Remus fell first.
Softly, like the quiet hush of autumn leaves, drifting earthward in golden spirals. He fell in stolen glances across the Gryffindor common room, in the way Sirius' laughter curled like smoke in his lungs. He fell in shared midnight secrets beneath the silken hush of the dormitory, in the way Sirius' voice—low, teasing—felt like a flame flickering just beneath his skin.
He fell in quiet, careful increments, slow enough to catch himself, slow enough to pretend he hadn't fallen at all.
But Sirius—
Sirius fell much, much harder.
He burned like a dying star, bright, breaking, crashing. He fell in a way that split him open, raw and reckless, with no thought of the landing. He fell in every reckless touch, in every half-choked confession that never quite made it past his lips. He fell in the way his fingers lingered at Remus' wrist too long, like a tether, like a promise he couldn't bring himself to make.
And Remus—oh, Remus knew.
He saw it in the way Sirius looked at him, wild-eyed, like a man running toward the edge of a cliff with no intention of stopping. He saw it in the way Sirius’ hands shook after every battle, seeking Remus' own, steadying against his pulse.
But war came, and they fell differently.
Remus fell in suspicion, in doubt, in the slow, agonizing unraveling of trust.
And Sirius—Sirius fell into the abyss.
Twelve years in Azkaban, where the only warmth left to him was the memory of golden eyes and a voice that once said his name like it meant home.
And still—still—when he saw Remus again, after the years had carved them both into something unrecognizable, he fell all over again. Fell into old habits, into stolen glances, into a love that had never really left.
Remus had fallen first.
But Sirius—
Sirius had never stopped falling. Now this one