These Inconvenient Desires

S

Classes have really started to pick up momentum now that everyone's had a couple of weeks to adjust to new people and new schedules. He can hear Peter putting the brass section through their paces when he passes the orchestra room, already preparing for their autumn concert,
and James won't shut up about the unit he's doing on Wordsworth, which is almost worse than when he won't shut up about Regulus. Even Remus is starting to get serious about putting the lads through drills, although he still takes the time to eat lunch with them every day.

For his part, Sirius has chosen Much Ado About Nothing as his Shakespeare, reasoning that it'd probably be better to break the students in on a comedy than one of the heavier plays. He's posted flyers already, and he's holding auditions next month. Until then, though, he's got classes to focus on as well. His strategy with teaching is to start the year off with movement, the fun parts that loosen everybody up and make the kids actually want to show up for class, and then gradually segue into scripts and writing assignments. He made the mistake of trying to open with fundamentals of theater theory in his first year as a teacher, and he thought he was going to off himself by the time they were trudging through Othello. Let no man say Sirius Black does
not learn from his mistakes.

Today, he's sitting on his desk again, supervising one of his classes as they try to make it through a group improv exercise. It's actually hilarious, really. The kids are still learning, and there are a lot of awkward pauses and panicked expressions, but they really are trying.

Up now is Stuart Standhill, imitating a drunk wildebeest to the best of his ability. He turns out to be brilliant at this game, which Sirius was expecting. He's worked with Stuart in his plays before. The boy has a natural gift for drama and excellent comedic timing. That's not really
what Sirius is watching, though.

Sirius watches him bound across the floor, hands above his head, stretching himself up to the laughter of his classmates like a plant in the sun. He smiles a little to himself, but it's almost painful to watch, because he knows. He knows, and it feels like being an immobile
spectator in his own memories.

He remembers two years ago, when James rang him after school sounding absolutely wrung out and told him about how he had to break up a fight in the boys' room on the second floor, how poor Stuart Standhill had had the shit beaten out of him by two of the boys in his year. He remembers how James told him the kid had begged him not to report it, and Sirius understands that so well. He remembers what it's like to just want so badly to be normal, and he'd believed too at that age that turning in the people who hurt you just let everyone else know that you deserved to be hurt.

He's seen Stuart in the halls and on his stage plenty since then, seen the way he is around his friends and the way he is in his classes. He was quieter when he was younger, but in recent years he's become a new person, all jokes and funny faces and high energy all the time. Sirius
knows that particular song and dance all too intimately, spent most of his teen years hiding behind that line of defense. He remembers that constant restless energy, trying so hard to be the loud one or the funny one so that nobody would notice the other way he was different. You
only get one identity at that age, and you can't be 'the gay one' if you're already 'the class clown.'

Stuart's doing his best, really making a go of it. He has a girlfriend every once in a while, a close friend that he'll suddenly be holding hands with in the halls and kissing by her locker. For the most part, though, Sirius can tell that everyone sort of knows. The girls treat him like just another one of their friends, the one who knows six ways to make the uniform jumpers look less tragic and touches up their hair for the spring musical before he reports for mic check. The boys seem torn, half-fascinated by the brilliance of his personality and half-wary of something they'd never say out loud, or at least not in front of him.

Sirius knows Stuart must just pretend not to think about it and pretend not to know it himself, keeps hoping that one day he'll try hard enough and it'll work and everything will be fine.

Sometimes Sirius wonders how long the similarities will last, wonders if Stuart's life is going to end up exactly like his own. He wonders if Stuart will finally stop lying to himself when he's eighteen, if he'll cry into his mum's jumper when he tells her and if there's anybody at home
who'll take care of him. He wonders if he's already had that first awful crush on a straight friend who loves him in every way but the right one.

Sirius almost hopes he has, hopes he's gotten that rib-cracking frustration out of the way early enough that it won't follow him out of his teens. He wonders if, when the time comes, the relief of finally being out will make Stuart a little reckless for the first few years too, if he'll end up with his heart broken enough times that he starts holding people at a safer distance. If he does, he'll be well prepared, ready to fall back into those old habits of keeping his guard up all the time. He wonders if Stuart will be just like him by the time he's twenty-five, a jaded cat owner whose last five shags were meaningless one-night stands that he only halfway enjoyed.

And the thing is, he wants to help him so badly. He wants to sit the lad down behind closed doors and tell him that this won't make him happy, that the parts of him that are bright and safe aren't the only parts of him worth showing people. But he knows that if somebody had done that to
him at that age—if somebody had reached in and shattered the illusion that he was fooling anybody—it probably would have destroyed whatever small sense of security he'd had. It would have sent him retreating back into himself or lashing out, horrified that somebody had seen right through him.

Plus, if he's honest, he doesn't know how to convince someone of something that he's not quite sure of himself.

So he watches, and he does what he can. His class and his productions are safe spaces for everyone, Stuart included and especially. Or at least, they're as safe as Sirius knows how to make them. He hears a couple of lads in the back of the class talking about Stuart once and tells them
they can each do an extra hundred pages of reading for the next day, since they seem to have so much free time on their hands. He knows that they'll just keep talking outside of his classroom, but he'll be damned if it happens within those walls. He doesn't have any delusions of being able to fix anybody's life, but he won't let it get worse right in front of him.

And he waits for Stuart to maybe, one day, come to him. He's one of the youngest teachers at the school, and he's got a reputation as being one of the more open-minded ones. Even if James claims that directing sometimes turns him into 'a prick of volcanic proportions,' he's fairly
well-liked, at least by the Island of Misfit Toys that constitute his drama students. He tries his best to make it clear that he's a person his kids can talk to, and he hopes that's enough.

'And, scene!' Sirius shouts, hopping down from his desk. Stuart freezes in the middle of an elaborate drunk wildebeest mating dance. Sirius kind of just wants to pat him on the head. 'Good work today, all of you. Not afraid to push boundaries. I like that. Maybe no more jokes about the headmaster's Y-fronts though, Miss Harrison.' He points to a freckly girl near the front, who just shrugs in response, and Sirius suppresses a grin. His kind of girl. 'That's all the time we've got for
today. Give yourselves a hand.'

