Sirius wasn’t trying to snoop. Really, he wasn’t. But if Remus didn’t want people reading his letters he shouldn’t leave them lying about half-written where anyone could see them.
It was a letter to Hope, Sirius quickly ascertained. And he knew everything about Remus already so it wasn’t like he was sticking his nose in any seriously classified material.
Besides, he had to make sure Remus wasn’t besmirching his name or spending too much time prattling on about irrelevant matters and not enough on Sirius’ stellar dueling skills and adeptness on the Quidditch pitch. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the first half of the letter; a brief summary of going ons at Hogwarts over the past month and interesting topics they had covered in their courses followed by a longer section inquiring into how things were going back home, whether Hope’s Iris plant was growing as expected, whether she had agreed to a second date with the handsome librarian. But when he reached the second half what Sirius read was enough to turn all of the blood in his body ice cold.
Remus was going on and on about this Dylan bloke— Dylan Thomas, he could just imagine the kind of dull, smarmy prat who was the owner of such a humdrum name–thanking his mum emphatically for introducing him to him. If it wasn’t bad enough that it was the first that Sirius had heard of him, Remus was practically gushing about the boy; from the way he wrote about him, you’d think he was Merlin’s gift. Each line practically overflowed with praises about his poetry. Ugh, one of those lovey-dovey artist’s types then. Probably strummed a harp in the park and strutted around in leather sandals. When Sirius finally managed to pull himself away from the letter, his mind was reeling. He felt about ten stone heavier and more than a little betrayed.
It was just that Sirius had always been the main man in Remus’ life. He’d fallen seamlessly into the role in that very first year they’d known each other (Sirius making another plate and subtly sliding it over to Remus when he noticed he was still hungry even after seconds but too embarrassed to go back for thirds before he knew why Remus was so ravenous on certain days, Remus bringing an extra quill along to class for Sirius to borrow when he inevitably forgot his own), and he’d only settled further into it in the time since. Sure they weren’t dating but they were just as well as. Who else but Sirius could be counted on to lay in dog-form across Remus’ bony ankles when they got cold? Who else but Sirius reliably wore the wool jumpers that Hope knitted and Remus found too itchy to tolerate but couldn’t bear to let go unworn?
Now, it wasn’t a sure thing that their affectionate relationship was the product of any romantic feelings on Remus’ part, but—BUT. Remus always got a bit odd when James got to talking about girls and Sirius had caught him concentrating suspiciously hard on the way Gideon Prewett’s Quidditch kit shorts accentuated his pert arse. Sirius didn’t think it was outside the realm of possibility that Remus had desires of the homosexual variety and as the man Moony spent most of his time with, and the primary (only?) recipient of his cwtches, Sirius certainly liked his chances. Or he had. Now there was some Welsh interloper edging his way into Moony’s good graces with his pretty words and Muggle machinations. And what was even worse was that Hope of all people had introduced the two of them, Hope who had always seemed so fond of Sirius, who pinched his cheeks every time he visited and had the moving picture of him and Remus (a loop of Sirius clambering all over him to try and steal the last piece of toffee) that he had gifted her for Christmas last year displayed proudly on her fridge.
It would simply not do.
…
“So… when were you going to introduce me to Dylan?” he said innocently enough over lunch the following afternoon. Hearing the ill disguised edge to his tone James and Peter exchanged a furtive look and gazed steadfastly back at their plates.
Remus’ brow furrowed.
“Dylan?” he repeated around a mouthful of jam tart. Was Remus really trying to play coy?
“Dylan Thomas,” Sirius clarified petulantly. “You might have mentioned him.. You know, rather than hoarding him all for yourself like a dirty little secret.”
Remus choked on his sip of tea. “Er, sorry?”
“No, no. Just, it’s unlike you to be so possessive.”
“I didn’t think you’d be interested. But yeah he’s great…” he trailed off and his eyes went all glazed over and faraway-like. Despicable.
“He’s from back home, yeah?”
“What? Oh yeah, from the same place in Swansea.” He beamed like the very thought filled his heart with joy. Sirius dug half-moons into the palms of his hands.
“Well, I’d like an introduction.”
“Oh— well my mom sent me some of his poems if you’d like to read them.”
“She’s read them too?!”
Just how close was this Dylan bloke to the Lupin family? If Hope was reading Dylan’s poetry… he could picture it— Remus and Dylan lazing about in the shade of that lovely tree in Hope’s garden together. Bonding over their shared Welsh heritage.
“Yeah? She’s the one who put me onto him…” Remus gave him a strange look. Ugh. Sirius already knew all about that.
“How long have you known him, then?”
The weird look on Remus’ face didn’t recede. “Not long— only found out about him over winter hols, really.”
Oh, well at least it was recent, then. Sirius allowed himself to breathe out just a little.
He mulled over Remus’ offer to read Dylan’s poetry and eventually dismissed it. He’d only get himself more worked up. Better not to try to compete where he couldn’t compare. And he doubted Dylan Thomas could charm marmalade up Snivellus’ nose from all the way across the room. So.
…
In a monumental show of maturity, Sirius decided to let the matter rest for the time-being. He was swamped with coursework and Quidditch practice anyways and it was best to treat these sorts of things with a delicate hand when it came to Remus. His friend had a tendency to get squirrely when anyone asked him too many questions about his personal life and get all righteously indignant about the sanctity of privacy (like they hadn’t shared a room for the past seven years and all seen each other starkers on the numerous occasions Prongs found it appropriate to spell their towels down). He’d turn mulishly silent and run off to some dark corner of the library like a man gone to toil away at his creation.
