Cool Cool Cool (Not)
Morning—if it could be called that—spilled lazily across the floor in streaks of pale gold, filtered through the thin linen curtains Sirius hadn’t bothered to draw the night before. The flat was heavy with the breath of summer, thick with that muggy kind of heat that clung to everything, slow and sour. It smelled like sweat and old cigarettes, like sleep gone stale.
He blinked up at the ceiling, bleary and disoriented, sheets twisted around his waist like seaweed, the taste of last night’s whiskey and something vaguely herbal still clinging to the back of his throat.
He hated mornings. Always had. They felt like intrusions—too bright, too loud, too certain. Unwelcome and over-eager, barging through the haze of sleep like they owned the place. Nights made him electric. Mornings made him a ghost.
Somewhere in the flat, laughter echoed—bright, and utterly unnecessary. He hadn’t looked at the time, but it felt early. Sirius groaned, dragging a pillow over his face like it might smother the sound and, if he was lucky, him along with it.
James. Of course. Loud as ever. And probably Peter, giggling in that horrible snorty way like they’d just invented comedy. Sirius could already picture them in the living room, mugs in hand, knee-to-knee like boys at a sleepover, spinning tales about nothing. Never mind they were technically adults. Never mind some of them had jobs.
Sirius had rolled in at 3 a.m. after closing down The Wand and Sickle and barely managed to claw his way into sleep before the sun came looking for him. Prats.
He peeled himself from the sheets with a dramatic sigh, every vertebra cracking like distant thunder. His boxers were the only thing he managed to find in the wreckage of last night’s clothes, and even that felt like an accomplishment.
Hair a feral mess, sticking up like he’d fought a hurricane in his sleep and lost, he stumbled barefoot into the hallway, following the noise like a man marching to war.
He was halfway through a yawn, rubbing a knuckle into one eye, when he shoved open the living room door and grumbled, “Oi, do you two mind—some of us work nights, yeah?”
But it wasn’t Peter’s bleach-blonde mop on the sofa.
It was Remus.
Dressed in such a casual outfit that made Sirius’ mind begin to drift immediately.
He pictures Remus in his own flat, standing in front of his wardrobe, considering his options for the day, what made him choose that exact sweater, Sirius wonders.
But He might actually kill James. Politely escort Remus out and then commit a murder. A double homicide, if Peter was also involved somehow.
“Oh… Remus,” he managed, voice awkward and too thick from sleep. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
James didn’t even try to look contrite. Bastard. “I invited him over. Got the day off.” His grin turned sharp as he looked Sirius up and down, clearly biting back a laugh. “Love the look.”
Oh yeah. James better sleep with one eye open tonight.
With as much dignity as he could gather in yesterday’s underwear and a mop of bedhead, Sirius retreated back to his bedroom and slammed the door just enough to be petty about it. So much for sleep. Not that he’d really expected it, not in a flat this size, with voices carrying through every wall like bad gossip. He dug a hand through his hair and scowled at the mess in the mirror—kohl smudged halfway down his cheekbone, collarbone marked with the faint outline of a mouth he didn’t remember asking to stay.
Declan. Right.
Like clockwork, his phone buzzed on the dresser. He didn’t rush to check it, just wandered over with the slow reluctance of someone already regretting everything about his day.
Unknown Number (07483 229617)
i know ur probs not even up yet
i just wanted to say good morning & i can’t wait until our date x
“Fuck,” he muttered, thumb pausing over the screen.
He forgot about Lunch.
He’d said yes out of convenience, or laziness, or just a moment of poor judgment at 2 a.m. when the prospect of being wanted had outweighed the looming awkwardness of having to follow through. Declan was the sort of guy who tried. Earnest. Smiley. Remembered what kind of wine Sirius liked and got strangely poetic when he texted past midnight.
Nice, in that vaguely suffocating way.
Sirius had no idea what Declan thought this was, but he was already fairly certain they weren’t on the same page. Hell, not even the same book. Declan had been a one-night thing that lingered, like perfume on a jacket he didn’t remember wearing. And now Sirius was meant to meet him for lunch—on his only day off this week—when there was coffee in the kitchen and probably a half-joint in the ashtray and a flat full of idiots ready to waste the afternoon doing absolutely nothing.
Which, frankly, sounded like a better offer.
He sighed, dramatic and solitary, then opened the closet with the kind of energy usually reserved for funerals. The goal was simple: don’t look like he was trying. Not for Declan. Not for anyone. Just a shirt that didn’t smell like the pub floor and jeans that wouldn’t start a conversation.