The class applauds and starts gathering up their things and filing out, still laughing about the best bits of the game amongst themselves. Stuart's one of the last ones out, arm around Shelley Harrison, and Sirius gives him a small nod as he passes. Stuart blinks at him, unsure of how to respond, and then he's off down the hall and Sirius is left standing in the doorway watching himself from nine years ago head off to lunch.

It took Remus about a day to figure out that Sirius has a free period after lunch, and he's been coming around every day ever since. Sometimes he just sits quietly while Sirius grades papers or works on lesson plans, but most of the time they're talking, constantly talking, curled up to this
new warmth of each other's company.

Sirius learns that Remus is originally from Wales, but he ended up alone in Manchester when one of his friends promised to let him move in but then got a work transfer at the last minute. He dropped out of uni when he was nineteen and tried his hand at a couple of different things—baking, law classes, singing in a band—but none of them ever quite worked out for him. In the end he kept coming back to photography, so he decided to make a go of it for real. He's in his last year of school now, taking photography classes at a university nearby in the mornings. He's got his eye on a couple of internships, one in London that he seems particularly interested in, but he talks about it like he doesn't think he really has a chance at it. The friend he was supposed to move in with in Manchester is friends with the head P.E. instructor, and he'd felt so bad about leaving Remus without a place to stay that he'd set him up with the coaching job to help him pay the rent.

It's easy to tell that Remus loves photography; he's constantly snapping pictures of things, either with his phone or on the massive camera he carries around sometimes. Sirius learns quickly to dodge out of the way, ducking out of frame when Remus lifts his camera to take a picture of him for no apparent reason. When Remus asks him why he just shrugs. 'Doing you a favor, Remus. I'm so beautiful I'd shatter the lens. Should be thanking me,' he says with a wink, and Remus leaves it at that, for the most part. Still, Sirius stays vigilant, even as he starts collecting facts about Remus.

He learns that Remus loves mushrooms but hates them on pizza, that he's completely serious about Love Actually being his favorite movie, that he's twenty-three years old and has somehow managed to make it this far in life without developing a casual distaste for everything and everyone around him like Sirius has. He still likes to bake things when he's happy. He has a sister he loves and a mum he phones every day, and Sirius is the first friend he's made since he moved to Manchester. He has more than 20,000 songs in his iTunes, half of which are by bands Sirius has never heard of. One afternoon, after Remus plays Sirius five songs in a row that he claims are his 'favorites' and Sirius doesn't know a single one, he seems to reach the end of his rope.

'That's it,' he says, slamming his iPod down with a forcefulness that has Sirius concerned for its well-being. 'When the festivals come around this year, we are going, and you are going to be educated whether you like it or not.'

'I'm really not sure that's necessary—' Sirius starts, but Remus cuts him off.

'Trust me. It's necessary. We are going to Leeds Fest, I am choosing what acts we watch, and you are going to listen to songs that don't have dubstep remixes in them.'

Sirius chews on his pen. 'I'm pretty sure if you look hard enough on YouTube you can find dubstep remixes for pretty much anything.'

'You know what I mean,' Remus says, laughing. 'Don't try to get out of this on a technicality.'

'I just don't see anything wrong with a bit of pop, sue me,' Sirius says. He also doesn't get the appeal of listening to what sounds like several men and possibly a goat weeping into their beards, accompanied by ukelele.

'Me neither!' Remus protests. 'It's just that your opinions on pop are also terrible. Katy Perry over Beyonce, Sir? Really? Are you even human?'

That starts an argument that lasts the rest of Sirius' free period and continues for days. Sirius eventually admits defeat, but that only makes Remus more eager to 'educate' him. After that, Remus starts bringing in a flash drive full of new music for Sirius almost every day. Sirius just
thanks him and tries not to think about what Remus could have intended when he said they would go to festivals together. That's a thing friends do, right? And they're friends now. So if Sirius falls asleep listening to the music Remus's given him, he's just being a good friend. Doing his research.

If he's honest, he also finds that some of it is so boring that it provides a welcome cure for his occasional insomnia, but he's not going to tell Remus that.

There's one thing he doesn't learn about Remus, though, and it's starting to drive him slightly mad. It's not like it really matters. It shouldn't matter. But Sirius' curiosity is killing him. He tries as hard as he can to figure it out without outright asking, dropping hints and chances for Remus to comment on things, but it never works.

The fact remains: Remus Lupin’s sexuality is a fucking mystery.

One afternoon over lunch he manages to manipulate the conversation toward their respective sexual histories, angling it like he's joking around. James is utterly predictable, describing an equal number of men and women while looking extremely pleased with his own ability to pull, then adding dramatically that nobody has seemed to measure up ever since he met Regulus. Peter throws a napkin at his face and mentions his own knack for picking up American girls at pubs, which they all already knew about, and then Remus starts speaking.

'I dunno,' Remus says, shrugging as he swallows a bite of his sandwich. Sirius tries very, very hard not to appear to be hanging on every word. 'I haven't really dated anybody since I turned twenty.'

'But you've slept with people,' James prompts with studied nonchalance, and Sirius can tell by the way he's carefully avoiding his eye that James knows exactly what the point of this conversation is. Sirius honestly forgets sometimes what a good friend James is. He
should buy him a fruit basket one of these days.

Remus laughs a little. 'Yeah, a few people. You know. Casual stuff. None of them were, like, my soulmate, you know? I mean, I liked them all, but nothing serious.'

People. Them. God damn Remus and his fucking aversion to gendered words. Sirius is going to shove him into a pit of bears.

He needs to change his approach. If he wants information out of Remus, maybe he has to give up some of his own. All right. He keeps his eyes closely trained on Remus's face, planning to memorize and analyze any change in his expression.