But by the end of two weeks Sirius was fit to burst. He'd kept his eyes out for any stray letters in case there were any further installments in the sordid love affair but Remus had yet to write again nor had he been charitable enough to leave Hope’s response letter lying around, curse him.
One afternoon when they were the only two in the dorm, Sirius found he’d finally reached his limit.
“So I can meet him, then? Dylan. I mean, eventually?” He directed the question to the next bed over where Remus sat studying furiously.
“Whuff?” Remus said around the end of the quill in his mouth. It was annoying that Remus always seemed to have something in his mouth when Sirius needed to ask him something. If Remus had to have something in his mouth it should be Sirius’ c—
“D’you think I can meet Dylan Thomas the next time I’m back in Wales?” he sputtered.
Remus just took him in blankly for two long seconds, and then his lips pursed in a grimace of sorts.
“Pads, Dylan Thomas is… dead.”
“Since when!” Sirius gasped.
He felt himself teetering on the edge of a nervous spiral; how was he supposed to compete with a tragically demised lover? Remus was an idealistic sort of bloke and he latched onto ideas much easier than he did people. Sure, Sirius was a fair contender in the contest for Moony’s affections when it was limited to the world of living, tangible, beings, but open it up to world beyond the veil, teeming with all that old world romanticism and vagabonds of times past and Sirius was the goner. He was already competing with bloody Newland Archer and Edmond Dantès and every other literary hero Remus had ever blathered on about. How was he supposed to compete with the idea, the memory of a person that Remus had actually known during his lifetime before he’d gone to an early grave? He could already picture it; Remus settling in to let his whole life wither away in a haze of clove cigarettes and earl gray tea while he mourned his lost beloved. Perish the thought!
Also he had wished for Dylan to drop dead several times over the last two weeks and he was feeling more than a bit guilty now. Of course he’d never expected this .
“B-but when? H-why-how? It was only two weeks ago you said you’d introduce me!”
Remus gaped at him in open disbelief.
“Since always? Sirius. I thought you meant introduce you to his works! Are you saying you thought I had a personal relationship with world-renowned poet Dylan Thomas…?”
“Er,” Sirius said. It was dawning on him that he must have made a grave miscalculation somewhere. “So you mean you’re not… not bent for each other?”
Remus just kept looking at him, utterly bewildered, until all of a sudden he gasped, scandalized. “You read my letter didn’t you!”
“Sorry!” Sirius took shelter behind his hands. “Didn’t mean to. Was just right there. And going on and on about this Dylan chap. Try to see it from my perspective— you were practically writing your wedding vows to the bloke, talking like the sun shone out of his arse. Felt a bit passed over.”
“Argh!” Remus said, grabbing fistfuls of his own hair; in a second he was standing in front of Sirius pulling him in by the neck of his shirt to get all up in his face. His breath was warm and smelled of bergamot and his eyes shone a furious amber, as they often did this time of the month. In other words the stuff of Sirius’ wet dreams.
“You’re such an idiot. You’re bloody lucky that I like you.” He muttered something else under his breath, shaking his head.
“You like me?”
“Shut up! Just- Shut up.”
“…”
“Are you going to be quiet now?”
Sirius nodded sycophantically.
Remus cradled his face and kissed him hard.
…
Remus had gotten over his anger somewhere between Sirius writhing on his lap and squirming at the end of his bed as Remus sucked the soul out of his body. Now, hours later, they were lying tangled in the sanctuary of Remus’ bed, the dawn light illuminating the crimson hangings from behind like stained glass. The map was safe in Sirius’ pocket and they had arranged a line of pillows roughly in the shape of Sirius so their friends wouldn’t worry too much about his whereabouts. “You know,” he murmured, drawing nonsensical patterns on Sirius’ chest with the tip of his finger. “The funniest part is his poetry reminds me a lot of you actually.”
“In what way?”
“It’s intense, exacting. It doesn’t just skate on the surface, everything is taken to its most extreme point. Like he wants to bleed life dry.”
Sirius tried not to preen, but it was hard. At least his own blush was reflected on Remus’ face.
“Would you read me something?” he asked after a minute.
“Anything of his?” Remus nibbled on his lip.
Sirius was inclined to say yes, anything but here in the soft light with everything out in the open he felt it was safe to be honest about what he really wanted.
“Something that reminds you of me, I suppose. If there– I mean if you can think of anything offhand, that is.” He rubbed a hand over his cheek, confirming his suspicion that it was, in fact, burning.
“Like your head needs any more enlarging,” Remus sniped fondly, but he rose with an aggrieved sigh and tiptoed across the room, returning with a book. A page was dog-eared and a particular passage was underlined in blueish-black ink. “This, well– this part always makes me think of you… or maybe us there together, ” Remus said, smiling sheepishly. Sirius laced their fingers together reassuringly and Remus brought them up to the start of the underlined passage to trace lightly as he read. After a few lines Sirius joined in his own hushed whisper. It was surprisingly easy for them to fall into rhythm together, but then, it always had been.
“You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing.
Only your eyes are unclosed to see the black and folded town fast, and slow, asleep.
And you alone can hear the invisible starfall, the darkest-before- dawn minutely dewgrazed stir of the black, dab-filled sea where the Arethusa, the Curlew and the Skylark, Zanzibar, Rhiannon, the Rover, the Cormorant, and the Star of Wales tilt and ride.
Listen. It is night moving in the streets, the processional salt slow musical wind in Coronation Street and Cockle Row, it is the grass growing on Llareggub Hill, dewfall, starfall, the sleep of birds in Milk Wood…”