These Inconvenient Desires

S

It's six o'clock in the morning, and Sirius's cat is on his face.

This, Sirius thinks, is probably a metaphor for the state of his life.

Perhaps. He's not up to contemplating it any further yet. He hasn't even had his tea.

'Off,' he says, the sound muffled by a mouthful of fur. He rolls over and dumps Ziggy onto the floor, and she makes an unhappy noise as she slinks out of his room, probably to go throw up in his shoes out of spite.

Right. First day of the term, then. Starting the year off with cat hair in his mouth.

He hauls himself out of bed and puts a kettle on, almost tripping over the stack of books and scripts by his bedroom door before he finds his glasses. He should really finish going through all that shit eventually. They've been piling up for almost a year now, odds and ends that he
always means to get around to but never does.

James calls it his bird's nest. James can fuck off, really.

It's been a boring summer, like the one before it and the one before that. He read a book. He bought a new set of bath towels. He spent three days marathoning trashy American reality television on his laptop and getting food delivered to his flat. He definitely did not get asked on
any dates.

He leans against his kitchen counter and stares at his collection of mismatched mugs and tries not to think too hard about it.

He turns the shower on and leaves it running as he makes his tea, having learned years ago how to arrange his morning routine around the ten minutes it takes for the dodgy water heater in his building to kick in. He's lived here ever since he moved to Manchester when he was twenty-two, and it's full of the last three years of his life, the curtains from his mum and the programmes on his bookshelf. He's managed to slowly accumulate a respectable collection of furniture, all
of which actually matches. It's nice enough, even if he can't do anything about that place on the living room wall where Peter got too drunk and pitched a beer bottle at it.

When he's finished his tea and dried his hair, he pulls on some pants and pads over to his closet.

Dressing for work is always a bit tricky.

He's not like James, who effortlessly charms all of the mothers (and some of the fathers) just by existing. James can get away with having a trendy haircut and dressing like a hipster librarian with a motorbike fetish because he's James. And anyway, James is an English teacher; fashion sense just makes him seem more sensitive and artistic. Sirius teaches drama, which comes with different stereotypes. There's a fine line between artistic and camp, and wearing leather boots would take Sirius right over it.

So it's braces and trousers and dress shoes for Sirius, pressed shirts with the sleeves rolled up, the occasional sensible jumper when it's cold enough. It's a classic look, and he takes pride in it. It takes time to get his hair to that state of artfully windswept, though, so he has to set
his alarm for six and try not to let the ungodly hour send him into a homicidal rage for the rest of the day.

As much as he hates getting up early and spending most of his evenings marking, he likes his job. Well, most of the time he likes his job. On the days when nobody asks him for the ten millionth time to explain something he's already gone over or breaks one of his lighting trusses
right before a dress rehearsal, he likes his job. He likes working with kids, likes putting on shows and getting paid to talk about theater all day.

'You like your job,' he tells his reflection on the side of the toaster, waiting for his bread to brown.

He leaves Ziggy with a bowl of food and a pat on the head as recompense for kicking her out of bed earlier, ignoring the icy glare she gives him in return. Then it's a final check in the mirror and out the door, bag slung over his shoulder. He spends the drive to school contemplating what the year might have in store for him and hoping to God for anything other than a repeat of last year's flu pandemic. He had to burn a set of 800 thread count sheets. It was a dark time for
everyone.

His regular parking space awaits him when he pulls into the carpark.

He's come back during the break for meetings and workshops and days of preparing his classroom, but it still feels like he hasn't been back in months. The same brick buildings, the same football pitch, the same scuffed bumper of a French teacher's car staring back at him.

Another year. Nothing at all has changed.

He happens to catch sight of James as he turns down his hallway, mostly just a quiff and a cloud of cardigan-wearing gloom coming down the hall with a giant book tucked under one elbow. He's nursing a thermos of coffee and still seems to be half asleep, and Sirius really can't be
expected to let that grumpy face go unharassed.

'First day of school!' Sirius says brightly, cuffing him on the shoulder
as he passes. 'Perk up, sunshine!'

James scowls at him, and Sirius smiles back, pleased that at least one person in the world hates mornings more than he does. 'Go fuck yourself,' James mumbles.

'Now, now, mind your language,' Sirius teases. 'We are the moulders of tomorrow, remember?'

'I'm going to mould this book into your face,' James says.

'Love you too,' Sirius says, and they split apart, James off to the stairs and Sirius continuing down the hall to his classroom.