'Soulmates don't exist, Lupin, no matter how many times James has wanked to Regulus in the shower, so it's not surprising you haven't found yours.' He ignores James's affronted shout and continues. 'I, like you, have sought and found comfort in the realm of casual sex, and haven't
found a single gentleman worth committing to in years.'

So there it is. Out there. His eyes didn't leave Remus's face the entire time he was speaking, and he observed, well, nothing. Not a damn thing. Not a flicker, not a blink, not a twitchy fucking eyebrow. Either Remus Lupin has the poker face of a boulder or he really just does not give a shit about who other people fuck. Overall, one of Sirius' least traumatic yet most aggravating coming-outs.

'That's because you're a cynical dick, though,' Peter says.

Sirius finally shifts his attention away from Remus to bat his eyelashes at Peter. 'Oh, sweetie, you do know how to make a girl feel special.'

'How are you supposed to know if you like them or not if you don't actually, you know, speak to them? Or know their names?' James says. 'Actually, that would be an improvement at this point, when was the last time you even got laid?'

'Ooh, that reminds me, James, how is your father doing?' Sirius simpers, dodging the fork James pegs at him.

All four of them laugh, and conversation meanders away to topics that, if anyone asks Sirius, are far less interesting than figuring out where Remus puts his dick.

Normally, if a guy were as on board the James and Regulus's Epic Destiny train as Remus is, Sirius would assume he was at least a little bit gay. Then again, Remus is a university student—an art student, even, if photography counts—and who even knows what counts as normal straight-guy behavior for them? Plus, if he weren't straight, why wouldn't he have said something about it when James and Sirius did?

Sirius resigns himself to ignorance, but that doesn't stop him from keeping a close eye on Remus over the next few days. If he had ten pence for every guy who'd played it cool when he first came out only to avoid him like the plague later, he'd have at least seventy pence, which can't really buy much but still seems like a lot in context. Three more and he can buy a soda from the third floor vending machine. Metaphorically.

But he'll be damned if he can spot a single difference in Remus's behavior. He keeps coming around all the time, keeps stealing food off his plate, keeps exhibiting zero sense of personal space. Sirius has no idea what his angle is, but he's going to figure it out eventually. He's
dealt with his fair share of charming men in the past, and in his experience, there are no intentions pure enough that he hasn't been able to find the ulterior motives eventually.

Until then, he guesses he'll just enjoy Remus's company, biding his time until he can figure him out. After all, Remus laughs at Sirius' jokes, which is more than enough to justify having him around. Plus, if Sirius is being honest, he likes what Remus brings to the lunch group. It had started to devolve into James and Sirius bickering half-heartedly to pass the time while Peter looked on and contributed the occasional sarcastic remark, all of them knowing exactly how the other two would react to everything they did. He and James are both troublemakers in their own right, and when they don't have something to poke at they turn to each other for entertainment, trading smart remarks for lack of anything better to do. Peter would be the target, but he cares so little about what they say that there's no fun in it. They work as a trio, Peter balancing out James and Sirius' mania, but it had been getting predictable, their banter sliding into routine.

Now there's a new variable, and Sirius is finding he enjoys having Remus in the mix. He never knows who Remus will side with during his mock arguments with James, or if he'll just play the two of them off each other for his own amusement, and having Remus around makes Peter more likely to speak up, too. Suddenly voices fly across the table in new patterns, laughter ringing with real surprise. Sirius hadn't realised that the three of them had been having the same conversations over and over again until Remus changed the script.

Without even trying, Sirius finds himself shifting into a new normal with Remus as an integral part, and he isn't even surprised when he sees that Remus has left his iPod in Sirius' room as he packs up to leave on a Tuesday afternoon. Remus doesn't have a classroom of his own; where would he be leaving his stuff if not Sirius' room?

He grabs it as he leaves, taking the long way out to the carpark so he can swing by the pitch and return it before heading home. He's silently pleased that this time, at least, he has a legitimate reason to stop and talk to Remus, instead of his feet just carrying him that way against his
will. Until now, he's always just walked by, maybe giving Remus a brief wave if he sees him, but there's never been any justification to go over and say hi, and Sirius has never really been one for idle small talk.

Apparently he's become one for altering his daily routine for the sake of a wave, though, which doesn't really bear thinking about. He makes his way over and approaches the fence. It's the closest he's actually come to the pitch while they're practicing, and he finds himself squinting at the players darting around the field, unsure of where to look to find Remus.

'Come on, Richards, I know you've got more than that,' Sirius hears over the noise of practice, and his eyes follow the sound until they land on Remus.

He's running drills. Not just supervising drills like Sirius always assumes he does, but actually running them alongside the boys, shouting instructions and encouragement as he goes. Sirius watches as he zig-zags in between the flags they've set up, hair falling damp in his eyes, t-shirt soaked through with sweat. The sunlight is glistening on his arms. Like, not Mills & Boon glistening. Dirty, rough-and-tumble sports glistening. Sirius was not exactly prepared for this.

When Remus reaches the end of the flags, he looks up and spots Sirius. 'Run it again!' he says, and gives a blast on his whistle. The players take off, and Remus jogs across the pitch. He slows to a stop in front of the fence and twines his fingers through the chain links.

'What's up, Black?' he says, breathing heavily but grinning through it. Sirius is almost having trouble looking directly at him this close, all muscle and energy and control. Remus looks like what bodies were invented for.

It's fucking inconsiderate, is what it is.

'You left this in my room. Figured you'd need it before tomorrow,' Sirius says, slipping the iPod through a gap in the fence. Remus's face lights up when he sees it, and he grabs it happily.

'Oh thank God, thought I'd lost it,' he says. 'I was going to have to lead a two mile run with no music. I probably would have died, thank you so much.'

Sirius swallows and smiles at Remus as if there is not currently a live- action film of Remus running in slow motion to the theme from Chariots of Fire playing in his head. Because that would be crazy. 'You look good,' he blurts out. 'Er—the team, I mean. They seem... well-conditioned.'

