The Body Keeps The Score

SIRIUS

There’s a kind of light that only visits if you’ve earned it. If you’ve stayed up long enough—or if sleep has fled far enough—to meet it. It filters in slow, seeping through the blinds in narrow ribbons, catching on dust motes, eyelids, knuckles. Sirius lies awake and lets it touch him. Lets it drape over his hands like gauze. He holds one palm up to the light, watches how it paints the lines in gold. The heat is faint, but there. Almost tangible. Like if he concentrated hard enough, he might be able to catch it. Hold it still.

He used to think he could.

There were mornings, back then where he and Regulus would wake early, or not sleep at all, depending on who was braver. Sirius would sneak into his brother’s room, limbs loose and quiet from too many sleepless hours, and tap gently on the edge of the mattress. Regulus would already be half-awake, eyes wide and waiting. They never said much. Just crept barefoot down the hall, blankets trailing, socks slippery against the polished wood. The house was cold that early—always cold—but they’d huddle by the window where the sun hadn’t yet broken through, waiting for it like a visitor they weren’t supposed to know about.

And when it came—soft and golden, bleeding through the curtains like a secret—it felt like something sacred. Sunlight hour , they used to call it. Or sometimes playing with the sun . A game with no rules. Just two boys crouched beneath a windowsill, casting shapes on the wall with their fingers. Wolves, mostly. Sometimes birds. “Look, Reggie, it’s flying,” Sirius would whisper, spreading his fingers wide, letting the shadow dart across the wallpaper. Regulus would giggle, still soft-cheeked and sleepy-eyed, his laughter filling the silence like warmth. Sometimes they’d make whole plays, little puppet dramas acted out in silhouette, the kind only brothers can invent—nonsensical, full of monsters and princes and secret codes. It made them feel clever. Safe. Like there was still time Before they had to become whoever the house demanded they be.

Now, Sirius lies alone, sheets kicked halfway off the bed, as if caught mid-fall in a dream that never ends. He hasn’t slept, but he doesn’t feel cheated. The light has come to him anyway, brushing over the floorboards and the chipped mug on his nightstand and the tattoo on his forearm, half-faded beneath last night’s shirt. It kisses his knuckles, the bridge of his nose. Like recognition.

It doesn’t feel like insomnia. It feels like being let in on a secret.

A small, quiet reward. A memory pressing its mouth to his skin.

You had something once, it seems to say. You remember it still.

His back aches as he stretches, vertebrae cracking one by one like stiff, reluctant branches. The spine tattoo pulls—hot and tight along his seam. He hasn’t been tending to it properly. Not like he did with the others. The past few days slipped sideways, and everything routine went with them.

He stands, slow and sore, and makes his way to the mirror. Shrugs his shirt off with one arm while the other reaches back, awkward and tense, trying to see. The angle’s shit. But he catches enough in the reflection.

It’s scabbing now. Raw in places, but holding. Lines raised and dark like some ancient script carved into him, flaking at the edges. Nothing angry. Nothing wrong. Just the body doing what it does best—healing, even when it hurts.

There’s poetry in it. The way the skin breaks open, bleeds, blooms into something permanent. How it has to get worse before it settles. Uglier before it softens. 

And isn’t that something.

The body makes space for pain. Knows how to carry it. Knows how to come back from it. 

If only the inside could reflect—and heal—as beautifully as the outside.

Outside, Sirius hears Peter and James moving about the flat, their voices muffled but familiar, orbiting in easy conversation as they prepare to leave for the day. It’s nothing special, not really—just the same routine they keep, quiet and unconscious in its repetition—but somehow that makes it all the more baffling. There’s a steadiness to it, a rhythm he admires from the periphery, like watching two planets spin on their own axis. Alarms go off, teeth get brushed, shoes are located. They banter in the kitchen over burnt toast or where the lighter’s gone again. It’s ordinary. It’s stable. And Sirius has never quite managed it.

He’s tried—once or twice. But the truth is, holding down a job’s always felt like wearing someone else’s skin. The only thing that’s stuck is the bar. And not because he’s particularly good at it—though he’s charming enough to coast on tips and bravado—but because it’s one of the only professions where showing up drunk, high, or halfway dissociated doesn’t necessarily disqualify you. Floating is allowed. Floating is sometimes expected.

He considers going out to say something—to toss a joke their way or lean dramatically in the doorway, make it seem like he’s just waking up with flair. But even the thought prickles. Not because he doesn’t love them, because he does, in his own sideways, blistered way. It’s just sometimes… sometimes he can’t. Sometimes facing the world, even the soft parts of it, feels like trying to lift a piano with shaking hands.

Luckily, the decision’s taken from him. He hears the front door open, voices fade into the stairwell, and then the latch clicks shut behind them. Gone. The flat goes quiet.

Whatever warmth had lingered in the corners this morning—some golden trace of comfort—evaporates with their absence. What’s left settles on him like soaked linen, clinging cold to his shoulders, dragging down. The silence thickens. It always does.

His phone chimes on the dresser. He doesn’t reach for it immediately. The screen lights up: James Potter .

There are others, too. Unread messages stacking beneath bolded names: Lily, Marlene, Mary, Peter. Little digital flares waiting to be acknowledged. He gnaws at a hangnail and stares at them like they might disappear if he waits long enough.

Eventually, he will answer. He always does. Just… not yet.

Before he can talk himself into responding, James calls. Sirius startles slightly as the screen flashes again. Of course he does. James has always had an unnerving ability to sense when Sirius is slipping.

He clears his throat and answers on the third ring, injecting as much levity as he can manage. “Miss me already, darling?”

“You’re up ?” James sounds mildly betrayed. “Why didn’t you come out this morning?”

“What for?” Sirius says, lips curling into something he hopes passes for mischief. “A goodbye kiss?”

He makes exaggerated kissy noises into the mic. James groans on the other end. “You’re always so cheeky in the morning, it’s disgusting.”