Neutral. Functional. Completely deniable.
Because the last thing he needed was for Declan to look at him and think, he got dressed for me.
He didn’t. Obviously.
Still, as he tugged the shirt down and caught the sound of laughter from the living room—low and easy, someone clinking a mug against the counter—he did pause, just for a second. Not because he wanted to join them. Just… because it was nice, knowing they were still out there.
He slipped his phone into his back pocket without replying.
He’d figure out what to say on the way there.
Probably.
***
The café Declan had picked was trying a bit too hard.
It had the look—distressed wood tables, Edison bulbs strung above like fairy lights rebranded for men, and a menu scrawled in faux-cursive on a chalkboard that took itself very seriously. Someone behind the counter was playing a vinyl that crackled in all the wrong places. The kind of place that served “seasonal porridge” and insisted on calling bacon rashers.
Sirius arrived three minutes late. Not five—he didn’t want to be rude. Not early—he didn’t want to seem eager. Three felt strategic, deliberate, like a move played with confidence. Declan was already seated at a window table, phone face-down beside his coffee, his smile too wide and immediate when he saw Sirius approaching.
“Hey,” Declan said, standing halfway like he might go in for a kiss, then hesitating. “You made it.”
Sirius slid into the seat across from him, setting his sunglasses on the table with a click. “Apparently.”
Declan laughed. Too much. Like he’d been waiting for that one-word reply all morning.
He was wearing the same cologne from the night they’d met, faint but unmistakable—warm, citrusy, a little too clean. Sirius clocked it instantly. His brain filed it away and flared at the implication. That was intentional. A choice. He probably spritzed it right before walking out the door, thought about how Sirius had leaned in that night at the bar, mouth close, breath hotter than it should’ve been for a stranger.
He remembered. Of course he did.
It should’ve made Sirius feel smug. Instead it made his skin itch.
They ordered drinks—flat white for Declan, long black for Sirius—and Sirius let Declan do most of the talking. He seemed to enjoy it, anyway. Talking. Smiling. Gesturing a little too animatedly for how early it still was. Sirius gave him polite hums and half-smirks, eyes occasionally flicking toward the window like there might be something more interesting outside.
There wasn’t.
For a moment, he considered this wasn’t the worst idea. Declan was fine—bright-eyed, attractive in a made-for-Instagram way. It could be normal, if Sirius let it.
Maybe I’m just being difficult, he thought, adjusting his sleeve. Maybe this could be something. If I wanted it to be.
But then Declan laughed at something the waitress said—high and easy and familiar—and Sirius felt it like static under his skin. His stomach turned, subtle but certain.
Too loud. Too eager. Too familiar.
Sirius’ eyes narrowed slightly. He stirred his coffee with unnecessary focus.
God, he’s doing that thing again, he thought. The leaning in. The overly interested thing. Like he’s already imagining bringing me home to his flatmates. Like he’s ever known me outside of one good night and a few forgettable texts.
He wanted to leave.
And then, just as quickly, he wanted Declan to want him. Enough to be upset if he did leave. To reach for him. To ask him to stay.
What if I walk out and he just shrugs? What if I was never really interesting to begin with?
He hated that thought more than he hated this table.
Sirius shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other, fingers wrapped tightly around his mug. He could feel himself performing—slipping back into that version of himself that people liked. The one Declan had met at the bar: flirtatious, a little bit dangerous, more myth than man. He arched an eyebrow at something Declan said about his coworkers, tossed out a perfectly timed quip that made him laugh too hard.
He doesn’t want me, Sirius thought, he wants the trick of me.
He should ghost him. After this. After the bill, or maybe even mid-meal, with a half-hearted excuse about feeling ill. Or just slip out while Declan’s in the loo. He’d done worse.
And yet…
He asked Declan how work was going. Just to keep it moving. Just to keep Declan sitting across from him, smiling like none of this was complicated.
Declan beamed, grateful, clearly chalking Sirius’ quiet to coolness rather than calculation. “Honestly? It’s been a weird week. My boss is, like, going through a divorce or something and taking it out on the office. So I’ve been thinking maybe it’s time to jump ship. Go freelance, you know?”
Sirius nodded slowly, not really listening. His thoughts were already somewhere else. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere he didn’t feel so scraped raw by his own indecision.
He took a sip of his coffee, stared down at the foam like it might offer an answer.
The silence stretched just long enough for Declan to ask, a little more cautiously, “What about you? How’s the bar?”