He and James came on staff the same year and became best mates almost immediately through the shared terror of their first year in the faculty and a mutual appreciation of each other's fashion sense amidst a sea of tartan and beige. James started out as a teaching assistant, but
took over the spot when the previous English teacher retired. They've since earned a bit of a reputation for mischief, which Sirius is not sure is really fair. So maybe they've been known to administer field sobriety tests to random students in the hallway, and maybe they accidentally-on-purpose planted the idea of putting glitter in the air vents as a graduation prank. They both have sound alibis for the time the assistant headmaster's car wound up on the roof, and even if they had hypothetically been involved, it would have been all James's idea.

Hypothetically.

Their second year, Peter got hired fresh out of uni as the assistant orchestra director, and he fell in with the two of them right away. He's a good sort, relaxed as can be and always reliable, though he's generally more likely to sit and laugh at their schemes than participate in them.

Sirius knows they're generally regarded as the 'cool' teachers, the youngest ones and the ones least likely to write you up for a uniform infraction. He also knows that James is 'the fit one,' the one whose classes are always anxiously anticipated at the start of every new year.

It's understandable. Sirius honestly pities any unsuspecting, pubescent teen who shows up for their first day of school and is confronted with Mr. Potter reading Wordsworth with his soulful eyes and dramatic cheekbones.

James's eyes, soulful or not, are irrelevant now, because he's got a full day of trying to keep a bunch of teenagers from slipping into a vegetative state while he goes over syllabi. His first year he'd been given the typical arrangement of teaching his class in the theatre, but if there's one thing Sirius needs it's his own space, and after a year of nagging the administration and being interrupted by assemblies and spelling competitions, he'd been granted his own classroom. It's not much, but at least it's his.

That should really be the tagline of his life, to be honest.

The students start filtering in slowly, small clusters that settle into desks at random. Sirius notices a lot of familiar faces. He's been around long enough to have seen most of them in the halls at some point or another, and many of the ones who end up in his classes have already been in at least one of his productions. By the time the bell rings, there are only a few he doesn't recognize, new students or ones that managed to fly below his radar. Excellent. Always fun the first day. Nobody ever really knows what to expect from him.

Sirius shuts the door and hops up on his desk, sitting cross-legged in front of the class.

'All right,' Sirius says, adjusting his glasses. 'Let's skip the part where I tell you good morning like I'm not already on my third cuppa and you say it back like you're happy to be wearing ties this early in the morning.'

A nervous sort of laugh ripples through the classroom, and Sirius smiles. He forgets sometimes that he's actually quite good at this.

'As most of you already know, my name is Mr. Black,' he goes on. 'Before anyone asks, I'm from London, I'm a Scorpio, I enjoy long walks to the vending machine on the third floor, and yes, McDonnell, I'm expecting your mum to send toffee again for the night rehearsals this year.'

Another laugh. Sirius feels a bit more of the tension ease out of the room.

'I'm sure some of you are thinking this course will be an easy way to get high marks without having to do much work. Its okay, nothing to be ashamed of. I did it myself when I was your age,' Sirius says mildly.

'But I regret to inform you that if you're expecting to pass this class without ever cracking a book or doing your coursework, you are tragically mistaken. We'll be covering some of the basics of theater, learning about some of the great playwrights, practicing acting and
improvisation as well as some writing. It's going to be fun. I swear. If you don't have any fun all year, you have full permission to smack me 'round the head.'

Ice sufficiently broken, Sirius passes out packets listing important dates for the term and explaining his marking policy. The rest of the day goes by in the same vein, and come lunchtime, Sirius is feeling rather pleased with his work indeed.

There's more than one teacher's lounge in the school, but one in particular is on the same hallway as Sirius's classroom, so naturally he claimed it as his by the end of his first month. It's the smallest of all of them, just a table with four chairs and a small adjoining toilet. Small,
but definitely good enough, and everyone in the faculty knows that lunches there belong to Sirius, James, and Peter.

Sirius thinks, as they sit laughing about their plans for the year around their own personal table, that his gift for expanding into the space around him is probably his most useful attribute. Starfishing, he calls it. He is a starfish.

'Obviously I'm keeping the spring musical,' Sirius tells them, 'but I'm thinking about doing a Shakespeare in the fall. What do you think?'

'I think it sounds like you're going to make me help you with two shows instead of one,' Peter says.

'There's a good man,' Sirius says, patting Peter on the back. 'Thank you for volunteering.'

'Yo''re going to consult me on this, right?' James cuts in, giving Sirius a look over his coffee. 'You're not going to let a bunch of fifteen-year-olds butcher the poor bard, are you?'