“I’m about to have a shower,” Sirius says, stretching the lie into something casual. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a wake-up call, Jamie?”

“Oh, right—Marlene’s birthday. Friday. We’re throwing a party. You remember?”

( No. He didn’t. But thank fuck for Potter. )

“‘Course I do!” Sirius blurts, but the words come out mangled: Courth I do . His tongue ring betrays him, slicing a lisp into the sentence before he can correct.

There’s a beat of silence. Then: “Why do you sound like that?”

Jesus Christ. Does anything ever slip past this man?

“I’m brushing my teeth,” Sirius lies swiftly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got drinks. I’ll sort it.”

“Brilliant,” James says, distracted now. “Oh—gotta go. Lily’s calling. She’s been on one about the playlist. Drinks black. remember .”

The line goes dead before Sirius can say anything else. He stares at the screen for a moment, then drags a hand down his face.

“Fuck,” he mutters to no one in particular.

The silence creeps back in, quick to reclaim its territory.

He tosses the phone onto the bed and drags himself to the bathroom. The floor tiles are cold beneath his bare feet, toothpaste smudged in the sink from someone’s rushed morning. Probably Peter. There’s a towel slung over the shower rod that still smells like James’ shampoo—cedar and citrus and whatever else makes people feel like they have their shit together.

Sirius doesn’t look at himself in the mirror. He never does first thing. Instead, he splashes water over his face, leans his forehead against the cool ceramic edge of the basin, and breathes. Tries to pull himself into the shape of a person who can leave the house.

That’s when his phone starts ringing again.

He can hear it from the other room, muffled and persistent. Probably James again, forgetting to tell him some other vital party detail like “bring ice” or “don’t call Lily a tyrant to her face.” Sirius doesn’t even check the screen this time. He pads back into the bedroom, wipes his hands on his shirt, and answers with a half-smirk already in place.

“Back so soon, darling? I haven’t even gotten my trousers on.”

There’s a pause then chuckling on the other line that does not belong to James Potter.

“Who’s your darling?”

It’s Remus.

His voice, low and unmistakable, cuts through the line like silk pulled taut. And Sirius—Sirius actually stumbles, nearly drops the phone. His stomach flips hard enough to bruise.

He grips the edge of the dresser for balance, heart kicking against his ribs.

Remus.

Remus, who he hadn’t expected. Remus, whose voice does something warped and complicated to him. Remus, who clearly got his number from James and, for some reason, used it.

“…Hi,” Sirius says, after a beat too long. His voice cracks on the vowel.

“Sorry,” Remus says quickly, a little sheepish, like he knows it’s uninvited. “James texted me your number. I hope that’s alright. I just—thought I’d check in.”

Check in.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s alright,” Sirius replies, trying to sound casual. Trying not to replay the way he answered like a prat. “Sorry—thought you were James again. He’s already called once this morning.”

“Of course he has,” Remus says, and Sirius can hear the smile in his voice. “Let me guess, party planning panic?”

“Drink duty delegation,” Sirius says, flopping back onto the bed. “Which is apparently now my full-time job.”

“Good. You’re the only one I trust not to serve warm beer.”

Sirius grins at the ceiling. “High praise, coming from you.”

There’s a pause then—not awkward, just… lingering. Like they’re both deciding how far they want this moment to stretch.

“So,” Remus says eventually, like he’s easing into it, not sure how it’ll land. “I was wondering if you were up for breakfast?”

Sirius blinks. The words catch him mid-step, phone cradled between shoulder and ear while he drags a shirt off the back of a chair. For a second, he isn’t sure if he misheard.

“Breakfast?” he repeats, a little too sharply. He winces at himself. Act casual, you great bumbling idiot.

“Yeah.” Remus’ voice doesn’t waver, but there’s a flicker of hesitation underneath it. “I mean, it’s already late, so it’s more like… brunch, I guess. But there’s this place near me that does a proper fry-up all day. Greasy, in the best way. Thought maybe you’d be into that. And you sounded a bit—”

He cuts himself off. Doesn’t finish the sentence. Just lets it trail out like smoke.

Sirius presses his tongue ring against the roof of his mouth, stalling. There’s a tight beat of silence—gentle, but weighted. Not uncomfortable. Just real. He doesn’t need Remus to finish the sentence to know what it was going to be.

You sounded a bit off.

You sounded a bit gone.

Sirius lets the quiet sit for a moment, lets the shape of the invitation settle into his chest.

“Yeah,” he says finally, softer than before. “Cool. We could do that.”

Remus breathes out—just a little—and there’s something in the sound that makes Sirius’ stomach dip. Like relief. Like ease.

“Great,” Remus says. He sounds pleased. Like he wasn’t sure Sirius would say yes, and now he’s tucking the win carefully into his pocket. “I’ll text you the place. It’s close. Nothing fancy.”

“Cool,” Sirius says again, and it comes out too casual now, like he’s overcorrecting. “I’ll, uh—clean myself up.”

“Don’t feel like you have to on my account,” Remus replies dryly. “But if you do happen to brush your teeth this time, it wouldn’t kill you. Your breath was minging yesterday.”

Sirius barks a laugh, loud and startled. “ Minging ? Oh, fuck off—”

“I’m just saying,” Remus cuts in, tone all faux innocence. “I nearly passed out when you got too close.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have been leaning in like you fancied a snog.”

“Maybe I was trying to inspect the inside of your mouth for infection,” Remus deadpans. “Didn’t realise I needed a hazmat suit.”

Sirius grins into the phone, wide and unguarded. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

“Yep,” Remus says, voice edged with a smile Sirius can hear . “Pick you up in twenty?”

“Yes,” Sirius says again, quieter now. “Okay.”

The line goes dead, but the warmth stays. Lingers.