Sirius blinked, pulled back from wherever he’d gone. “Same. Late nights, drunk people, occasionally some music good enough to make it worth the trouble.”
Declan smiled again, and Sirius suddenly hated him for it. For not noticing. For noticing too much. For being here at all.
He wasn’t sure which.
Declan was still talking—something about quitting his job, starting freelance, traveling while he figured things out. His voice had a hopeful lilt to it, like he was floating the idea in Sirius’ direction, like Sirius might be part of it if he played his cards right.
Sirius felt the back of his neck go hot.
The café walls suddenly felt closer than they had ten minutes ago. Narrower. The light more fluorescent than warm. Even the air tasted different—too dry, too sweet. Like syrup on ceramic. He shifted in his seat again, then again, trying to find an angle that didn’t feel like a trap.
Declan smiled, wide and uncomplicated. “Anyway, I’ve actually been meaning to ask—would you maybe want to come to this gallery thing with me next week? It’s small. Nothing fancy. Just a few friends. Thought you might like it.”
Sirius nodded automatically, though he didn’t process the words. The only thing he heard was next week. As in: a second date. As in: a future.
Nope.
His stomach twisted. He needed to leave. Right now.
He reached for his phone under the table, thumb moving fast, practiced. He didn’t even have to think about it. Just opened his texts and typed:
To: James
code orange.
That was all it took. Their shared emergency signal, born from years of bad dates, worse parties, and the occasional emotionally compromising run-in with exes. Code Orange: Get me out of here. Now.
He hit send, tucked the phone face-down on the table, and nodded at something Declan said without hearing it.
“You alright?” Declan asked, tilting his head, tone dipping just a fraction into concern.
“Yeah,” Sirius said. “Fine. Just didn’t sleep much.” He gave a faint smile, the kind that didn’t show teeth. “Late shift.”
Declan leaned forward slightly, the movement small but suffocating. “Well, we don’t have to stay long. I’m just glad you came.”
Sirius laughed once, a single breath through his nose. It wasn’t a good laugh. More of a god, please shut up kind of exhale, but he disguised it with a sip of coffee. His thumb tapped the side of the cup in rhythm with his pulse.
Please hurry, James.
Ten seconds later, his phone buzzed. Loud enough to interrupt. Declan glanced at it, and Sirius grabbed it before the caller ID lit the screen.
He didn’t need to fake the wide-eyed look. That came naturally.
“Shit,” he muttered, swiping to answer. “Yeah?” He paused, brow furrowing. “Wait—are you serious? Now?” He pushed his chair back a little too fast, scraping the floor. “Yeah, okay. I’m coming. Give me ten.”
He hung up and looked at Declan with just enough panic to sell it.
“I’m so sorry. That was James. Something’s up with his sister—long story, but I have to go.”
Declan blinked, disappointment flickering behind his polite smile. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, just—family stuff. Bit of a mess.” Sirius was already halfway out of his seat. “I’ll text you, yeah?”
Declan opened his mouth to say something—maybe take care, maybe come back, maybe something else entirely—but Sirius was already gone.
The bell above the café door chimed behind him, a bit too cheerful for the situation. Sirius didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look back. He hit the pavement with purpose, took a sharp left, then another—fast enough that if Declan looked out the window, all he’d see was the back of a leather jacket disappearing into the crowd.
Once he was a full block away, he slowed just enough to dig a cigarette from the inside pocket of his coat. His fingers were shaking—not dramatically, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for him to notice. That was the thing about panic, subtle or not—it always felt bigger on the inside.
He lit the cigarette too fast. The flame flared. Smoke hit the back of his throat like a punch and he welcomed it. He exhaled hard, like the tension could be burned out of him if he just breathed deep enough.
Then his phone buzzed again. He didn’t need to check the screen.
“Yeah,” he said, already hoarse, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
“Sirius.” James’ voice. Immediate. Worried. “What happened? Did he say something? Did he touch you?”
Sirius leaned back against a lamppost, one arm braced behind him. He stared up at the sky like it might explain something. “No. He didn’t do anything. It’s not like that.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Swear.”
James didn’t reply right away. Just silence on the line, the kind Sirius could feel. James always knew when he was lying. Or dodging. Or barely holding it together behind that slippery, half-formed grin of his.
Sirius pinched the bridge of his nose, the smoke curling lazily around his fingers. “It just got… loud, all of a sudden. In my head, I mean. I needed to leave.”
“You okay now?” James asked, voice lower, quieter.
Sirius let out a slow breath. “Better. Ish.”