'Believe it or not, Jamie, I know a thing or two about Shakespeare,' Sirius says. 'Just because I don't spend my life analyzing sonnets doesn't mean I'm an idiot.'

James laughs and elbows him. 'You might be an idiot.'

'What's on the reading list this year, James?' Sirius says. 'Fahrenheit 451? 'It was a pleasure to burn…''

'Ha ha,' James deadpans while Peter snorts into his lunch. 'Fireman jokes. You're hilarious.'
The rest of the first week rolls by smoothly, and Sirius starts to settle back into his work routine. It's nice to feel like he has some kind of purpose again after months of treading water. For the most part, his students seem genuinely enthusiastic about the more hands-on parts of the class already, and they only groan a little when he assigns them reading over the weekend. All in all, it's a good start, and when Sirius settles down on Friday evening with Ziggy and a takeaway, he's not unhappy with himself.

It's his life, and it's mostly quiet nights alone and the places where bitterness made him harder years ago, but it's all right, and he does his best to ignore the stagnant feeling in his stomach.

--

Sirius isn't sure why, in a world that contains iPhones, basic sound equipment still requires enough cords to strangle an average-size ox. Surely this should have been sorted out by now. Surely there are scientists who could be using their science to fix this. Surely that is what science is for.

Peter brought the speakers by, wheeling them in on the AV cart, and then returned with a giant cardboard box. 'Anything you need should be in there somewhere,' he said, probably perfectly aware of the hell he was casting Sirius into. The bastard.

Fifteen minutes later, Sirius is still digging through the box, looking for the cord to connect his laptop to the speakers. He'd planned to play some songs from La Boheme and Rent so his students could compare the two interpretations, and he would be damned if they were going to
listen to opera through his shitty laptop speakers. Some things are sacred.

Some sacred lesson plans are going to have to be scrapped, though, if he can't find the goddamned cord he needs. The box is half as tall as Sirius himself, and he's bent nearly double, hunting through the dozens of seemingly-identical black wires that remain.

After an eternity, he spots what he thinks is the right cable, all the way at the bottom. Thank the sweet USB-compatible baby Jesus. Holding his glasses on with one hand, he reaches, reaches, brushes it with his fingertips, and……loses his balance, his torso falling into the box, his legs flailing above him before tipping over and carrying him through what is almost certainly the least graceful somersault of all time. He lies there for a moment, sprawled on his back, his upper body and head still inside the box and covered with speaker cables. The cord he needs
is draped over his face. Mocking him.

'Um, you alright in there?' says a voice, obviously holding back laughter.

There is a person in his classroom. A witness to his current state. Sirius stares at the roof of his cardboard cube of shame and considers remaining in this box for the rest of his life.
No. This will not do. A Black never admits defeat.

'Yes, perfectly all right!' he says cheerfully. 'That was entirely intentional.' He begins to shimmy out of the box with what he assumes can only be the utmost agility. 'Gymnastics, you know. Working on my floor routine.'

Free of his recyclable prison, he looks up to see who has caught him in this predicament.

Oh. Oh.

Sirius is struck with the sudden urge to light himself on fire. His would-be rescuer is a young man, which Sirius had known from the voice, but he had not been prepared for this. Brown wispy hair, green eyes, and a smile that Sirius likes so much that he feels slightly violated. And no one should look that good in a plain white t-shirt and cargo shorts. He's leaning against the doorway to Sirius's classroom, staring at him.

Sirius blinks. He's still there. Self-immolation is looking more and more appealing. At least James could flirt with that hot fireman he's obsessed with over Sirius's smoldering remains.

Some good could come of this yet.

Sirius has never seen this person before in his life. He is sure of that. He would remember.

He pulls up his braces, which have fallen on one side, and fumbles for words that won't make him sound like a complete idiot. What comes out of his mouth is, 'Who the fuck are you?'

Smooth, Black. Very nice.

The newly-discovered bane of his existence just laughs—Jesus, he's got dimples—and pushes away from the doorframe. 'I'm Remus,' he says. 'Was passing by, heard a crash, figured you might need a hand,' he continues, holding out said hand to Sirius. Sirius grabs ahold, and Remus
pulls him up. Somewhere between the ground and standing upright, Sirius realises that his legs are entirely entangled in cords, and he can do nothing but look on in horror as his momentum carries him directly into Remus's chest. It's a very nice chest. Broad, solid, warm. Oh, God. He should have stayed in the box. He hadn't fully appreciated his time in the box. He had been so young, so foolish.