He stands there for a moment, shirt still wrinkled in his hands, heart doing something ridiculous in his chest. He should move. Should shower. Should brush his teeth twice just to be safe. But he just stands there, letting it bloom.

Breakfast. With Remus.

Maybe today won’t be shit after all.

***

Remus had texted the name of the place about five minutes after their call ended. Just the name—no emoji, no smiley face, not even a follow-up. Which was somehow more unnerving than if he’d sent a string of hearts or a winking “xx.” Sirius read it twice, then a third time, like it might change in the light.

Maggie’s. Off Holloway. Not far from you.

He’d stared at the screen for long enough that his phone dimmed on its own.

By the time he reached the café, the morning had slipped into that unremarkable hour between late breakfast and early lunch, where the tables were mostly empty except for students with essays and couples nursing second coffees. It was the kind of place where the walls were half-painted and the menus were chalked up fresh each week, always a little crooked. The front windows fogged slightly from the heat inside. The bell above the door jingled low and pathetic as he stepped in.

Remus was already there, of course. Back corner, one boot kicked out under the table, posture casual but not careless. He’d shrugged off his jacket and pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing the soft brown of his forearms, ink creeping out from under one cuff in a way Sirius had never noticed before. His hair was still damp at the ends. He looked…recent. Like the morning hadn’t been a blur for him.

Sirius paused in the doorway longer than he meant to. Long enough to get clocked.

Remus looked up, eyes flicking toward him in that way he had—like he already knew who it would be.

He nodded But something about the way his gaze held Sirius’ made his spine go tight and loose all at once.

Sirius crossed the room like he wasn’t thinking about it. Which meant he was thinking about it the whole way.

“Morning,” Remus said as he slid into the seat opposite. The table was chipped Formica, the kind that probably used to be mint green. There was already a coffee in front of Remus, half-full, no sugar packet in sight. Of course.

“You’re prompt,” Sirius said, tossing his jacket onto the chair beside him.

“You’re late.”

“I thought we said breakfast, not dawn patrol.”

Remus shrugged, sipping his coffee. “I was hungry.”

They let the quiet settle for a moment. The kind that was almost comfortable, except Sirius wasn’t sure if it actually was or if he was just too tired to poke it.

A waitress wandered over with a pad and a tired smile. Sirius blinked up at her, realized too late that he hadn’t even looked at the menu.

“Er—full fry-up. Extra toast. And tea, please.” He paused. “Strong.”

Remus didn’t comment, but Sirius caught the slight lift of his brow as the waitress scribbled and left.

“So,” Sirius said, fingers drumming idly on the table. “Breakfast?”

Remus leaned back in his chair, stretching one leg out, the other tucked underneath. “That’s what I said, yeah.”

“No grand plan to lecture me? Stage an intervention? Drag me to a soul-reviving spin class?”

That earned him the smallest smile. “You really think I’d be caught dead in Lycra?”

“I’ve imagined it.”

Remus gave him a flat look over the rim of his mug. “You need help.”

“We all need a little help, Remus.”

Outside, a double-decker rolled by in a gust of wet air and traffic noise. The bell above the door jingled again, letting in the smell of cigarettes and pavement.

Remus set his cup down. “I wasn’t planning anything. I just thought it might be nice to…share a meal. You’ve looked like you could use one.”

There was nothing heavy in his voice—no pity, no coddling. Just a plainness that made Sirius feel suddenly stripped bare.

“what–I eat!” he exclaims defensively.

“Sure.”

“I do.”

“I believe you.”

He was starting to suspect that Remus carried some type of caretaker chip on his shoulder. Sirius files that thought away in the metaphorical cabinet he’d affectionately labeled ‘Remus Quirks’, slotted under for dissection at a later date.

The food arrived quicker than expected—one heaping plate, one already halfway cleared—and Sirius picked up his fork like it might protect him from whatever the hell this was. He started with the hash browns, always the safest choice. Remus pushed a sausage around his plate with lazy precision, not looking up.

“Your tongue okay?”

“What?”

“The piercing,” Remus said. “You’re chewing weird.”

“Oh.” Sirius shrugged. “Feels like someone nailed my tongue to a radiator, but it’s manageable.”

“Lovely imagery.”

“I try.”

Sirius scratched at his jaw, then reached up, fingers brushing the skin just behind his left ear. The tattoo there still flared sometimes—faint and familiar. A phantom sting. Maybe it was the weather. Or the company.

“That reminds me, i’ve been meaning to ask, what does RJL mean?”

Remus looks up, face paling a bit, “Umm…” 

“The tattoo you gave me the other night. James noticed it says rjl..I was just wondering what does that stand for.” 

He watches as Remus fidgets uncharacteristically.“Oh. Uh. Ribs, Jam, and Lard,” he said blandly. “Staples of any good British diet.”

Sirius snorted. “You are the worst liar I’ve ever met!”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“Because it’s been bugging me,” Sirius said, grinning despite himself. “You’ve branded me like cattle, and I want answers.”

“Consider it a mystery,” Remus murmured, eyes not quite meeting his. “A little enigma to keep you humble.”

Sirius leaned back, smirking. “I knew it was either profound or stupid.”

There was a pause.

Then Remus shrugged—light, casual, just this side of believable. “It’s nothing, really. Just… random letters. Looked good stacked like that.”

Sirius tilted his head. “So it’s not a secret cult or something?”

Remus huffed a small laugh. “I mean, if it is, you’ve already been branded.”

Sirius smirked. “Good. I love a bit of mystery.”

He let it go there, but not without noticing the way Remus ducked his head slightly, ears turning faintly pink. He didn’t press. Just sipped his tea and tucked the blush away like a bookmark.

It occurred to Sirius, in a strange sideways way, that they weren’t flirting. Not really. Not the way people would’ve expected them to. This wasn’t banter for banter’s sake. There was no game being played. No double meanings. Just words, and the occasional brush of eye contact that felt like standing too close to an open flame.