“Then come home.” No room for argument. Just solid ground, offered without judgment. “We’ve got coffee and leftover pizza and Remus is still her. He made a playlist. It’s mostly sad girl indie and I hate it, but he swears it’s good background noise.”
Sirius smirked faintly, despite himself. “Of course he did.”
James softened. “Come back. We’ll order chips and pretend to be productive.”
Sirius flicked ash into the gutter and nodded, though James couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Alright. I’m coming.”
By the time Sirius turned onto their street, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving behind something slower, stickier. Not quite shame. Not quite sadness. Just the familiar drag of something he thought he’d outrun.
It had been months since the last Code Orange.
James hadn’t said it aloud, but Sirius had felt it in the space between calls. The pride. The relief. The slow exhale every time Sirius handled something without asking to be pulled out. He’d started believing it too. That maybe things were settling. That maybe he was.
So texting James today—just those two words, no punctuation—felt like letting a crack show in the wall he’d spent too long pretending was solid. And worse: doing it over this . Over brunch. Over Declan and a café and a perfectly normal conversation that had gone sideways in his head.
He lit a second cigarette before the first one was even finished. It tasted wrong. Too hot, too dry. His fingers shook just enough that he noticed, and that was enough to make it worse.
The front door was already open when he rounded the corner. James stood in the doorway, frowning like he was trying not to.
“You alright?” he asked, voice even. Not casual— measured.
Sirius nodded once. “Yeah. M’fine.”
He brushed past him into the flat, moving with the same steady, deliberate grace he used when he was trying to make people think he wasn’t unraveling. Jacket folded neatly over the hook. Boots lined up by the door. Controlled. Precise.
If he could just keep it tidy, maybe it didn’t count.
The guilt settled under his ribs—He hadn’t meant to pull James into it. Not on his day off.
You were doing fine, he told himself. You were doing fine.
The smell of toast met him in the hallway. Someone had put on a playlist—low vocals, soft percussion, something delicate that didn’t demand attention. From the living room came the muffled sound of Remus laughing at something James had probably said earlier.
That laugh stopped him cold.
He didn’t know why. Not really. Just that it sounded like it belonged in a flat that wasn’t built for emergencies. Like maybe it would’ve been easier if he hadn’t come home at all.
“You should come sit with us,” James said gently, not pushing. “Pizza, coffee, existential crisis vibes. We’re all very cool.”
Sirius managed a dry smile. “Yeah. In a sec.”
James nodded. He didn’t ask questions. He never did.
The door clicked shut behind him, and Sirius sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders tight, jaw clenched. He looked down at his hands. Still trembling, just faintly. Like they hadn’t gotten the memo that everything was supposed to be fine again.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t catastrophic. It was small, quiet, familiar.
It was back.
And he wasn’t sure yet what that meant.
***
The door shut behind him with a soft click.
Everything looked the same.
Jacket on the hook. Shoes lined up. Hall mirror slightly crooked from when Peter bumped it last week. The hum of the fridge, the faint squeak in the floorboard near the hallway corner. Nothing out of place. Everything exactly where he left it.
And yet, Sirius felt off-center. Like he’d walked into a version of the flat rendered from memory, just enough degrees wrong to feel uncanny. Like something had shifted in the wiring while he was gone.
He stood still in the narrow hall, letting his eyes adjust to the softer light. It was quieter than he expected. No shouting, no footsteps, no James dramatically retelling whatever he’d said at brunch that made Remus laugh out loud. Just a low murmur of voices—low enough that he couldn’t make out the words, just the cadence of familiarity.
He stayed still for a moment. Steadying himself.
Though it wasn’t long before James noticed him in the doorway, and immediately got to his feet rushing over to him.
James was about to make a fuss over him, interrogate him about what happened to use code orange after so long, but Sirius made a face that screamed Not now, not with Remus right there, you idiot!
Thankfully, James gets the hint. And shoots him back a glare that says okay, but i’m not letting this go.
After their silent, vaguely telepathic battle at the threshold, they finally stepped into the living room.
Music was floating in the air, and it instantly calmed Sirius.
It was one of his favorite bands too, Led Zeppelin. Taste.
The smile Remus gives him once he comes into view is one for the books “How’s my favorite client?”
“Cheeky.”
“Second skin off yet?” Remus nodded toward Sirius’ arm, the grin sharpening just slightly.
James let out a snort from where he was half-reclined on the sofa, arms sprawled across the back cushions like he owned the place. “Why would he still have that on? The tattoo’s a week old.”
He turned to look at Sirius fully—and then froze.