Remus breaks out in a grin and, wow, Sirius really needs to get out of there as quickly as possible. 'Thanks! We've been working really hard.'

'Right, hard. Very hard. Um. Er, well—' Sirius starts, preparing to make an excuse to escape.

'You should come to the match at the end of the week,' Remus interrupts.

'Oh, uh, yeah, sure, sounds great!' Sirius says, because it's his best strategy to get out of there as quickly as possible, and not at all because he has trouble saying no to dirty boys. Not that Remus is a dirty boy. Oh God. Abort. Abort. 'Right. Anyway. See you tomorrow!' he says with a slightly manic wave, and then he turns tail and flees.

'See you!' he hears Remus call after him, and his blush doesn't fade until he's halfway home.

--

J

It's been a long day for James already. He's an hour in and he hasn't even managed to get a full cup of coffee yet, the first one too weak and the second spilled all over the passenger seat of his car. He can't make a bunch of teenagers care about dark romanticism versus transcendentalism without some caffeine in his system. He just can't.

It doesn't help that his editor has been on his back all week about getting the next few chapters of his book fully drafted. He's thankful to have an editor at all, completely blown away that anyone looked at the few short stories he's had published and said we want you to write us a book, but it's still stressful to suddenly be writing on someone else's schedule. There's no way she's going to take it well when he tells her he's thinking about changing up part of his plot. His protagonist is a wizard, but something about it isn't feeling right; there needs to be more people. Two wizards? Can he make it about two wizards? He definitely needs caffeine.

He's in the lounge on the second floor, the one with the really nice coffee maker, finally clutching a mug of strong coffee in his hands with nobody to ruin it, when Sirius comes in and sidles up next to him. He looks aggressively pleasant, and James is immediately suspicious. Nine times out of ten, Sirius only looks aggressively pleasant when he wants something or he's hiding something. The rare times when he is actually being aggressively pleasant are also somewhat terrifying, so no good can come of this.

'James, my boy. Have I ever told you that you're my favourite?' Sirius says cheerily, slapping him on the back. Yeah, James is never ignoring his instincts again.

He sighs dramatically. 'What do you want, Black?'

Sirius clutches his imaginary pearls. 'Surely you aren't questioning my sincerity? Can't a man just pay an innocent compliment to his friend, devoid of any ulterior motive?'

James takes a sip of his coffee and feels a little better already, enough to laugh and shove Sirius away from him lightly. 'A man can. You can't.'

Sirius just grins, wrapping an arm around James's shoulders. 'I am stunned, stunned, I say, at your accusations. Wounded, even. Luckily, I know just how you can make it up to me.'

Years of experience have taught James not to bother putting up a fight when Sirius gets like this. Last time he tried, Sirius had sulked for days and somehow James had been the one who ended up apologising. He really needs to get more friends. 'Fine, fine, Jesus. What do you want?'

'That's the James I know and love,' Sirius says. 'You're free tonight, yes?'

God, James would love to have something planned, something written in red on his social calendar, but a thorough search of his brain turns up nothing. Not even the biweekly English department happy hour, which he always finds an excuse to skip. Damn, damn, and thrice damn. 'Yes, I'm free,' he sighs.

Sirius claps his hands gleefully. 'Not anymore! You're coming with me to the football match tonight.'

James furrows his brow at his coffee 'The football match? Why're you going—' and then it dawns on him. 'Oh.' He turns to look at Sirius with amusement. This is too good. 'Oh.'

Sirius scowls. 'Don't make that face at me.'

'Face?' James says. 'What face?' He grabs the coffee pot and goes about topping off his mug. 'I'm just pleased to see that little Sirius is learning to play well with others.'

'Fuck off, Potter,' Sirius says, but James can hear the laugh behind it. 'Look, he mentioned it, I said I'd go, and it'd be weird if I have to sit there alone the whole time, all right? I'm just doing him a favour. That's all this is.'

James just raises his eyebrows as he stirs in a teaspoon of sugar.

'I hate you,' Sirius says petulantly. James says nothing, just turns to look at Sirius over the rim of the mug as he takes another sip.

'Fine,' Sirius says. 'Maybe I wouldn't mind seeing him run back and forth down the sidelines for ninety minutes, but you don't get to be smug about it. I'm only human, and you said yourself he was fit.' He looks at James expectantly. 'Okay?'

James sets the mug down and smirks. 'Fine, I'll go. But after this we're even, all right?'

Sirius snorts. 'You tried to set a grease fire in my kitchen once, Jamie, we are not anywhere near even.' He turns to walk out of the lounge, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

'You blew that whole thing way out of proportion!' James calls after him.

'See you at seven!' Sirius sing-songs back as the door swings shut. James curses and starts another pot of coffee. Yes, definitely a long day.

- -

Stealing art supplies from his own classroom makes James feel like a bit of a weirdo, but it more than pays off that night when Sirius spots him in the stands with a giant 'GO TEAM' sign covered in glitter. His face. Half baby tasting lemon for the first time, half cat being given a bath. Beautiful.

Sirius makes his way up to where James is sitting. 'I'm going to murder you and feed your body to Ziggy,' he says, snatching the sign from James's hands and shoving it under his seat before anyone sees him with it. 'And she will vomit you back up, because you are not worthy of her
digestive tract.'

'Oh, hello James, thank you so much for coming!' James says in a high- pitched voice. 'You're doing me a huge favor, and I really owe you one. You're the best friend a complete wanker like me could ever have.' He looks at Sirius pointedly. 'Sorry, just filling in the bits you forgot to say.'

'Shut up,' Sirius says. 'It's about to start.'

He turns his attention to the pitch, where the players and coaches are shaking hands. James spots the object of Sirius' myopia, dressed in a white shirt and black slacks. Yeah, he still gets it. The guy is very, very easy on the eyes. And he's a decent sort of bloke, too, which is always a plus. Sure, he doesn't have the soft grey eyes or saint-like demeanor of other, more desirable men, but when has Sirius' taste ever been as good as James's?

