The tide was gentle tonight, its rhythmic hush growing and falling against the shore, a lullaby Sirius had long since forgotten. He stood at the water’s edge, the hem of his dark grey trousers soaked where the waves lapped at his ankles, the cold a distant and forgotten thing. The night stretched vast and endless above him, stars scattered across the sky like a story half-written. Somewhere out there was the Dog Star, burning quietly, but Sirius did not search for it.
Instead, he tipped his head back and exhaled dark grey smoke into the breeze. The cigarette dangled loosely between his fingers, a habit resurrected from years of waiting, of pacing behind walls that weren’t meant to hold him. The salt in the air clung to his skin, and in the distance, the waning gibbous moon hung low over the horizon, bleeding silver into the sea.
It had just been a full moon, an event Sirius had to look at every month, and despite his trying, he never succeeded having happiness on those nights. They were the kind of night that invited ghosts. And Sirius had plenty of them.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, the present faded. The world rewound itself into something softer, something younger.
They had been here before.
A different time, a different war, but the sea had remained unchanged—vast, untouchable, brimming with secrets.
Sirius remembered how Remus had lain on the sand beside him, fingers tucked beneath his head, gaze trained on the constellations overhead. He had looked at them the way Sirius looked at him: as if they held all the answers.
“What’s that one?” Remus had asked, lazy and warm, pointing up at the sky. He knew the answer of course, but it was always better when his Siri told him.
Sirius followed his gaze, then smirked. “That, Moony, is Orion. The great hunter. Arrogant bastard, if you ask me. Thought he was untouchable—until he wasn’t.”
Remus turned his head, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Sirius shifted onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “Depends on which version you believe. Some say Artemis loved him. Others say she killed him. Either way, he ended up in the sky, running from something he can never outrun.” He gestured toward the three stars that formed Orion’s Belt. “That’s what people remember him for. Not the man, not the myth—just those three little lights in an endless sky.”
Remus was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he sighed, soft and thoughtful. “I think I like the version where she loved him.”
Sirius smirked. “Tragic romantic.”
“You say that like you aren’t worse.”
Sirius chuckled, lying back down so their shoulders touched. The waves whispered against the shore, and for a moment, everything was quiet except for the sea and the steady rhythm of Remus’ breathing.
Then, just as Sirius began to drift into the kind of peace only the dark could bring, Remus spoke again, his voice barely above a murmur.
“You’re like that, you know.”
Sirius blinked, turning his head to look at him. “Like what?”
Remus’ gaze didn’t leave the sky. “Orion. Always running, always burning. Like you were never meant to be caught.”
Something inside Sirius twisted. He swallowed, the salt-heavy air thick in his lungs. “And what if I wanted to be?”
Remus finally turned to face him, his expression softened by the moonlight. He reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from Sirius’ face, his fingers lingering for just a second too long.
“Then I suppose,” he murmured, “I’d have to keep chasing until I found you.”
The deep blue waves had whispered against the shore, and for quite a long time, neither of them had spoken. For a moment, Sirius had thought Remus had fallen asleep, as tired as he was that night. But then Remus had turned to him, his eyes shadowed in the moonlight.
“You’re made of stardust, you know,” he had said, his voice almost lost to the breeze.
Sirius was getting tired now too, and had huffed a laugh. “What, burning and untouchable?”
Remus had only smiled, brushing a stray strand of hair from Sirius’ face, his fingers grazing across the sand and warm where they traced against his skin. “Bright,” he had said softly. “Bright and beautiful, like a painting of the night sky. Paintings are beautiful, you know. And almost impossible to catch the good ones.”
”Am I a good one?” Sirius had asked.
“I hope you know you’re always going to be delightful like one, Siri.” Remus always had liked painting, so it wasn’t a surprise when he compared his lover to one. “Paintings will always be admired, and I, for one, admire you.”
Sirius had kissed him that night, chocolate and smoke mixing on their lips, the night stretching infinite around them.
The memory felt like a wound now.
Sirius opened his eyes to the present, to the emptiness beside him, to the tide creeping higher as if it meant to swallow him whole.
That was the last time Remus had seen him, the last time before they parted ways for good.
He wondered if Remus still thought of that night, or if the war had buried it beneath caution and grief. If Sirius himself was just another ghost in a past Remus no longer allowed himself to visit.
The thought settled heavy in his chest. He took another drag from his cigarette, but it did nothing to quiet the ache.
“You always did like being dramatic.”
The voice was quiet, worn at the edges, but Sirius would have known it anywhere.
He stood up, and stayed still, staring at the ocean. He’d heard this voice before, in his prison cell at Azkaban. He heard it every night as he looked out the barred window of his cell, peering at the moon. He always got called insane for talking to the illuminated sphere, and it certainly didn’t help how he was treated there.
“Look at me Siri… please…” Sirius obliged hastily.
Remus stood a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, his hair tousled by the wind. His face was thinner now, sharper in the places that grief had hollowed out, but his eyes—God, his eyes—were the same.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The waves filled the silence between them, rushing in, receding, like something waiting to be decided.
Then, slowly, Sirius flicked the cigarette into the water just like he did all those years ago, and exhaled one last breath of smoke. “You came.”
Remus hesitated. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”
Sirius tilted his head, watching him. “And yet you looked.”
Remus let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head. “I always look.”
The words landed somewhere deep in Sirius’ ribs. He stepped forward, just enough to bridge the space between them, and Remus didn’t move away.
For a moment, Sirius simply looked at him, memorizing the shape of him in the moonlight, the way the wind toyed with his hair, the way the sea reflected in his eyes.
He looked older, yes. Stressed? Definitely. But it was still him. It was still the boy who laughed at his half assed pranks, he was still the boy who stayed with him when he cried, and it was still the boy who layed with him on the beach. He was his werewolf, always, and he thought of him every night of his tormented days without him.
Then, slowly, carefully, he reached for Remus’ hand.
Remus hesitated—just for a breath, just long enough for Sirius to think he might pull away. But then his fingers curled around Sirius’, familiar and steady, and Sirius felt something in him settle.
The stars burned above them, bright and distant. The tide came in, went out. And in the space between, Sirius and Remus stood together, hand in hand, as if they had never let go at all.
They were the moon and stars, dancing together night after night, and Sirius wouldn’t have it any other way.