That guilty look didn’t need translating. It was practically a flare gun.
“Oh, you did not, ” James said, sitting up straighter, eyes narrowing like a disappointed parent about to launch into a lecture.
Sirius winced, dragging it out for drama, then slowly—deliberately—peeled up the sleeve of his t-shirt to reveal the inked stretch of skin beneath. Still glossy. Still sealed.
The constellation shimmered faintly in the afternoon light.
“I fear I did,” he said with mock solemnity, like he was announcing a death in the family.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to become addicted to tattoos now!”
“He’s caught the itch James. You’re lucky it decided to skip you!”
“What tattoo itch?” James looks appalled as though the tattoo itch is an actual ailment.
“Once you get one, it’s like a snowball effect.” Remus explains “You just can’t stop” His eyes land on Sirius, and it feels like lava erupts within him.
“Well, I for one am perfectly content with my one Lily tattoo thank you very much” James reaches for a spliff in the ash tray, which thank fuck, Remus really needs it right now.
“I’ll roll another” Sirius offers wanting something to do with his
hands.
He gets up and heads for his room to get his stash, he takes a moment to breathe, and changes into more comfortable clothes for now.
The prospect of spending the rest of the day inside feels oddly comforting. He welcomes it. Maybe this is what he needs. It doesn’t hurt that he has someone pretty to look at.
He returns to the living room with a rolling tray and all the supplies he needs to roll a few spliffs.
The afternoon bled into the evening, and evening blended to night, they had spent their time laughing, talking, and remus spent his time forgetting, getting out of his head
They were all properly sloshed, when Peter emerges through the door after his shift is over.
“What’s all this then?” He says thoroughly amused after entering the living room in the middle of a heated argument between James and Remus over an old memory they share, but disagreeing over how it went.
“Peterrr!! Come, have a drink,” James stumbles, tripping over the leg of their coffee table before he goes to drape an arm over Peter and drag him over to the living room.
“I’ve literally just walked in the door, can I at least shower first” Peter struggles out of James’ grip as he attempts to shove a half smoked spliff in his mouth.
“Alright, fine. But hurry up!”
James phone rings on the table, From Where Sirius is sitting he can see Lily’s bright orange hair lighting up the screen. James fumbles to answer it.
“Yes my love…” He drawls into the phone.
Sirius and Remus caught each other’s eye and pulled matching grimaces, both of them mocking James and his saccharine domesticity. James flipped them off on his way out, grinning like the smug bastard he was as he disappeared into his room to call Lily. Then the door clicked shut, and it was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that pressed in around the edges, dense and unmistakably private.
For the first time—really, truly—they were alone. No buzzing tattoo gun. No chatter, no footsteps, no excuse to pretend they weren’t orbiting something unstable. Even during the tattoos, there had always been someone else, someone to buffer the quiet. A customer walking in. A coworker passing through. But now, it was just them.
Sirius lingered, unsure what to do with his limbs. Caught between leaving and staying. Between pretending to stretch and actually losing his fucking mind. The static hit first—prickling across his skin like a warning. The kind of charged energy that meant something was about to happen , even if he couldn’t name it yet. His whole body was on edge, nerves too loud, breath too shallow. The room felt hotter than it had a minute ago.
Remus was sprawled on the terracotta loveseat, the one Marlene had insisted they buy for “warmth.” Right now, it looked like a fucking altar. And Remus—he looked like something Sirius should be kneeling in front of. One leg tucked under him, a lazy sprawl of limbs and half-lidded eyes. His hair was a golden, curling halo around his flushed face, the softest kind of mess. That relaxed, stoned glow made him look almost too perfect to touch, like a fever dream someone had summoned into being.
Sirius tried not to stare. Don’t stare. Don’t make it weird. But he’d already lost that battle. Because Remus, when he got high, was practically ruinous. His lashes fluttered like a slow heartbeat. His lips were parted and wet—always wet, even after everything they’d smoked—and he kept licking them like he didn’t know what he was doing. His cheeks were glowing, his fingers lazily tapping the edge of his glass, and all Sirius could think was how close he looked to something holy. Or something dangerous. Or both.
And then, of course , Jeff Buckley came on. Singing something hushed and deadly in the background, all breathy ache and unbearable longing. Sirius swallowed hard. His hands were too big. His skin was too tight. He didn’t know what to do with himself.
Then Remus spoke. His voice was low, almost a murmur—like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “Do you mind if I see it again?”
Sirius blinked. His heart stuttered. “See what?” He meant it to sound casual. It didn’t. I’ll give you anything. Just say it.