The clock starts, and the players take off across the field. James soon gets immersed in the game, to his pleasant surprise. For a bunch of teenagers, they're not bad, and the match is hard-fought. Perhaps there's something to be said for Remus's coaching abilities. Before long it's halftime, with a score of 1-1. He turns to look at Sirius, who's been uncharacteristically quiet the whole match. When they watch football together, he's usually yelling at the screen, screaming at players and refs alike. 'Not bad so far, eh?' James says, nudging Sirius with his elbow.

Sirius startles, as if waking from a dream. 'Oh, um, yeah,' he says, 'It's good, the, uh, the football.' He squints at the pitch. 'Where are the players?'

James looks at him questioningly, waiting for the punchline. It doesn't come. 'It's… it's halftime, Sirius.'

'Right!' Sirius says cheerily. 'Halftime. Yes. I knew that. One of my favorite times, halftime.'

'Are you—have you been watching the game at all?' James says, incredulous. Sirius loves football. Well, Sirius also hates football, but to be fair that's a big part of loving football.

Sirius puts on a defensive face. 'Of course I have! I don't know what you're talking about.'

James sits back and folds his arms. 'All right, then. What happened when our side got awarded a penalty? Did we convert it or not?'

Sirius opens and closes his mouth, glances at the scoreboard, and says, 'We made it, obviously. As if we'd miss.'

Triumphant, James leans forward. 'There wasn't a penalty, you tit. Did you go into a coma or something? What's wrong with you?' he says, but Sirius is already distracted, looking down toward the sideline.

James follows his eyeline, and suddenly everything makes sense. He can see the little blank square in his mental calendar dancing smugly before his eyes, and the song it's dancing to is called Sirius Black's Ruination.

'Oh, I see,' he says, smirking. 'It's a lust coma.' Remus is gesturing wildly to some of the players, outlining tactics in the air, his shirtsleeves rolled up. Sirius might as well be drooling. 'Man, you are out of your fucking depth, aren't you?'

'Fuck off,' Sirius says lightly, still looking at Remus. He's even half-smiling, the poor bastard. 'He's hot, I've got eyes. There isn't any depth for me to be in or out of.'

'I've got eyes too, in case you've forgotten,' James says. 'And I have never seen you like this, no matter how hot the guy.' He flicks Sirius on the ear and grins when he curses. 'I've been reliably informed that I am extremely hot, and you have never once ignored football to stare longingly at me. Or any of the blokes you've shagged and then callously tossed aside, for that matter.'

Sirius rubs his ear. 'I am not callous, you twat. It's not my fault so many men are so… toss-aside-able. Anyway, you don't know what you're talking about. This is a purely aesthetic appreciation.'

Unfortunately for Sirius' point, Remus picks this moment to glance up into the stands. He spots Sirius and waves excitedly, grinning like a loon. Sirius waves back, with a look on his face that's pure sunshine under the pitch's fluorescent lights.

Normally James would be thrilled to know he was right, to see Sirius so thoughtlessly delighted, but for just one moment he feels terribly sad.

Sirius swore off getting into relationships with actual feelings before James even met him, and James wasn't kidding when he said he's never seen him like this. He hadn't realised how rare it was for Sirius to be at ease, to be happy, until he actually saw it happen. It's amazing, and sad, and terrifying, and he wonders if Sirius honestly doesn't realise what's going on, or if it's just an act. Sirius doesn't like to talk much about the lads he dated before he moved to Manchester, but James knows he keeps himself locked up for a reason.

James reaches out to ruffle Sirius' hair, knocking his glasses askew. 'Whatever you say, mate,' he says, and tries to put his worries away for the rest of the match.

It works, and he goes back to enjoying the game without thinking about his best mate slowly descending through the stratosphere of his own disillusionment with romance and hurtling toward the hard reality of Remus Lupin. Toward the 80th minute, James glances over to see Sirius staring at Remus like Sirius is stranded on a desert island and Remus has just turned into a giant, dancing steak, and okay, yes, this is definitely funny again.

'You know, Sirius,' James says idly, 'There's this place called the Internet, where you can look at all the attractive men you want. For free, even. Some of them haven't even got pants on.'

'Piss off,' Sirius says dreamily.

They win the game, 3-2, though James doubts Sirius could tell you the final score with a gun to his head.

'Come on, I want to say hi to Rem,' Sirius says as the sparse crowd starts getting to its feet and filtering out of the stands.

'Rem?' James says. He turns around, effectively blocking Sirius' progress out of the row. 'When did you two progress to nicknames?'

'Move your arse,' Sirius says, ignoring him with a shove.

They file down the stands, heading toward the fence that divides the spectators from the sideline. When they reach it, Remus jogs over, clapping some of his players on the back along the way before coming to a stop in front of the fence.

'Hey, I'm so glad you could make it,' he says, flushed with victory. 'You too, James, thank you so much for coming.'

'Not a problem, mate,' James says, pretending that even a tenth of the attention in this conversation is focused on him. 'Your lads put on a good show.'

'Yeah, they were great,' Sirius says, the liar. 'Brilliant.'

Remus smiles at him broadly. James is going to throw up. 'Well, it always helps to know we've got friendly faces in the stands,' Remus says. 'And you, um, the two of you are pretty much the only faces I'm friendly with so far, short of Peter. So seriously, thanks a lot.'

'Anytime,' Sirius says, and James's future spreads out before him, filled with nights spent sitting on uncomfortable plastic seats, watching Sirius swoon. 'Anytime' his arse. He's going to have to develop a social life purely out of self-defense.

Remus scrubs a hand through his ridiculous hair and looks apologetic.

'I'm really sorry, but I've got to go help with the post-match talk. It's, um, kind of my job,' he says, grinning ruefully.

'Yeah, no, go on,' Sirius says. 'Go congratulate the troops.'