Remus just laughs again and holds Sirius upright by his waist with one hand, and fuck, Sirius hates him already. 'Hold still, we'll get you sorted,' he says. He drops to his knees and gets to work untangling the cables around Sirius's legs. Sirius stares stoically at the wall and refuses to contemplate the state of his life.

There is an extremely attractive stranger kneeling at eye level with his crotch. No. Nope. Not going to process this information.

'There we go, almost free,' Remus says, rising to his feet with the end of a cord in one hand. 'Give us a twirl, then,' he says, tugging slightly on the cable.

Sirius complies, his ears burning, and pirouettes his way to freedom. If he's going to be made to look ridiculous, he's not going to do it halfway.

Remus outright giggles. 'You've got the gold medal in the bag, I think.'

Sirius gives an exaggerated bow. 'You're clearly a man of taste.' He pauses a moment, shifting his weight. 'Um, thanks for your help. Do you think you could be convinced to, er, never tell anyone about this? Ever.'

Remus just smiles his horrible smile. 'Not a problem. I won't reveal your routine to the Russians. You need any help with the rest of this?' he asks, gesturing to the audio equipment. 'I'm handy with a speaker.'

The idea of spending another full minute in his presence makes Sirius want to rip off his own skin. 'Oh, no, I think I'm all right, thanks,' he says hurriedly. 'It was nice to meet you, Remus.'

'Nice to meet you too, Mr…' Remus trails off.

Sirius briefly considers giving a fake name before remembering it's still written across the damn board from the first day of school. 'Black. Sirius,' he adds, holding out his hand.

Remus's grin widens. 'Sirius,' he says, grasping his hand. 'I'll see you around.' And then he's gone.

Sirius lets out the breath he's apparently been holding the entire time, and turns toward the box to find—or re-find, he supposes—the cord he needs. This is all Peter's fault.

He nearly trips over himself again when a thought strikes. He asked for my last name, not my first. Oh God. Oh no.

At lunch, James shrugs off his concerns and continues shoveling chips into his mouth. 'He doesn't have to be a student. And anyway, the way you described him? Sounds way too hot to be a teenager.'

Sirius keeps his head buried in his hands. 'Maybe he's just freakishly developed.' He peers out between his fingers. 'Who knows what the hormones in our food are doing to the youth, James.' He had been ogling a student. A child. He had been contemplating the pectoral firmness of a child.

James reaches out and snatches a piece of grilled chicken from Sirius's salad. Sirius makes an outraged noise and bats at his hand, but to no avail. 'Hey, I'm just protecting you from the hormones, man,' James says smugly, before popping the chicken into his mouth. 'But back to
how you're probably going to prison.'

Sirius groans and drops face-first into his salad.

He doesn't see the possibly hormonally-overdosed teen for two days, and is beginning to think that he must have imagined the whole thing in a concussed haze. Head injuries could cause hallucinations, right? Of course they could. And you probably can't go to prison over
hallucinations.

He should have known his luck would run out eventually. He's walking to his car Friday afternoon, contemplating whether it's going to be a red or white wine kind of night, when a football comes careening into his field of vision and hits his car squarely on the back bumper.

Normally he'd be angry, but as it is he just slumps slightly in defeat. He'd probably be able to summon up more outrage if his car weren't such a piece of shit. Or if he weren't so exhausted.

'Sorry! Sorry,' a voice says behind him. He does his best to put some energy into a withering glare as he turns around, but his face drops into something closer to 'cornered animal' when he sees who's approaching.

'Hey, Sirius!' Remus says, all smiles and sweat. 'I'm really sorry about that, the lads don't know what they're doing quite yet.' The lads. Sirius takes him in. Trainers. Football shorts. Another thrice-damned white t- shirt. Christ in heaven, he's on the football team. He starts composing headlines in his head. JOCK SHOCK! Local teacher huge pervert, shunned forever.

'It's… it's fine,' he chokes out.

'Not really, since it's my job to make sure they don't embarrass themselves,' Remus says, picking up the football. It's only then that Sirius sees the silver whistle hanging from a cord around his neck, bouncing against his chest when he stands back up.

'You're,' Sirius swallows, 'you're a new P.E. teacher, then?'

'Sort of,' Remus says. 'Technical title is 'assistant instructor.' Mostly my job is showing up in the afternoons to help with the footy. But yeah, I'm supposed to keep that lot from kicking balls into the carpark, so feel free to yell at me.'