Remus lifted his hand, palm open like an invitation. “The tattoo. I was trying to figure out which constellation it was. I thought I got pretty close last night.”
Sirius hesitated for a breath—then gave in. He always gave in where Remus was concerned. He stepped forward and placed his arm in Remus’ hand, careful, deliberate, like he was offering something fragile. He didn’t mean to hold his breath. He just… couldn’t help it.
Remus cradled his wrist, featherlight. His fingers were warm, steady, unbearably soft. The kind of touch that didn’t belong to boys like Sirius. He leaned in, face inches away, studying the ink with that slow, devastating curiosity that made Sirius feel like he was being looked at for the very first time. Like maybe this had always been the point. Like maybe his skin had always been meant for this moment.
“At first,” Remus murmured, still studying it, “I thought maybe it was Sirius. The star.” His gaze flicked up, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “You know—you’re named after the brightest one in the sky, right?”
Sirius nodded. He knew. Of course he fucking knew.
“Part of Canis Major,” Remus added, his thumb grazing closer to the ink now. “They call it the Dog Star. Fitting, yeah?”
Sirius almost laughed. His chest was syrup-thick. He wasn’t sure if he was breathing—or if he was allowed to.
“But no,” Remus said, voice softer now, distant. He leaned back just slightly, brows furrowed. “That’s not it.”
Not it. Sirius’ pulse surged. Not it? Then what? What did you see when you looked at me?
“I couldn’t find this exact one,” Remus continued. “There are so many. But I’ll figure it out eventually.”
Then he let go.
Just like that. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just peeled Sirius open and looked inside. He slumped right back into the cushions, took another sip of his drink, eyes fluttering closed for a second like the weight of the evening had finally caught up to him.
And Sirius sat there, staring at the space where Remus’ fingers had been like he’d just lost something. His arm still tingled. He felt like he’d been touched by lightning, and no one had noticed.
Remus looked peaceful again, like none of it had registered. Like none of it mattered.
Sirius clenched his jaw. His whole body still hummed with the aftershock, and Remus just… let go.
What the fuck was that?
What was he playing at?
James reappeared a few minutes later, already shrugging into his jacket, keys jingling like a warning bell. Sirius looked up, something cold crawling down his spine. “W–Where are you going?” he asked, too fast, too loud.
James barely glanced at him. “Gotta pick up Lily from class. She doesn’t want to walk home alone after the stabbings last week.” He was pulling on his trainers mid-sentence, casual, like this wasn’t a world-altering decision. Like he wasn’t about to commit the ultimate betrayal.
“So you’re… leaving us here?” Sirius asked, throat dry.
James raised a brow. “Yes? Try not to set the flat on fire. Or each other.” His grin was obnoxious.
And then Peter appeared behind him, also dressed like he had plans. A jacket. Sirius’s stomach dropped. “Where are you going?”
Peter blinked. “With James. Trina’s walking home too.”
“What—why—no,” Sirius sputtered, trying to mask the desperation rising in his chest. “Why are you both leaving ?”
James snorted. “Jesus, Pads. Relax. You two are adults. You’ve been in a room alone before.”
They hadn’t. Not really. Not like this.
James bent down, brushed a hand over Remus’ shoulder in a gesture so casual it made Sirius want to throw something. Remus startled—eyes glassy, like he’d just been yanked out of some soft, far-off place—and blinked up at him.
“I’m off, yeah?” James said. “Stay as long as you like. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Remus smiled. Raised his beer lazily in salute. “Cheers, mate.”
The door opened.
And closed.
And that was it.
Silence fell. Dense. Like dust in a long-abandoned room. The kind of silence that amplifies everything—the hum of the fridge, the tick of the clock, the uneven inhale of breath.
Sirius could feel the panic rising in his chest like floodwater.
He was alone. With Remus. Really alone. No James to talk over him. No Peter to distract. No tattoo gun. No customers. Just… this. This stupid, sweltering quiet, with Jeff Buckley still crooning something tragic in the background and Remus curled into the terracotta loveseat like a scene from a dream Sirius couldn’t wake up from.
He stood there like an idiot, stuck between fleeing and pretending to stretch. His skin itched with awareness. His hands suddenly had nowhere to go. Don’t look at him, he told himself. Don’t look —
Too late.
Remus, half-melted into the cushions, golden in the low light, his head tipped back just enough to show the column of his throat. His eyes were hooded, lazy from weed, and his lips were red from liquor, wet from where he kept licking them unconsciously. He looked like temptation draped in knitwear.