Walking backwards, Remus salutes them both. 'See you tomorrow?' he asks, looking at Sirius.

'Yeah, of course,' Sirius says, and James can't help but roll his eyes at the way his cheeks color. 'Tomorrow.' He watches Remus turn and walk off the pitch with the last straggling players.

Sirius turns and looks at James with sad, pathetic satisfaction in his eyes. 'See? That was a perfectly platonic, friendly interaction.'

James gapes at him a moment, then turns on his heel and walks toward the carpark.

'What?' Sirius calls after him. They're all doomed. 'James, you're imagining things!' Doomed.

- -

S

'Not liking things that are delicious doesn't give you class, Sir, it just makes you a snob,' Remus says, dropping his hand down on the hole puncher as if to emphasize his point.

They're in Sirius' classroom again, papers spread out on the desks before them. Remus is always nagging Sirius about letting him help with his work, which would normally be sweet, except that Remus's interpretation of 'help' often consists of him doing dramatic readings of the scenes Sirius' students write for practice, complete with funny voices. While that certainly eases the pain of marking, it doesn't actually make Sirius get his work done faster. Today, since Sirius is swamped with menial tasks, he's put Remus to work punching holes in pages of the script for Much Ado About Nothing while Sirius puts them into binders. That'll teach him to try to be nice.

'It's not that I don't like things that are delicious,' Sirius says. He straightens a stack of pages and threads them through the rings. 'I just don't like things that make me violently ill in the cab on the way home.'

'So-called 'girly drinks' are made of sunshine and booze,' Remus tells him as he punches another set of holes. 'If you don't like them, that just proves that you've got an allergy to happiness.'

Sirius rolls his eyes. 'You mean to tell me that you're the one always parading around the pub with one of those drinks in the giant glasses with the little umbrella on top?'

'Yeah, in case of a tiny rainstorm,' Remus says logically. He does a little pantomime like he's holding up a tiny umbrella over his head, and, what? God. It's so endearing that Sirius can't even say anything mean back. Who is this person? Where did he come from? Is there some magical tropical island somewhere where Remus Lupins drop from trees like coconuts?

'Fair enough,' Sirius says, hiding his laughter behind Act II. 'Still, there's something to be said for good scotch.'

'There's something to be said for bingo on cruise ships, too, but since I'm not a million years old I think I'll pass,' Remus says, wrinkling his nose.

Sirius makes a noise of indignation. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'It means that scotch—like all the other brown drinks—' he says, pulling a face of childish disgust, 'Is for people who are old and boring and have no imagination. So neither of us should drink it.'

'So I should be like you and give myself diabetes?' Sirius counters.

'Right, you don't drink them because you're so health-conscious,' Remus teases, poking him in the ribs with the hole puncher. 'Sure.'

'All right, fine,' Sirius surrenders. 'Maybe I do enjoy the occasional mojito. When I'm in the mood.'

'A good choice! And they're fun to say, too. Mo-ji-to.' Remus rolls the word around in his mouth, accentuating each syllable. Sirius supposes it is a pretty enjoyable sound.

'Mooo-jiiii-toooo,' he tries. Okay, it's a fun word. Remus smiles and answers back.

'Mooooooooooooo-jito.'

'Mo-jiiiiiiiiiiii-to.'

'Mojito-mojito-mojito.'

'Mo-ji-TOOOOOOOOO—' The last one is almost a shout, one that Sirius cuts off when he sees Peter standing in the doorway, looking perplexed. There's no telling how long he's been there.

The three of them look at each other in silence for a moment. Peter furrows his brow. 'Mojito?' he asks.

'Mojito,' Remus answers firmly. Peter looks at Sirius for confirmation.

'Mojito, mojito,' he says quickly, nodding his head.

Peter nods back solemnly and leaves, looking satisfied.

Sirius stares after him, then turns to look at Remus. He shrugs, trying to hide a smile, and goes back to punching holes in scripts. The charade lasts less than a minute though, and when Remus whispers 'mojito' in the tiniest possible voice, Sirius slides off his chair and laughs until he cries.

It's not the first time that Remus 'helping' him ends with Sirius half-laughing, half-sobbing underneath his desk, and it isn't the last, either.

As the semester progresses, most of their individual projects become shared somewhere along the line, and while Remus helps out with whatever Sirius asks him to, half the time he winds up being a distraction. It goes both ways; Sirius is still powerless to say no to almost anything when Remus's doing the asking, and going to football matches is hardly the end of it.

Remus watches some ridiculous American movie and comes up with the idea of putting on a carwash to raise some money to buy the team some new uniforms, and the next thing Sirius knows, he's standing in the carpark in October with his trousers rolled up to his knees and a small
arsenal of sponges. Sirius doesn't even like washing his own dishes. Things may be getting slightly out of hand.

Then again, Peter and James volunteered as well when Remus mentioned that he'd need a couple more hands to keep things running, so really, Sirius is just doing this out of the goodness of his heart. To help his friend. And, you know, school spirit and all that. Plus, the sun gives him an excuse to wear his new aviators, and that's honestly just a public service.

So it's been a Saturday afternoon of filling up buckets and passing bottles of soap along and generally overseeing, because as much as Sirius may want to do things for Remus, he does not deign to wash other people's cars. Besides, the boys from the team have mostly got that covered. There's a lot of shirtlessness and scrubbing and throwing sponges at each other despite the chill in the air. Sirius privately thinks the whole thing is a bit homoerotic, honestly, but then again he's never fully understood the thought processes of the heterosexual male, much less the sporty teenage ones.

Remus and James have been flitting between cars making sure the drivers know where to go and occasionally grabbing a rag to help, and Peter has set up some speakers a little way down the carpark, bumping a mixture of top forty pop and hip hop while they work. One of the players must have tipped off a friend or something, because about an hour after James showed up, a small crowd of female students started congregating at the edge of the carpark and have been watching the proceedings like giggly, hormonal hawks.