Remus nodded toward the window changing the subject again. “It’s going to piss it down by afternoon.”

“Hope it does.”

“You like the rain?”

“Better than the sun,” Sirius muttered.

Remus tilted his head. “Too bright?”

“Too hopeful.”

Remus didn’t respond to that. Just looked at him, eyes steady and unreadable, and then prodded at a bit of egg with his fork.

“Why me?” Sirius asked, not quite meaning to.

Remus blinked. “Sorry?”

“I mean—why’d you call me this morning? Get my number from James. Invite me to breakfast. What was the impulse there?”

Remus paused. His fork hovered midair. The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. Just something alive.

“Because,” he said slowly, “sometimes it’s good to check on people.”

“That’s a shit answer.”

The table between them was wiped clean, save for two mugs and a sugar packet he’d crumpled without noticing. The café around them blurred at the edges, all clinking cutlery and low morning chatter, but none of it seemed to touch the space they occupied. Remus looked down at his hands like he was searching for the right thread to pull.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said, voice low, like the words were something precious—easily bruised if handled wrong.

Sirius glanced up, wary but open. “What’s that, then?”

Remus didn’t answer straight away. He pressed a thumb into the seam of his mug, then let it go, like whatever he’d been holding onto had made up its mind.

“It’s nothing weird,” he said, and that immediately made Sirius raise both brows like here we go .

“I’m doing this project,” Remus continued. “For school. Drawing people, mostly. Not portraits, exactly. Just… people as they are. You know, casual stuff. Nothing formal.”

Sirius blinked. “Hold on—you’re in school?”

Remus gave a small snort. “Yeah, believe it or not. I’m at Goldsmiths. Art programme.”

“I thought tattooing was your whole thing.”

“It is. But this is too. Drawing’s where I started.”

There was a beat. Sirius blinked down at his sugar packet and smoothed it once more.

“And you want to draw me?”

Remus gave a little shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. “If you’re up for it. You’ve got a good face. Interesting posture, always fidgeting with something. Thought it’d make a good study.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t look offended. More intrigued. “You wanna draw my posture ?”

“It’s for class, not a shrine,” Remus said, dry.

A breath passed. Sirius leaned back in the booth, stretching his arms up and locking his fingers behind his neck. “You’re lucky I’m obscenely photogenic.”

“It’s not a photo.”

“Still counts,” He smirked. “Alright. But I want to see the sketch after. Make sure I don’t look like a goblin.”

“You are a goblin,” Remus said, deadpan.

“And yet you want to draw me. Sounds like a you problem.”

Remus only shook his head and reached for his tea.

“Fuck it then,” Sirius said. “Muse me up.”

He’d expected Remus to nod, maybe thank him in that calm, buttoned-up way of his. What he hadn’t expected was for the boy across the table to blink like someone had just offered him a second life.

It’s not even dramatic, not really—just this subtle pause, barely a hitch in the breath. But Sirius catches it. Sees the way Remus recalibrates in real time, like he genuinely hadn’t planned for a yes.

“What?” Sirius asks, more curious than defensive.

Remus straightens a little, thumb running along the edge of his mug. “Nothing. Just—didn’t think you’d be up for something like that.”

“Like what?” He takes a sip of coffee that’s gone lukewarm. “Sitting still? Being admired? Please. I was born for it.”

Remus huffs, but there’s colour in his cheeks now. Not a blush—just that faint flush of focus, like something’s already moving in his mind. Sirius can feel it, the way artists do, that mental flicker of hands already sketching lines. He’s seen it in Marlene, too, when she’s working on designs. It’s never about you , not really. It’s about the shape you make. The contrast. The light.

Still, there’s something different in how Remus watches him. Like he’s not just thinking about shading and angles. Like maybe he’s trying to hold the whole of him in his mind and figure out where the edges are.

He looks down, then back up again. “You don’t have to take it too seriously. I just… needed someone I could draw who didn’t feel like homework.”

That’s either the best backhanded compliment he’s ever gotten or something weirdly personal he doesn’t know how to hold yet.

“D’you draw a lot of people?” he asks, casual.

“Not really,” Remus says, fiddling with the paper napkin beneath his cup. “Mostly objects. Landscapes. Interiors. Hands, sometimes.”

Sirius raises a brow. “What’s wrong with faces?”

“Nothing,” Remus says. “They just lie.”

It’s so simply said. No bitterness. No edge. Just the plain, quiet truth of someone who’s spent too long trying to catch meaning in something as fickle as an expression.

Sirius stares at him. Then reaches for his cigarette pack.

“Right,” he mutters, sliding it open. “Well. Good luck with mine, then.”

“I don’t think yours lies,” Remus says.

It’s almost an afterthought, tossed like a coin onto the table between them. But Sirius hears it. Hears it so loud it nearly drowns the clink of the lighter. His fingers stall just slightly. Not enough to be noticeable. Except maybe it is, because Remus is still watching him, quiet and open, like he didn’t just say something that should come with a warning label.

Sirius lights the cigarette and inhales slow. Lets the smoke do the talking for him.

“So when is this happening?”

Remus pulls out his phone. “We can start next week.”

Sirius nods, pretending like that doesn’t feel more official than it should.

“Better make sure I wear something inspiring,” he says lightly.

He means it as a joke—halfway, anyway—but Remus doesn’t laugh. Just lifts his chin, eyes still trained on him across the lip of his mug, like he’s mentally measuring collarbones. Or shadows. Or whatever it is artists see when they look too long.

“You could wear whatever you like,” Remus says eventually, brushing a crumb slowly from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “I don’t really care about the clothes.”

“Is that your line for all your muses, Lupin?”

“I don’t have muses,” Remus says plainly. “I have assignments. And you happen to have a face I can work with.”

A snort escapes before Sirius can help it. “Wow. I feel so special.”