Sirius felt his whole body revolt. Blood humming, skin buzzing, heat pooling somewhere dangerous.
And worst of all, Remus didn’t even know.
“You hungry?” Sirius asks, not because he is, not really, but because the question feels like something to hold onto. Like a tether. Like breath.
Remus shifts, the sound of denim catching faintly against the cushion as he straightens up from his sprawl. He blinks slow, eyes half-lidded, and reaches into his pocket without answering, pulling free a carton of Lucky Strikes. He taps one out, lights it with a flick of his thumb, and leans back into the terracotta loveseat like he was made to fit there. Smoke coils soft and silver in the air between them.
“What’ve you got?” he asks at last, voice like a low hum, like a record left turning just past the song.
Sirius moves to the fridge, already regretting it. The door creaks open and the pale light inside flickers like it’s thinking of going out. Milk. Eggs. A few plastic containers pushed to the back, labeled only in dust and indecision.
Of course. No one had done the shop.
He shuts the door with a sigh and turns, raking a hand through his hair. “Okay. Scratch that. We’ve got nothing.”
Remus doesn’t look surprised.
“You want me to order something?” Sirius asks, casual as he can manage.
But Remus just takes another drag, exhales, then says, “Or we could go out.”
Sirius blinks. “Go out?”
“Yeah. Get some air. Walk. Eat somewhere that isn’t here.”
The idea lands quietly but not lightly. It feels like a step into something. Like a page turning.
Sirius nods, slow. “Yeah. Alright.”
Remus stands with a stretch, arms overhead, shirt riding up just enough to show a line of skin, the soft dip beneath his ribs. Sirius looks away too late. Catches the way his waistband sits low. The way the light hits the curl of hair that disappears below it. He pretends not to notice. Pretends his mouth isn’t suddenly dry.
“Been inside too long,” Remus says, flicking ash into the tray. “City’s too still. Thought I’d forgotten what silence sounded like.”
Sirius murmurs something in agreement, grabs his keys from the hook, and they step out into the hallway like it’s nothing. Like it’s not something.
The night meets them warm and open. Pavement still breathing out the heat of the day, air thick with the weight of summer. They walk side by side, not touching, but close enough to feel the shape of each other in the dark. It smells like roses from the hedge down the road and smoke from someone’s backyard barbecue. London at rest. A soft sort of buzzing.
Sirius leads the way to a little Italian place tucked between two shuttered cafés, string lights in the window, the sound of dishes clinking faintly through the door.
Ten minutes. Maybe less.
But the walk feels longer in a good way.
Like something suspended.
Like a moment they might not get back.
The restaurant is small, tucked between a florist and a gallery that’s always closed by six. Its tables spill onto the pavement like an afterthought, sun-bleached menus tucked beneath thick glass, candles stubby and flickering in jam jars. It smells like roasted garlic and fresh basil, like olive oil warmed by the last of the day’s heat. A little Italian spot with no name Sirius can ever remember—just that the pasta’s good and the wine comes cheap by the carafe.
They sit outside, because the air is soft and golden still, and neither of them can quite bear to go back inside just yet.
Remus shrugs off his jacket and slings it over the back of his chair. The curl at his temple is damp from the walk, and there’s a streak of sun still lingering across his cheek. He looks entirely at ease in the fading light—half-slouched, long legs stretched under the table, cigarette burning lazy between his fingers.
The waiter comes. They order in that casual, unscripted way that feels like they’ve done this a hundred times before—Remus asking for whatever the house special is, Sirius adding a second glass. When the waiter leaves, there’s a pocket of quiet that opens between them. Not awkward—just unhurried. The kind that lets you notice things.
Like the way Remus rolls his cigarette between two fingers when he’s thinking. Or the way his mouth curves just slightly before he smiles, like it always gives him away too early.
***
Remus twirls the last bite of tagliatelle on his fork, dragging it slowly through the sauce like he’s stalling. His eyes flick toward Sirius over the rim of his wine glass.
“All right,” he says, leaning back. “Let’s play a game.”
“Do I look like a game night person?”
“No,” Remus agrees, “you look like the kind of person who cheats at them.”
Sirius quirks a brow. folding his arms. “Only if I’m losing.”
“Even worse.” he adds grinning
The wine’s done something to both of them — loosened the edges, drawn them closer, pulled the night in tighter. The heat from the pavement is still rising, lazy and slow, and the candle between them sputters like it’s trying to keep up.
“So what’s the game?” Sirius asks.