Fireworks are going off in Sirius' head. 'Ah, it's not a big deal.' Marching bands in his brain. 'My car's majority dents at this point anyway, one more won't hurt.' Remus laughs. Sirius isn't going to prison.

'I didn't ask earlier, what do you teach?' Remus says, tossing the football in the air and catching it.

'Drama,' Sirius says, tracking the ball's movements with his eyes. 'The, um, incident you witnessed earlier was part of an attempt to interest my students in opera. Didn't quite work out.'

'So are you in charge of putting on plays and all that?' Remus asks, still tossing the football.

'Yeah, that's me. Some of the other teachers help out though, with the set and all that. Peter Pettigrew usually ends up being our sound guy for the musical.'

Remus's face lights up. 'Peter the orchestra director? Peter's brilliant! I'm actually going to be helping him out with some AV stuff this term on the side.' He finally catches the football and puts it under one arm. 'To be honest, I don't have much on my plate during the afternoons, so
I'm pleased to have something to do.'

Sirius smiles as if his to-do list for the entire year hasn't just been rearranged around his afternoons. 'Well I'm hopeless with electronics, so I'm glad to have someone besides Peter to harass for help.'

Remus looks like he's about to say something, but a voice comes from the football pitch. 'Lupin! Did that football roll to Siberia? Hurry up!' He turns toward the pitch and shouts back 'Coming!' He looks back at Sirius, walking backwards. 'Well, feel free to harass me anytime, Sirius Black,' he says with a cheeky grin before turning around and jogging back to the pitch.

Sirius holds off a minor panic attack long enough to admire the view.

It's not until he gets home that he thinks to text James.

he's not a student. u r officially still crazier than me.

It seems like there's some kind of cosmic force at work here, because Sirius keeps running into Remus over the next few days. When he stops by the front office to pick up some forms, Remus is there, posting a schedule of football matches on the bulletin board by the desk. When he drops in on Peter after school to ask about some sheet music, Remus is just hanging out in the percussion storage closet, fucking around on some tenor drums.

They make friendly conversation every time, never much awkwardness between them. Sirius would chalk it up to the fact that saving someone from being strangled to death by a box full of wires goes a long way in breaking the ice, but it feels like more than that. There's a natural kind
of ease there. Sirius hasn't really clicked with a person right away in years, but every time he runs into Remus, he can feel pieces falling into place.

Sirius is just on his way to buy a drink from his favorite vending machine, the one on the third floor, when it happens again. He's minding his own business, really. All he wanted was a nice refreshing beverage, not to be blindsided with the sight of Remus in a v-neck with the sleeves rolled up, one arm braced against the vending machine.

Remus is attractive. Remus is very, very attractive. This is not news.

When is he going to stop feeling like he's been concussed every time he sees him? Is this some kind of psychophysical conditioning from the first time they met? Does he have brain damage?

Remus is so attractive he makes Sirius feel like he's got brain damage. This is not a good situation.

Sirius has half a mind to turn around and flee back down the stairs to the safety of his starfishy home, but he finds himself powerless to do so, propelled mindlessly forward by some force he doesn't understand.

Brain damage. Definitely brain damage.

'Hello again,' Sirius says as he draws up within earshot, tone deceptively casual. Remus looks up at the sound of his voice and grins.

'I;m starting to think you're stalking me,' Remus says, mischief in his eyes.

Sirius laughs. 'You've caught me. I like to attach myself to people who remind me of a time when I humiliated myself over AV equipment. It's a hobby of mine.'

'I see,' Remus says, still grinning. 'Out of curiosity, would another hobby of yours happen to be getting crisps unstuck from machines? Because I'm sort of out of money and that was supposed to be my lunch.'

Sirius manages to pull his eyes away from Remus's face to assess the scene and, yes, there's a packet of crisps lodged up high in the machine.

'Ah, yes,' Sirius says. 'This one is a bit dodgy. Best food selection of the lot around here, but very moody as well. You've got to have some finesse with it.'

'Okay,' Remus says. 'Show me.'

Sirius has done this exact routine dozens of times on his own, but it has never really occurred to him how ridiculous it actually looks until Remus is standing there, watching him expectantly. Luckily, Sirius has a great deal of experience taking shelter behind ridiculousness. He grabs
the machine with both hands, gives it a few hard shakes, kicks the bottom left corner, and then slams his hip into the right side.

The packet of crisps falls down with a sound of quiet defeat.

'You're amazing,' Remus says gratefully, and Sirius can do nothing but smile dumbly and step aside to let Remus retrieve his food.

'Is that really all you're having for lunch?' Sirius asks him.