Remus glances up, mouth tugging slightly, and for once Sirius can’t tell if he’s actually joking or not. There’s something about his expression that always stays just out of reach—like he’s never showing the whole thing. Like he’s holding it back for a sketchbook instead.

He taps ash into the tin saucer balanced on the edge of his plate, still watching Remus with a kind of vague fascination. Not because Remus is beautiful, though he is, in that understated, uneven sort of way—long lashes, sharp nose, mouth that looks too serious until it doesn’t. It’s more that Sirius can’t figure him out. He’s used to people being loud with their intentions. Grinning too wide. Making plays. But Remus sits there across the table, talking about sketching him like it’s nothing. Like Sirius is just… available light.

***

When James Potter is stressed, the entire world is expected to adjust accordingly. Gravity shifts. Weather changes. Small animals flee.

This morning is no exception.

It starts with cupboard doors being opened too loudly and closed even louder. Cutlery clinks like sabers. The kettle hisses on the stove like it’s nursing a personal vendetta. Sirius watches from the couch with the kind of half-lidded amusement that comes from having survived a hundred of these storms before. James, pacing the kitchen like a general before war, is muttering under his breath about banners, music, alcohol ratios, whether or not Marlene’s new girlfriend is vegan, and the colour of disposable napkins.

It’s somehow always about a party. It doesn’t matter which party—it could be New Year’s, or Peter’s accidental housewarming, or tonight’s low-stakes birthday thing for Marlene that she explicitly said not to make a big deal out of. James will make a big deal out of it anyway. Because that’s what James does. He is—by blood, by bone, by cosmic fate—a planner.

And when he unravels, it’s with ribbons.

What makes it worse is that Lily is no better. She’s already been by once this morning to drop off an emergency bag of tea lights and a packet of vegan-friendly cake mix, because “God forbid Marlene’s girlfriend feels left out while watching us all die from diabetes.” She didn’t even come all the way in—just called from the open door, hair in curlers, asking if James remembered to hide the edibles.

James, of course, lied. And then texted Sirius to do it while she was still halfway down the hall.

It’s moments like these when Sirius is reminded of just how in-sync those two are, even when they pretend they aren’t. It’s almost laughable how much they mirror each other. Stubborn, hyper-organised, high-functioning chaos gremlins, pretending they don’t orbit the same sun. Sirius sometimes wonders if they even know how often they speak in unison. Probably not. He doesn’t tell them—it’s too fun watching them flit around like two bats in a cathedral. Always nearly colliding. Always finding each other anyway.

He takes a long sip of his tea—too sweet, too milky, the way Peter makes it when he’s being doting—and sinks deeper into the cushions. His phone is warm against his thigh, buzzing every few minutes with new messages. He’s half-listening to James curse the Bluetooth speaker for disconnecting again when the screen lights up.

Remus.

Which is still a novelty.

They text now.

Apparently.

Not about anything important. Not really. But Sirius has caught himself smiling at his phone more often than is healthy.

It started yesterday, after breakfast. Or maybe the day before, when Remus sent him that blurry picture of a beetle crawling over his sketchbook, captioned: he says hi.

Which had felt like an invitation.

Or a dare.

Sirius still hasn’t figured out which.

Now it’s just… a thing.

A quiet line between them, strung tight with small words, the occasional emoji, a few late-night thoughts lobbed like stones into a pond.

They haven’t talked about the drawing yet. They haven’t needed to.

The new message blinks up:

Remus:

Are they still driving you crazy?

Sirius thumbs over the reply field.

He thinks about saying something clever.

But instead, he types:

Sirius:

Of course. Save me this is purgatory 

He adds a knife emoji. Because why not.

A beat later, Remus replies:

Remus: So come by the shop.

Sirius bites his lip, considering this. He’s supposed to be helping set up for Marlene’s surprise birthday party, but it’s way too tempting to go get high as in a tattoo shop until he has to go to his shift. 

Sirius: Can’t, i’ll be maimed by james and lily. Supposed 2 be hanging a birthday banner rn.

Across the room, James is now on the floor, elbows deep in tangled fairy lights, swearing vengeance against whoever invented plug adapters.

Remus: Don’t act like u don’t know how to sneak away.

Sirius stared at the screen. The bastard. Unbelievable. He thumbed at the edge of his chipped nail polish, smirking. One text and suddenly he was a stray cat at Remus’ back door.

An hour later, he was exactly that—slipping through the back entrance of Ink & Moon like some tattoo shop raccoon with good hair and worse impulse control.

Remus is working on a young girl with one leg stretched out across the chair. Her face is tight with pain, fingers curled into the cushion beneath her, but Remus—brow drawn in that soft, steady focus of his—moves like he’s painting something sacred. A gloved hand rests gently on her knee, the other working the needle in slow, deliberate strokes. He doesn’t look up until Sirius steps fully into the room—and when he does, he smiles.

Oh my days. How beautiful you are.

“I bring sustenance,” Sirius says, lifting the bag like it’s some kind of holy offering.

He’s gotten quite acquainted with everyone here now. It’s strange how fast it’s happened—how fast he happened to this place. He hands Briana her coffee, and she accepts it like a lifeline.

“You’re a saint,” she says, already unwrapping the straw.

“You’re an angel, Siri,” Nya croons, eyes lighting up when he places her favourite energy drink beside her machine. She says it like it’s a known fact, not a compliment.

He grins, amused and strangely touched by it all. He has routines here now—orders memorised, names saved in his phone. It’s wild to think that just over a month ago, this place didn’t exist to him. Now it feels more like home than any place he’s ever laid his head.

The back room is cooler, air dense with the usual incense going, Nya’s favorite, and a thread of low music trailing in from the front. Zion’s already there, of course, draped over the chair with a joint in hand and the look of someone who hasn’t moved in hours.

Sirius tosses him a paper bag filled with random snack things he grabbed on instinct.