The flow of cars is steady, and by mid-afternoon they've raised a decent amount of money, more than half of their goal. Remus has also kept his shirt on the entire day, which Sirius thinks he should probably count as another victory. Whoever the patron saint is of avoiding public arousal, Sirius owes them one. He's beginning to think that they may make it through this whole thing without incident.

That bubble is summarily burst as Remus comes over to where Sirius is loitering by the hose and refreshments. Pouring water into buckets is thirsty work, all right. 'Hey, Sirius,' Remus says, looking at something in the distance over James's shoulder. 'What does that fireman of James's drive?'

'Something really boring and sensible, I think,' Sirius tells him. He's so busy refilling a bucket of suds that the implication of the question doesn't actually hit him for a few moments, but then—

'Oh God, no.'

Sirius follows the line of Remus's eyes to the dark gray SUV that's idling a couple of spots back in the line and then zeroes in on the driver and, yes, of course, there's a handsome, good natured face smiling pleasantly at the world around him. Obviously he could never pass up an opportunity to be philanthropic. Leave it to James to become obsessed with the actual most wholesome human being in this hemisphere.

'James is going to have a fucking meltdown,' Sirius says. 'He hasn't even got on his tight trousers.'

'We've got to do something,' Remus says, his eyes going huge. 'Can you text him or something? Just, you know, heads up, love of your life is here, probably stop making that face when you're washing tires?'

'Can't, he gave me his mobile so it wouldn't get wet,' Sirius says, fishing it out of his back pocket to show Remus.

'Shit,' Remus says, but then his face splits into a look that Sirius can only describe as trouble.

'Oh, no,' he says.

'I've got an idea,' Remus says, whipping out his own phone. 'Run get Peter and a hose. Have him bring the sound system over here.'

Sirius knows he should be asking questions, but Remus's enthusiasm has him springing into action without a second thought. Peter seems skeptical when Sirius approaches him, but as soon as he hears that it's in the service of James's destiny and also taking the piss out of him, he's wheeling the cart with the stereo system on it over eagerly. The dark grey SUV has crept forward a spot in line, but Sirius thinks they'll still have time for whatever Remus's got planned.

'Brilliant, Peter, you're the best,' Remus says when he sees them approaching. 'Can we hook my phone up to these speakers?'

Peter shrugs. 'Yeah, of course.' He takes the proffered phone and starts plugging in cables.

Sirius turns to Remus. 'Want to let us in on what hijinks we're up to, exactly?'

Remus grins evilly. 'We're throwing James a wet t-shirt contest for one,' he says, looking over at the line of cars. 'Shit, it's almost showtime. Sirius, fold the hose in half and turn the water on. Peter, is the phone ready to go?' Sirius sees Peter give a double thumb-up and moves to follow Remus's instructions.

Remus picks up his phone, his finger poised over a button. 'Sirius, on my say-so, release the water and soak James.'

'Aye-aye, captain,' Sirius says, grinning. He has privately thought that James needed to be hosed down on more than one Regulus-related occasion, but this is even better. Remus is possibly a genius.

All three of them have their eyes trained on James as he finishes up the car in front of the SUV, blissfully unaware of their plans for him. He walks to the driver's side window and says something that makes the woman inside laugh, then points to the station ahead where she can give her donation to one of Remus's lads from the team. The car accelerates, pulls away, and...

'Now,' Remus says.

Sirius releases the kink in the hose and points it straight at James's back. The jet of water strikes him square between the shoulder blades, soaking his white t-shirt through and through immediately. On some terrible instinct James turns around, trying to shield himself with his arms, but all that does is drench his chest as well. When he's looking good and soggy, Sirius lowers the hose, satisfied with his handiwork.

James just stares at them, murder in his eyes and water in his quiff.

'Sorry, James!' Sirius says cheerfully. 'Completely lost control of the hose there!'

'Yeah, Sirius, I noticed,' James shouts back, and Sirius knows the fact that they're surrounded by students is the only thing keeping James from adding 'you fucking arsehole' to that.

He turns his back on them, reaching to pull off his soaked shirt, and Remus hits play. For a moment, for one glorious moment, Sirius thinks there must actually be something to this whole destiny thing James believes in so adamantly, because in that moment, everything aligns.

The first chords of 'Rock You Like a Hurricane' rip through the carpark in perfect time with James's footsteps as he walks toward Regulus's car, peeling his sticking shirt off over his head, and just then a cloud moves and the late afternoon sun hits him from behind, and okay, wow. James shakes his hair out just as the guitar really kicks in, and if Sirius didn't know better, he'd swear that James is moving in slow motion. It is actually the most ridiculous thing Sirius has ever seen, but it's also kind of the best thing that has ever happened.

Then James looks up.

'Fuck,' Sirius says under his breath, glancing back. Remus's got one fist pressed to his mouth in anticipation, eyes darting from Sirius to James to Regulus and back again. Peter is next to him, whispering, 'Yes, yes,' to himself, his eyes wide.

For half of a second, James seems frozen in place. He stares at Regulus.

Regulus stares back, and then gives a tiny little wave.

This, it seems, is enough to snap James out of his stupor. A change comes over him, rippling through his body from head to toe. He slings his shirt over one shoulder, rolls his hips just a little to the side. As he covers the last stretch of pavement between himself and Regulus, he is
positively feline.

The bitch is hungry, scream the Scorpions, and Sirius could not agree
more.

James downright saunters up to the window of Regulus's SUV, leaning languidly against the side as he greets him. Regulus, for his part, is wide-eyed but appears to be trying to carry on a normal conversation, bless him. The music blasts on and, oh, this is good.

Not taking his eyes off of the scene unfolding in front of them, Remus clasps Peter's hand, shaking it firmly, and then does the same to Sirius.

'Gentlemen, we have a lot to be proud of today.'

Sirius can see James flexing his pecs from here. A victory of this caliber deserves refreshments. He reaches down into the ice chest, snagging a can of soda and cracking it open.