Remus shrugs. 'I've got to go to a coach's meeting in an hour. Didn't really feel like going all the way back to my flat just to turn around and leave again. Figured I'd just go eat in my car or something.'

'That's rubbish,' Sirius says, speaking before he even realises he's come to a decision. 'You're one of us now. Come sit with me.'

Remus's face lights up before Sirius has a chance to consider backpedaling. 'Yeah, all right. Have you got a lounge? I've never actually been in one of those.'

'Oh, Remus,' Sirius says. 'We've much to teach you about the ways of the world.'
J

'I swear to God, if you come out here in anything leather, I am locking you in a supply closet,' Sirius is shouting.

James pulls a face at the door, knowing Sirius is sitting on the other side with his salad, taking up as much space as possible at the lounge's only table with Peter and that fit footy coach he's made friends with. With whom he's made friends. God, the thought of this afternoon has already got him so flustered he's dangling his prepositions. He meets his own eyes in the mirror of the tiny bathroom and shrugs his leather jacket on over his undershirt, smoothing out the collar. He's finally got his hair just right, artfully disheveled quiff like it happened by accident, and he knows how good his arse looks in these trousers.

Right. Okay, boots on, stuff the cardigan in the bag, and then a final once-over before he's ready.

'Should I wear the glasses?' he yells back through the door, frowning at his reflection. 'I want to look, like, smart and adult, but I don't know. Are they too hipster-y?'

'James, darling, that man is so oblivious you could sashay up to him wearing gold lamé shorts and he'd just thank you for coming to the assembly,' Sirius tells him. 'Now come out before you sprain something. I know you're in there pouting at yourself in the mirror.'

James sighs. Sirius isn't wrong on either count. In the end, he decides to leave the glasses on. They sort of balance out the whole rocker look, like, yes, I am edgy and mysterious, but I also read Byron and enjoy expensive cheeses.

He scoops up his duffle bag and opens the door, and Sirius immediately
throws down his fork.

'Christ,' Sirius moans. Next to him, Peter lets out a wolf whistle.

'Don't start,' James says. 'Either of you.'

'Sorry, sorry,' Sirius says, kneading his temples with his fingers. 'I'm just having war flashbacks to the last time I had to spend my afternoon trying to contain a teenage sex riot because of this shit. Are you trying to get arrested?'

'It's not that bad,' James mumbles, sinking into his chair.

Sirius scoffs. 'You look like you fell out of a music video.'

'You know what day it is,' James says.

'That's no excuse!'

'What day is it?' the football coach—Remus, James thinks—says, squinting between Sirius and James over his bag of crisps.

'Fire Safety Awareness Day,' he, Sirius, and Peter say in unison, Sirius with an air of dread and Peter through a mouthful of chips. Remus just stares at them.

'You see, dear Remus,' Sirius says, 'when a man loves another man very, very much—'

'Shut up!' James says. He can feel his ears going hot.

'I was just going to tell the story!' Sirius says.

'Don't,' James says. 'You tell it wrong.'

'I do not!' Sirius says, doing his best to look deeply affronted. He throws a wink toward Remus, who bites back a grin. He doesn't seem to react otherwise, though, and James is briefly thankful that, even if Sirius is a trivialising arsehole, he doesn't make friends with homophobic dicks. 'I tell it with the drama and theatricality it so richly deserves, as is my gift as a purveyor of the arts.'

'Who's the one with the book deal, here, you or me? Anyway, you make it sound stupid!' James says. He looks down, fingering the handle of his mug. He spent too long in the bathroom. His coffee's gone cold. 'It's not stupid.'

'All right then,' Sirius says. 'You tell it.'

'Yeah,' Remus agrees. He drops his elbows on the table and props his chin up on his hands, crisps completely forgotten, blinking at James expectantly.

James takes care to heave his best long-suffering sigh, lest anyone catch on to the fact that he basically spends most of his life waiting for someone to bring up the subject. It's his favorite story to tell, and he knows Sirius is going to call him out on it if he doesn't start now.

'Well,' James begins, 'it started about a year ago. It was—'

'The end of September!' Sirius interrupts. 'The first crisp chill in the
air seemed to speak of new—'

'I'm telling the story!'

'Right, sorry,' Sirius says, grinning across the table at him, 'carry on.'

'Anyway,' James continues. 'It was about a year ago. I had borrowed this ancient Yeats book from the library—you know, the poet? So I returned it, and a week later I realised I'd left this photo of my mum stuck in it, so I went to the library to try to get it back out, only the book was gone. They'd started running out of shelf space, so they'd sold a bunch of books to make room for new ones, yeah? And somebody'd bought the book, and they'd paid in cash so I couldn't even find their name to try to get it back.