“Perfect timing, Sirius,” Zion says, peering in like a raccoon. “The munchies are kicking in.”

Sirius flops onto the couch with a satisfied groan, limbs sprawling. He’s barely settled when Remus walks in, dropping beside him like he’s carrying the weight of the world.

“I’m exhausted. Honestly.”

Sirius glances over, smile tugging at his mouth. “Does that mean you can’t fit me in for a tat?”

Remus turns his head, slow and deliberate. “Sirius. We talked about this.”

“What?” Sirius says, mock affronted. “I am of sound mind and body. Okay, so I smoked one spliff earlier, but that’s practically nothing. I’m basically a monk.”

Remus exhales through his nose, already sitting upright. “What do you want this time?”

Sirius hesitates before showing his phone. “Just this.”

Two words in Old English font: Bite Me.

Remus closes his eyes. Inhales. Exhales. Looks like he’s reaching for patience from somewhere far, far away.

“I have no idea why I indulge your antics.”

“Because I’m a paying customer, and it’s literally your job,” Sirius says with a shrug. Remus gives him a look. (A look that under different circumstances would have him on his kne– WHO SAID THAT?!)

“Where?” Remus asks.

He clears his throat. “My hip.”

There’s a pause. Remus just… stares at him.

Sirius doesn’t blink.

And maybe this was a joke at first, something to poke at, stir the pot. But now Remus is standing, and Sirius is following, and suddenly the air feels warmer than it did a second ago. The moment warps. Expands.

He sits in the chair. Tries to act unbothered.

“You do realise this is one of the most basic tattoos imaginable,” Remus mutters as he starts setting up. Sirius watches him—the sure motions, the methodical prep. He’s memorised this routine now. The way Remus adjusts the lamp twice, never once. The flex of muscle in his arm as he snaps gloves on. The soft clatter of tools, the delicate shake of ink bottles. It’s supposed to be clinical. But it’s become something else.

“Yeah, and all those people have taste,” Sirius says, too casually.

Remus doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to. Sirius knows he must drain his social battery. He can see it—how Remus folds in on himself when things get loud or bright or messy. And the fact that he still shows up, still lets Sirius orbit him this closely? That’s effort. That’s foreign territory.

Once the chair is laid back, Sirius feels the shift. What had started as something silly—something to needle Remus with—starts to feel like something else entirely. The joke’s long gone now. Remus is standing over him, that beautiful face close, and Sirius swears he can feel the heat off his own body. Anticipation twisting in his gut.

Remus steps away for the stencil, and when he returns, Sirius goes quiet.

“Lift your shirt.”

He does. No quip, no delay. Just flicks the hem up to his ribs. And suddenly he’s thinking—he would probably do anything this man asked of him. No questions. No second chances.

“Now, push your trousers down.”

It’s not even what he says, it’s how he says it. Low and deliberate, like the words were meant just for Sirius. They settle differently. Reverent, somehow.

Sirius glances once toward the room—everyone busy, heads down, machines buzzing. No one’s watching. No one would care if they were.

Still, the moment feels suspended. Like it’s already becoming memory before it’s finished.

His hands dip to his waistband, tugging his trousers and pants low across his hips. The chair has him reclined just enough for the sharp lines to stand out—bone, skin, the lean frame of him. It’s not a part he usually shows. Not delicate, but close.

“Point to where you’d like it,” Remus murmurs.

Sirius touches the spot lightly. Wordless. Watching Remus, who doesn’t flinch, but whose jaw twitches—subtle, but there.

Do I affect you the way you affect me?

“Do you want to check the placement in the mirror?”

Sirius shakes his head. “No. I trust you.”

Remus smiles. Rare. Dimples and all.

He has a girlfriend. Sirius reminds himself. He’s straight. Get a fucking grip.

“Stay still,” Remus says, voice already shifting into focus.

“I wasn’t even moving,” Sirius mutters, all wounded pride.

“But you’re about to.”

His jaw drops. “Ugh. The cheek of it.”

The machine whirs to life. Remus leans in, grounding one hand on his hip to steady him. Sirius barely gets a breath in before the needle sinks into skin. The vibration is sharp, immediate, far too intimate in this part of the body.

He stiffens—not from pain, but from awareness.

The air leaves him slow. His eyes slip shut.

And in spite of himself, he leans into the feeling.

***

The flat had never looked like this before.

There were candles clustered along the windowsills and bookshelves, their flames flickering soft gold across chipped mugs and tangled ivy. Streamers draped from the ceiling like makeshift constellations, curling at the edges from the humidity. Lily had outdone herself, obviously—she always did when she had a vision. The kitchen archway bore a slightly crooked banner in silver foil letters: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MARLENE. Music pulsed through the speakers, something funky and old and crackly with warmth, per James’ insistence that “every good party needs at least one Earth, Wind & Fire track.” The place smelled like spiced wine, citrus, and the faint burn of incense someone had lit and forgotten about. Bodies were everywhere—on couches, on countertops, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder along the hallway like beads on a wire.

Sirius leaned against the kitchen counter, drink in hand, and took it all in. It was a slow, gathering thing—this kind of night. People trickling through the door in clumps, shrugging off coats, shouting hellos over the music. They all had that glow to them, like they knew their futures were waiting patiently in a filing cabinet somewhere.

He didn’t resent it, exactly. But it put a line between them all the same.

Nights like this still felt like fiction—hot, messy, loud around the edges. Like someone else’s memory, glimpsed through a fogged window.

Lily moved through the flat like a commander in a war zone, armed with a checklist and a glass of rosé. She’d pre-mixed two punch bowls (one fruity and charming, the other “likely to cause a blackout”), stocked the bathroom with extra hand towels, and threatened James with bodily harm if he forgot to keep the record player loaded. She’d handed Sirius a lighter an hour ago with the word “aesthetic” and nothing else.