'You two are officially on the crew for the spring musical, because that is the highest production quality this school has ever seen,' he says. He lifts his drink toward them briefly in a mock toast before taking a swig.

'I don't think that bloke is prepared for how clean his car is about to get,' Peter says sagely.

'Oh, I'm sure James will take care of all his crevices,' Remus throws back, and Sirius chokes on his drink.

Regulus says something and James makes a show of laughing at whatever it is, rubbing his hand over his stomach like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. When he pulls his hand away, there's a smear of grease spanning half of his waist, too perfect to be accidental. He looks down and laughs again, and then bends down to the bucket, picks his rag back up, and deliberately wrings it out over his skin before beginning to slowly, thoroughly, actually rub himself down.

'Jesus Christ,' Peter says, both hands clutched to his face. Remus buries his face in Sirius' shoulder.

'Observe, the James in its natural habitat,' Sirius says, slipping into his announcer voice. 'A James in the mating season is truly a magnificent thing to behold. See how he carefully greases and prepares his body for his mate. So majestic.'

'I can't handle this,' Peter says. 'I. I wasn't prepared.' He takes his phone out and starts snapping pictures.

'This is the best thing I have ever done,' Remus says, fingers digging into Sirius' side. 'Do you think it's working?'

'It's hard to say,' Sirius says. 'This particular species of Tragic Fireman is often immune to the James's potent pheromone.'

'Nature is amazing,' Remus says.

From what Sirius can tell, Remus seems to have an entire playlist of '80s rock already on his iPhone. Sirius wonders exactly what kind of life Remus has led up to now that would necessitate such a thing, but really, knowing Remus, it's not that surprising. He probably spent a summer abroad as part of a hair-metal nudist circus or something. 'Rock You Like a Hurricane' fades into 'Here I Go Again' and Sirius half expects James to climb up on the hood of Regulus's car and writhe around for a while. He's thankful that he doesn't, though, because the girls on the side seem to be convulsing already, and he doesn't fancy having to turn the hose on any of them. He and James get away with a lot, but that would still probably get him fired.

James just carries on, washing Regulus's car like he's in a damn calendar shoot. Sirius wonders if Remus's managed to accidentally stumble upon the cure to James's hopelessness with Regulus. It sort of makes sense, when he really considers it. Two of the main driving forces behind all of James's actions are his vanity and his inflated sense of romance, and creating a gratuitous public spectacle combines both of those into a James Potter sex crème brûlée. Sirius wonders why he never thought of it before.

'D'you think it's really necessary for him to stick his arse out like that while he washes tires?' Peter says, head tilted slightly to the side like he's watching an interesting program on the telly.

'Technique is the key to a good rim job,' Sirius says, and Peter doubles over in laughter. Remus looks like the cross between a proud parent and a scandalized nun, which, when Sirius thinks about it, is exactly what he was going for.

They're both distracted, though, by James standing up, dipping the sponge back into the bucket of suds, and wringing it out over his face and neck. He shakes his head like a wet dog, scattering droplets everywhere before running his hands through his hair to get his fringe off his face. The suds run down his torso slowly, leaving behind shining trails that criss-cross his tattoos. Def Leppard wails on somewhere in the background. Pour some sugar, indeed.

'Not subtle,' Remus swallows. 'But not ineffective either,' and Sirius is too stunned to even try to interpret that.

'Christ, I think I felt something there,' Peter says. 'Well played.'

'Well, let's hope that one did the trick,' Sirius says, 'because it looks like James's time is up.'
Every inch of Regulus's car is sparkling, and the line behind it is going to get out of hand if things don't keep moving. Remus has been waving the boys toward other cars to keep them away from James's blast radius, but even so there are too many people waiting for James to keep this up.

Remus heaves a sigh and picks up his phone. 'It was fun while it lasted,' he says, and cuts the music.

James, who had been talking to Regulus again while leaning up against his car in a ridiculously arched position, looks like a puppet with his strings cut, his posture suddenly slouching back to normal. He looks over at Sirius, who jerks his head at the line of cars forming. James pouts but turns back to Regulus, pointing out the donation area up ahead. Regulus nods frantically and pulls away. Instead of going to the next car in line, though, James jogs over toward the three of them.

'Tell me, Jessica Simpson, are your boots made for walking?' Sirius says as he approaches.

'Fuck off, where's the hose?' James says, shivering and looking around desperately. 'I have so much soap in my eyes, Jesus Christ.'

Sirius holds out the hose, but then pulls it back before James can grab it. 'So you're saying you risked blindness to throw yourself at this guy,' Sirius says. Remus and Peter are both laughing so hard they look like they're about to wet themselves.

'Fuck you, Sirius, this fucking burns.' He snatches the hose from Sirius' hands and starts washing the soap off his face. 'Go distract him, I can't let him see me like this,' he says, cupping handfuls of water and bringing them up to his eyes.

'Are you seri—' Sirius starts, but Remus interrupts.

'You can gather intel, Sir, go on,' and well, the man does have a point. Thankfully, there's a line at the donation area too, so Sirius has time to saunter over before Regulus's left. Sirius walks up to the driver's side window and leans over, doing his best to look normal-friendly and not your-discomfort-delights-me-friendly.

'Hello, there,' he says, offering his most winning smile.

'Hi,' Regulus says. His face, Sirius notices, is a very interesting shade of red, but beyond that, he still seems to be behaving as if this is an ordinary thing to happen to a man who just wanted to get a wash and wax for a good cause. 'I, um, I think this is where I'm supposed to give a donation?'

'Yes, right this way,' Sirius says, gesturing elaborately to the group of teenagers just ahead. 'We appreciate your contribution.'

'Great, thank you,' Regulus says. 'I'm happy to help.'

Poor sod. Poor, oblivious sod.

He pulls up, and Sirius watches as he pulls out his wallet, counts out a couple of notes, pauses, and then empties the entire thing into the bucket.