'A couple of months later, I was just sitting around my apartment watching telly when somebody knocked on the door. I almost didn't open it because I wasn't expecting anyone. I don't know why I answered the door, but in the end I did. And there was just this... man.'

James can feel himself starting to smile now, not at any of them but at a fixed point high on the wall opposite him and the memory of a warm hand and a crinkled up smile. He knows himself, knows his brain and knows that he could wax poetic about Regulus for hours if anyone would
let him. He once got drunk and spent the entire night hunched over Sirius' coffee table rhapsodising, half sloppy poetry quotes and half long-winded descriptions of the shape of Regulus's lips. Sirius has never fully recovered from what he claims was a 'traumatic life event' and still flinches any time anyone says the word supple. James has learned to try to keep most of it reined in, even if it is his own personal ongoing literary masterpiece.

He pulls the memory of that night up again for the millionth time. By now it almost feels frayed at the edges, worn in and comfortable, himself barefoot in bleach stained track bottoms and Regulus in the dim light of the hallway, collar of his t-shirt pulled too far over on one side.

'He was gorgeous,' James tells them. 'These big grey eyes that were just like, you could tell he was the nicest person on the planet just from looking at them. Just standing on my doorstep in jeans and a t-shirt, smiling at me like we'd known each other forever, and he hands me the
picture of my mum. Says he bought the book a few months ago but didn't find the picture until last week, and he thought I might like it back, so he went to the library and got my name and address from their records. And I just sort of... gaped at him until he shoved the picture into my hand and managed to get my head sorted enough to thank him before he left, and then he was gone, and I didn't realise until ten minutes later that I hadn't asked his name. Literally the perfect man showed up on my doorstep—gorgeous, nice, reads fucking Yeats—and I just let him walk away like an idiot.

'And then, right before Christmas hols, a transformer blew right in front of the school and the fire department came. They sent one of the blokes in to check to make sure no students were hurt, and it was him. In full fireman gear. And he remembered me. Stopped what he was doing and went out of his way to come talk to me, shook my hand, apologized for not introducing himself before, told me his name was Regulus.'

'And then,' Sirius puts in, 'you decided that the best way to his heart is to spend the rest of your life creating small emergencies so you have to call the fire department, instead of asking him to dinner like a sane person.'

'It sounds worse than it is when you put it like that!' James says, dropping his eyes to glare at Sirius. 'I don't even know if he likes men yet! This, this is destiny. This is my Pride and Prejudice, all right, and I only get one shot at it, and I'm not about to fuck it up by going for it
too early. I'm just, you know, nudging destiny along a bit.'

'You could also fuck it up by giving him the impression that you're an arsonist. Generally a turn-off for a person who saves people from fires for a living,' Sirius says. 'Jane Austen never tried to cause a chemical explosion in the science lab.'

'You can't prove that was me,' James says. 'Look, I'm just saying, there's no way this was all a coincidence. One day everything is going to fall into place, and it'll just happen perfectly, and okay, maybe I have to have a cig under a smoke detector or two for that to happen. I'm only a man, Sirius. Who am I to argue with destiny?'

'Holy shit,' Remus speaks up finally. And then he leans forward in his
seat and says, 'How can I help?'

'Oh God,' Sirius groans, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. 'Don't
encourage him!'

'But this is brilliant, though!' Remus says. 'Besides, didn't you hear? I'm not encouraging him, I'm encouraging destiny, you scrooge.'

'I'm not a scrooge,' Sirius huffs, 'I'm a realist.'

'You are, though! You're Ebenezer Black,' James agrees with laugh, and Remus laughs too. Sirius is looking at James like he'd like to strangle him with his scarf, which just makes James laugh harder.

'The scroogiest,' Remus adds.

'I like this one,' James says, extending a fist to Remus, and Remus doesn't miss a beat before bumping his own knuckles against it. 'I think we'll get on just fine.'

'Great, now I've got two daft romantics getting feelings all over the place,' Sirius sighs. 'This won't do at all. Peter, tell me you still don't give a fuck about anything but where your next meal's coming from.'

'I think you're all mad,' Peter says with a shrug. 'You too, Sirius. You're mad for caring so much.'

'Shove off.'

Peter just shrugs again and goes back to his chips.