“She’s going to cry,” James said, appearing beside Sirius with that particular glint in his eye that always preceded a controlled disaster.

“She’s going to punch you for lying to her,” Lily corrected, fussing with the candle arrangement on the coffee table.

“Same difference.”

Sirius smirked into his drink. He liked watching them in their element—Lily sharp and bright, James spinning somewhere in her orbit, chaotic but loyal. They made it all look so easy. Like friendship was a muscle they never had to stretch.

He was halfway through his second beer when it happened.

“Sirius Black,” a voice sing-songed behind him.

He turned just in time to catch a blur of faux fur, glitter, and indignation. Marlene.

“Where the fuck have you been?” she said, eyes narrowing as she jabbed him in the chest. “You haven’t texted me back in weeks , you absolute bastard.”

He blinked, then grinned, catching her hand and spinning her once like they were in a rom-com. “I’ve been busy being emotionally unavailable. Very in vogue. I think Vogue said so.”

“Bullshit,” she snapped, folding her arms. “You’ve been ghosting me and you know it.”

“I wasn’t ghosting,” he said, deadpan. “I was vapor drifting.”

She didn’t laugh. Just looked at him. All eyeliner and expectation.

“You don’t get to disappear on me, Sirius.”

That hit. Not hard, but close enough to the bone. He rubbed the back of his neck and softened. “I know. I’m sorry, Marls.”

“You could’ve at least sent a meme.”

“I’ll text you seventeen tonight. All with captions.”

“Shut up.”

But then she hugged him. Quick and firm, arms strong around his waist, perfume clinging to the collar of his shirt. He didn’t mean to hold her that tight. But she didn’t let go either.

Marlene had a girlfriend now—Astrid. The kind of girl who probably had expensive cigarette holders and once shoplifted a leather-bound edition of The Iliad just for the thrill. She arrived earlier with a bottle of wine and a box of vegan pastries, hair slicked back and mouth painted red. When Marlene introduced her, Sirius liked her immediately. She looked like she could ruin someone’s life and then write a poem about it.

Peter, meanwhile, was already leaning into a dramatic retelling of some bar disaster to a girl curled up beside him on the couch. Her name was Hannah—round-faced, soft laugh, glitter under her eyes like she’d gotten lost in a rave on the way over. She looked at Peter like he was the only person in the room who’d ever told a story worth listening to.

Sirius didn’t interrupt. Just watched. And smiled.

Then the door opened again.

Remus. And beside him—Naomi.

Sirius stiffened before he could stop it.

She was exactly the sort of person any man would want to date, Sirius thought. Graceful posture, expensive coat, an air of someone raised around hors d’oeuvres and piano lessons. Her hair shone under the light. Her lipstick didn’t move when she smiled.

Remus looked good. Distant, maybe, but good. Like he’d ironed himself flat for the evening. Like there was no part of him left to crease.

They stepped in together, and the room adjusted around them. Lily swooped over immediately.

“Naomi, right?” she said, grinning. “We’ve heard so much.”

“Likewise,” Naomi replied, with the kind of voice that could settle into any room and feel at home.

Remus looked up.

Only for a second.

Sirius looked away first.

“You alright?” James murmured beside him, bumping their elbows together.

“Yeah,” Sirius said. “Yeah, fine.”

He poured himself another drink and didn’t look back.

He stayed behind the counter after that. Playing bartender. Pouring vodka tonics and passing napkins and making jokes just loud enough to draw polite laughs. It was easier that way. To stay moving. To stir things. To be useful. He knew that role. Knew how to wield charm like a switchblade—shiny and distracting.

Remus wasn’t watching him, At least, not in any way Sirius could read.

Sometimes he thought he could feel it, though—the way Remus noticed him without looking. Like a pulse just under the surface. Like static, if static had bones.

But that was probably just him. Just the beer. Just the ache of the room and how much it wasn’t his.

It was a good night. A warm, glittering, blameless kind of night. But that didn’t mean the ache went away.

It just played quieter than the music.

Still, when Marlene finally walked in—tricked into arriving late by a decoy dinner plan with Dorcas and Lily—the whole room lit up.

“SURPRISE!” everyone shouted. It was deafening, echoing through the high ceilings like a cannon blast. A small ceramic frog on the telly shelf wobbled dangerously before James lunged and caught it mid-fall, victorious.

Marlene screamed. Full-throated, arms-flung-up, totally overwhelmed. Then she froze. And burst into tears.

“Oh my god ,” she sobbed, clutching at her chest. “I hate all of you. This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Lily was on her in seconds, arms around her, murmuring something into her hair while Dorcas nodded solemnly like she’d predicted the whole thing. Marlene fanned herself dramatically with a paper plate. Someone popped a party cracker. Laughter erupted like a chemical reaction.

Sirius, from the far corner near the kitchen island, nursing a beer gone slightly warm and sticky in his palm, let himself watch.

He wasn’t sure what had changed. The lights were the same. The music still wound slow and groovy through the speakers. But something had shifted when Marlene walked in—like the room had finally clicked into place. A missing piece returned to the puzzle.

This , he thought. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

He used to think parties were just noise and posture. Loud music, louder clothing. People straining to prove they belonged by pretending not to care if they did. But this wasn’t that. This was cake shaped like someone’s dog. Glitter icing and crooked banners and a playlist Peter made with too much ABBA. It was Lily’s handwriting on the streamers. It was people showing up just to make someone they loved feel known.

Sirius watched Marlene bury her face into Lily’s shoulder, shaking with laughter and tears, and felt something warm unfurl in his chest. A warmth edged with something quieter.

The truth was, Sirius hadn’t grown up with birthdays. Not the kind with jelly and paper hats and everyone singing off-key because no one could find the pitch. His mother hosted dinners with engraved invitations and centerpieces. The cake was flawless—untouched by fingers or flame. Once, when he was nine, he tried to stick a sparkler in it. She slapped his hand so hard it bruised. After that, he stopped trying.

