfunctional relationship

Other Notes: my longest fan fiction project—at least as of now, though my current HP project may grow monstrous and replace it—and one of my more ambitious. Because this is not a recent fic, I read it over now and see little things (awkward phrases or dialogue, some canon-inaccurate details) that I want to change, and am in the process of doing some extra edits; each part will be posted as soon as changes are made—hopefully, updates should be fairly often, as I'm forcing myself not to make any drastic changes.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, any of its characters, including and especially Sirius, Remus, James, and Lily, or any of its settings.

x

Remus Lupin is covered in scars, in thin, red, stretching lines of them across his pale skin, more scars than before. He can't help but feel a little self-conscious of them, but Sirius Black doesn't laugh. Sirius Black doesn't take notice of them at all.

x

January, 1981

It was Sirius's smart idea to move in winter, but Remus was the one who felt guilty, because he hadn't put an end to the plans right from the start. No, he had let them go on, until they were finalized to the point of his wrapping an old Gryffindor scarf around his neck and shouldering a trunk up eight flights of stairs to the right floor. He'd had to carry it in from outside, where all of their things, the accumulated possessions of their lives, were sitting in heaps by the dingy brown city snow. There were half melted puddles leaking dirt everywhere, and Remus had slipped twice on the invisible, black ice that lined the sidewalk. After an hour, his fingers turned blue. Literally blue. He thought they might have frostbite, and maybe they'd fall off. Sirius was laughing when he burst through the door.

"Isn't this great, Moony? Isn't it fantastic? Breathe in that new flat air, just breathe!"

"I'm breathing, I'm breathing all right, Padfoot. Tell me again why we're doing this? In winter no less?"

Remus had turned around when he heard the door slam open again, and all the while that they were speaking he was also watching. Watching Sirius, in fact, Sirius and his flushed cheeks and his wild hair and his unbuttoned coat—no gloves or scarf or anything else either, too above the world to feel the cold.

"You're not nearly happy enough," Sirius answered. He frowned, in that puppy dog way of his, the way that made him look more animal than human. He crossed the room to Remus and grabbed him by two hands to the face and commanded, "Be happy."

"I'm trying," Remus's squashed face let out a few squashed words. "But I'm cold."

"Never in my life have I seen you be this weak in such a disgraceful way." Sirius shook Remus's head backwards and forwards in his hands. "Who cares about a little cold?" He squeezed Remus's face into a thinner line. "What we have—what we should be focusing on—is this wonderful new space, big space, space that is ours, much more so than that other place was because this—" and he spread his arms out and let Remus's poor face rest at last—"this flat is not being paid for with my uncle's money but with our money because we are finally, completely, self-sufficient."

Remus knew this wasn't true. He had been self-sufficient since the moment he stepped out of his parents' home, had finally felt the cold sting of it when he'd gone to their funeral, and Sirius had been out on his own too many years for the sum total of his life so far.

But if it made him happy, Remus would indulge him.

"It's not that I'm not happy—"

"Just happy?"

"Wildly happy, ecstatic, bouncing off the walls—all of that—about this place, it's just that…well…it's snowing out and ten below and January of all times and—"

"Here you are being a wimp again." Sirius shook his head. "Look, a compromise. There are only a few more boxes downstairs. I'll take them up, and you stay here and…I don't know, make warm cocoa or something, I don't care. When I come back," he stopped suddenly, smiled and raised his eyebrows, and then pulled Remus closer to him again. "When I come back," he whispered in soft, low, close-your-eyes-and-listen-because-it's-Sirius-and-his-voice-just-melts tones, "I'll warm you up."

His lips were so close to touching Remus's skin—but then they didn't and he pulled away and the chill Remus felt now was incomparable to any mere frostbite-like sensation before.

Later, wearing warm socks and their feet up against the grate of the fire, hot cocoa half drunk on the side table, and new, lighter, fluffier, whiter snow falling out the window behind them, Remus felt like maybe moving in January was worth it. Maybe. At least with Sirius kissing up his neck he could forget about it a little.

He knew that Sirius was weak sometimes, too. Sometimes he crumbled, for just a few moments, said he couldn't handle things the way they were. He drank and he threw things and he fell against walls and he slammed doors and then locked them, and Remus could hear alternate retching sounds and sobs while he cleaned up the broken pieces and slid them into the trash.

But Sirius always came back. The long hours ended, and he pretended it hadn't happened at all. He always gave the impression that he had everything under control, and the only one that ever saw his cracks was Remus, as he waited on the other side of the locked, door for Sirius to open it again. And when Sirius did come out, they would kiss like they had been separated for years, or like they'd never see each other again. They would hang on to each other with a desperation and a need that was missing from lazy nights in front of the fire, with everything kind of sort of perfect for the day.