'Anyway, as I was saying before I was ruthlessly betrayed by everyone in this room,' Sirius says, adjusting his glasses with what he must think is utmost dignity and switching his attention back to Remus, 'the point of all this is that once a term there's Fire Safety Awareness Day, and
they send a couple of firemen to come talk to the school about not setting your mum's drapes on fire or whatever—don't get any ideas, James—ow!'

James just grins as Sirius makes a production of rubbing his shin where James kicked it under the table. Justice served.

'They always send Regulus because he's so good with the students,' James tells Remus. 'He's charming.'

'He's hot,' Sirius says. 'They're almost as bad over him as they are over you.'

'Can't blame them really,' James says.

'I don't know if that was a reference to your fireman or your own vanity,' Sirius says, 'but either way, ugh.'

'You're just as vain as I am and you know it,' James says. 'Don't make me dig your Bebo back up, because I will.'

'I don't know what you're on about,' Sirius says, kicking him back. He glances at his phone, checking the time. 'Well, if we don't leave soon, you're going to miss your chance to talk to your man before the assembly, and as much I loathe assemblies, I do so love watching you melt into a warm, stuttering puddle of pomade.'

'Shut up,' James says, but as he's getting out of his chair he feels his heart already starting to kick up into his throat a little. It's kind of ridiculous, really, because he's spoken to Regulus dozens of times before.

The time with the flooded basement, both times Sirius' cat got stuck up a tree. They had a really nice conversation about ceiling tiles that one time someone—James's not saying who—called in an anonymous report that the sprinklers in his hallway weren't up to code. They're friendly acquaintances by now. James has plenty of friendly acquaintances. He's a grown man and he's pretty damn far from a blushing virgin by now in any regard.

So it's ridiculous that by the time they reach the theatre and James's eyes hone in on Regulus in a t-shirt and the bottom half of his fireman suit, his entire brain has gone fuzzy.

'Go on,' Sirius says, pushing James in Regulus's direction. 'Go say hello.'

'Right,' James says. He sets his shoulders. He can do this. He is sex on legs. Lesser beings fall in his path.

He makes his way down the aisle while the other three slide into a row of seats near the front. Regulus is in the middle of a conversation with one of the other firefighters, looking as always like the world's most attractive boy-next-door. But in a fireman suit. James wonders what he
ever did to deserve this.

He's been rehearsing for days exactly what he would say. He's recited it in front of the mirror a thousand times, practiced exactly what the look on his face should be when he says it. It's the perfect opening line, smart and casual and just funny enough to be intriguing.

As he's on the last few steps, Regulus turns and sees him and breaks into a grin, and James cannot for the life of him remember what the hell he was going to say.

'Hello,' he says lamely. He can't feel his face.

'Hi, James!' Regulus says, reaching out to shake James's hand. 'How are you?'

He doesn't know. James does not know how he is.

'All right,' he manages.

'Glad to hear it,' Regulus says, and he actually sounds like it. 'Ready for the assembly?'

'Same every term, isn't it?' James hears himself say and immediately wishes he could take it back because why the fuck did he say that? Now just he sounds like a fucking dick.

Regulus just laughs, though, unfazed. 'Spot on. I love talking to kids, but between you and me, I'm getting a bit sick of reading these cards.'

'Cool,' James says. 'I have to go now.'

Regulus looks a bit disappointed, but James's tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and he's already slowly backing away. 'Oh, okay!' Regulus says. 'Good to see you!'

James turns and flees back up the aisle, already thinking about the bottle of vodka in his freezer at home. That was it. The thing he's been working toward all week, and he fucking blew it, again, because he always blows it, because he can get anyone in the world to fuck him except for the one person in the world who actually matters. He should be studied by scientists, honestly. Something is wrong with him.

'How'd it go?' Sirius says as soon as James sits down between him and Peter. Remus's leaning forward in his seat on the other side of Sirius.

'Leave me alone,' James says, trying not to sound as miserable as he feels.

'Did you tell him you'd like to slide down his pole?' Sirius says.

'Shut up,' James says.

'Did he ask to climb your ladder?' Sirius asks, poking James in the side.

'You're not funny,' James says.

'You should ask to see his hose,' Remus chips in, and Sirius looks like he's just won the fucking lottery.

'I hope you all die of dysentery,' James tells them.

At least, James thinks, he may not be floating alone in this particular sea of despair for much longer. He can see the way Sirius looks at Remus, the way his elbow is hanging over Remus's side of the shared armrest, the way he laughs when Remus leans in and says something in his ear in the middle of the assembly. It's too early to tell, really, but he makes a mental note, sets the date of Sirius' downfall some day in the near future.