Regulus would sit beside him in a blazer too tight in the shoulders, mouthing happy birthday like it was a spell instead of a song. They weren’t allowed to eat the cake during dinner. It was for display, of course—pristine and untouched. But later, after enough coaxing from Sirius, they’d steal it. Two slices folded into paper towels, carried like contraband to the hollow beneath the piano bench. They’d eat in secret, knees pressed together, sharing crumbs and conspiracies. That was the part Sirius loved—not the sweetness, but the quiet thrill of getting away with something. The closeness. The pact of it all.

Even James hadn’t known, that first year. Tried to plan something, only to find Sirius already gone for the weekend. The next year, he snuck in a cake anyway. Lit exactly eighteen candles because he had to.

Remus stood across the room, half-shadowed behind Naomi and She looked perfect, of course. Dress cinched like it had been sewn directly onto her. When she raised her glass, people turned to listen.

“To Marlene,” she said, smiling with that glossy kind of charm. “You’re radiant. And clearly surrounded by people who absolutely adore you. I’m a little jealous, honestly.”

Marlene hiccuped a laugh through her tears. “You’re sweet. And hot. Oh my god, you’re so hot.”

“She is,” Lily said, grinning. “I’m obsessed with her.”

Naomi gave a curtsy in heels and turned to Remus, slipping an arm through his. Her hand came to rest on his forearm with just enough pressure to say mine.

Sirius watched the way Remus let it happen—how he leaned slightly in, how he didn’t really respond. Like his body accepted it before his mind caught up. Like he was somewhere else entirely. Maybe Sirius was imagining it. He’d been doing that lately—making stories out of gestures.

He looked down. The bassline of the music thumped through the floorboards, vibrating faintly up through the soles of his boots.

“Called it,” James said, suddenly at his side. His curls were wild. His cheeks pink with mischief and exertion. “Tears. Full sob.”

“She sobbed,” Sirius said, raising his beer like a toast. “Victory.”

“She cried because the cake’s shaped like her dog,” Peter added, sidling in with half a sausage roll in hand. “Lily made the ears out of fondant. That’s love, that is.”

Sirius blinked. “The spaniel?”

“Yeah. Ears and all.”

Peter missed the bowl of crisps entirely, then recovered without shame.

“Did you try the dip?” he asked, mouth full.

“The dip?” Sirius echoed.

“Remus made three,” James added. “Apparently he’s got some secret sauce obsession. Got real serious about garlic ratios.”

“Measuring teaspoons like he was casting a spell,” Peter confirmed.

Sirius glanced across the room again. Remus was laughing now—at something Naomi said, probably—but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. His hand twitched near his side, like he wanted something to fidget with.

“He’s been weird lately, yeah?” James asked.

“Weird how?”

James shrugged. “Distant. Quiet. Like he’s halfway out the room even when he’s in it. You’d know.”

“Why would I know?”

James gave him a look. “Because he tells you things.”

“He talks to you too,” Sirius muttered, peeling at the label on his bottle.

“Not the same way,” James said, simple and sure. “You two have a thing.”

Sirius didn’t answer. Didn’t even try.

“Black!” Marlene called from the sofa, where she was curled up with her girlfriend between her legs, their fingers laced. “Where the fuck have you been?”

He grinned and crossed the room. “Miss me?”

“You ghosted me.”

“I was going through a thing.”

“You always say that.”

“It’s true isn’t it.”

She rolled her eyes and tugged him into a hug anyway. Smelled like smoke and citrus and something grassy. He closed his eyes for half a second.

“Don’t disappear again,” she muttered.

“Promise,” he said into her shoulder.

When they pulled apart, her girlfriend—Hana, delicate and sharp-eyed—offered him a subtle wave. He bowed in response.

The party was still unfolding. People danced. Plates were swapped. Someone had started rearranging the records. Naomi was back near the record player now, hands fluttering as she spoke to Lily. Remus hovered just behind them—close enough to count, but not quite inside the circle.

Sirius blames the way he moves towards Remus on gravity.

He slides in beside Remus, bumping his hip gently. “Nice dip,” he said.

Remus startled slightly. Then smiled. “You tried it?”

“I’d try anything you make.”

Remus huffed a soft laugh. But it didn’t last long. “You alright?”

Sirius shrugged. “You?”

Remus tilted his head, about to answer—when Naomi turned, sudden and bright.

“I feel like I haven’t spoken to you all night,” she said. Her gaze landed on Sirius. “Remus said you’re one of the housemates—James, Peter… mm Sirius, right?”

“That’s me. One-third of the chaos.”

She smiled, a touch too wide. “It’s a great flat. A bit of a student dream, really.” As she said it, she reached out and brushed her hand down Remus’ sleeve, fingers trailing like she was resetting her hold.

Sirius felt it—not jealousy, exactly. Just pressure. A kind of territorial curiosity in her eyes. The way people look at something when they’re not quite sure if it’s a threat or just unfamiliar.

He gave a tight smile. Said nothing.

James swooped in before the silence could settle, slinging an arm around Sirius’ neck. “We only live this well because Sirius seduced the landlord.”

“Or blackmailed him,” Peter added, mouth full again.

“It’s charm,” Sirius deadpanned.

A laugh rose up from the hallway—Remus’. Sirius turned toward the sound before he could help himself.

Remus stood framed in the archway, Naomi’s arm looped through his. He was smiling—openly, beautifully—and Sirius felt it like a blow to the chest.

Their eyes met.

Someone bumped his shoulder. The moment vanished—

snuffed like a match.

He set his beer down. It had gone warm in his hand. He rubbed at it with the edge of his jumper and missed the joke that had just landed two feet away.

But nothing mattered, because Remus looked at him again—

and the light found him like it remembered.

Soft and golden.

Like someone choosing him in the dark.