Remus shrugs, tapping ash into the tiny saucer they’ve repurposed as an ashtray. “It’s called Three Truths and a Dare. You say three things about yourself — two true, one false — and if I guess wrong, I get to ask you anything. And you have to answer.”
Sirius tilts his head. “And the dare?”
“If you get all three right, I have to do something reckless.” Remus says, exhaling smoke, Sirius watches it dance in the air between them
“Define reckless.”
“Dinner with you counts, doesn’t it?”
Sirius snorts into his wine. “Touché.”
He thinks for a beat, eyes scanning the street behind Remus, the soft blur of headlights and the low murmur of London after dark. Then he meets Remus’ gaze again — steady, challenging.
“All right. My turn first.”
Remus nods, cigarette balanced neatly between his fingers.
“One,” Sirius says, ticking it off on his hand. “I once got caught sneaking out of boarding school and blamed it on James.”
“Classic.”
“Two,” Sirius continues, “I hate olives.”
Remus narrows his eyes. “Suspicious.”
“And three,” he finishes, “I’ve never been in love.”
Remus studies him, quiet for a long moment. The air shifts slightly.
“That’s the lie,” he says finally. “You’ve been in love. Maybe not properly, but enough to still think about it.”
Sirius doesn’t reply right away. Just smiles — small, tired, unreadable.
“Wrong,” he says softly. “I wasn’t caught. James took the fall without me asking.”
Remus laughs once, surprised. “That’s the lie?”
“Terrible liar, isn’t he? Got a week’s detention and kept asking if I was mad at him. Absolute idiot.”
Remus shakes his head, grinning. “That’s sort of romantic.”
Sirius shrugs, but something in his chest pulls taut.
“All right then, your turn,” he says.
Remus flicks his cigarette away with a neat twist of his fingers. “Fine.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, eyes catching the candlelight.
“One — I used to sing backup in a shoegaze band.”
Sirius lifts a brow. “Of course you did.”
“Two — I’ve had the same brand of cigarettes since I was fifteen.”
Sirius smirks. “Addict.”
“And three…” Remus tilts his head, pretending to think, “…I’ve never broken a bone.”
Sirius squints at him. “That’s tough. You’ve got backup vocalist energy. And I believe the cigarette thing. But you? Not breaking a bone? You seem like the type to fall off a roof on principle.”
Remus tries not to laugh. “Your final answer?”
“Yeah. The third one’s the lie.”
Remus tips his chin in concession. “Guilty. Fell out of a tree when I was eight. Snapped my wrist trying to rescue a cat.”
Sirius leans in. “Reckless.”
“Honorable.”
“Stupid.”
“Bit of all three,” Remus says, smiling. Then, after a beat: “You’re up. Ask anything.”
Sirius pretends to think. He doesn’t need to.
“What’s something no one knows about you?” he asks, quiet now. Different.
Remus looks at him, the smile faltering just slightly. Something else flickers beneath it — not quite sadness, but something adjacent.
“I like being alone,” he says finally. “But I hate being lonely.”
Sirius swallows.
The city moves around them—buses sighing in the distance, a bottle clinking somewhere down the street, the low murmur of someone’s laughter behind a shuttered window. Life continuing like it doesn’t know what just passed between them.
The candle burns low, curling shadows against the table. Their plates sit like relics of something finished but not quite gone, a truce drawn in cutlery and crumbs.
And Sirius… breathes.
Not deeply. Not freely. Just enough.
He traces the lip of his glass, feels the ghost of heat still lingering in the wine. He could say something easy, could ruin it with a joke, twist the softness into something safer. But the words Remus said are still echoing somewhere in him, softer than any silence.
I like being alone. But I hate being lonely.
It’s so simple. So devastatingly familiar. Like something he’s written in his head a hundred times but never dared say aloud. He thinks of all the nights he’s sat with people but felt like he wasn’t really there. All the noise, all the want, all the ways he’s made himself loud enough to not be seen.
His throat tightens. He doesn’t know what he’s about to say until it’s already slipped out.
“Same.”
It’s barely a sound. Just a shape in the air. But it lands. He sees the way Remus’ fingers pause where they’d been absently fidgeting, the way his gaze flickers up for half a second—not startled, not expectant, just… steady.
The waiter returns and they wave him off for the check. Neither of them wants to move yet. The city hums around them — headlights and footsteps, night buses sighing along wet roads.
“You want to walk?” Remus asks as they stand.
Sirius nods. “Yeah. Let’s walk.”
The street is quiet, the night still warm. They don’t touch. They don’t speak.
But something in the space between them hums with possibility.