These Inconvenient Desires

J

James has this sort of image in his head of how it should happen when he and Regulus finally get together.

It's a fantasy, mostly, but when the man of your dreams is a fireman, it's hard to not get carried away. He usually imagines some emergency, some climactic moment where his life is in danger, and then Regulus swoops in, propelled by his confusing fascination with James's sex appeal and intelligence and brooding nature, and rescues him from certain death. Driven mad by fear for James, Regulus has no choice but to confess his undying love, perhaps even while his skin is still sooty from the flames. Also he is shirtless.

Naturally, this scenario could play out in a variety of settings: his flat, the school, a beautiful villa in the south of France. James has a contingency plan for each one. So when the fire alarm goes off unexpectedly during second period, he's ready. This is the day James has trained for. His day of days. The day someone pulled the fire alarm.

He's in the middle of a spirited discussion of literary devices in Wuthering Heights when it happens. He leaps out of his chair, snatching up his jacket and checking his hair frantically in the mirror he keeps in his desk drawer before rounding up his students and leading them outside. It's been storming all morning—the perfect weather for a dramatic confession of love, if you ask James—so they all end up huddled under an awning, waiting for the fire department to arrive.

But the firefighters come streaming out of the truck and James stands there in the car park with his two dozen bedraggled teenagers and Regulus never comes. Attractive men pile out of the firetruck whose sirens were supposed to sing the song of James's destiny, and not one of them is Regulus.

One of his students tugs on his sleeve. 'Mr. Potter? I think we're allowed back inside now.'

'Go back in if you like,' he says, staring angrily at the firetruck. 'It doesn't matter. None of it matters.' He turns to look at the girl. 'Hope is a lie.' She stares back, and whatever she sees in his eyes makes her quail and turn back around, shepherding the rest of the students back inside.

Eventually he joins them, and no one mentions his absence as they continue their discussion of Cathy and Heathcliff. James could use a wuthering moor of his own right now. This is the worst day of his life, and he doesn't quite know how to express it without period costuming and scenery.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of having to talk to people who aren't Regulus, and soon enough James finds himself at home, contemplating another dinner for one in front of the television. Or he would be, if there were food in his flat. His cupboards are as empty as his soul.

And so he's at Tesco now, trudging up and down the frozen food aisle. If there's a modern equivalent to wandering a moor in an open waistcoat, this is it.

There's a sale on frozen peas, apparently. That's what James deserves to eat: discount frozen peas. James is the discount frozen peas of humanity. He reaches for a bag, but his hand bumps into someone else's first. He'd been so engrossed in his own ennui that he hadn't even realised
someone else was in the aisle.

'Sorry,' James mumbles, withdrawing his hand just as the other person does the same, and then his eyes flick upward and his mind goes completely and utterly blank.

Regulus. Right in front of him. In the frozen foods aisle. He's wearing a plaid shirt and he's got a basket full of shopping in one hand and James is going into cardiac arrest right there next to the peas.

'James!' Regulus says, smiling at him as if every day is the best day of his life. James wants to kiss him on the mouth. 'How've you been, mate?'

'Yes,' James says automatically, because the ability to comprehend human speech has apparently been shocked out of him in the last five seconds. 'I mean, fine. Shopping. And, such. You know.' He holds up his bag of vegetables helplessly. 'Lettuce.' He is identifying vegetables. Things are bleak.

'Good, good,' Regulus says, still smiling. 'Heard you lot had a bit of a scare today, didn't you?'

For a moment, James honestly hasn't the faintest clue what in God's name Regulus is talking about, but then it clicks. Right. The fire alarm. That thing he was upset about all day.

'Oh, yeah, somebody pulled the alarm,' James manages. 'It was all right, though. No blazing infernos to report.' He doesn't know what's coming out of his mouth, but it makes Regulus
laugh, so he considers it a small victory.

'Too bad I had the morning off, we might've seen each other,' Regulus says. 'Spent half the day on the sofa eating biscuits instead. That's why I'm here, actually. Restocking the cupboard. Funny how that worked out, isn't it?'

Destiny, James wants to scream in his face. 'Funny, yeah.'

'Eating alone, then?' Regulus says.

Yes, so alone, oh God, couldn't be more alone if I tried, he thinks, but he can't say that. He's already standing in the freezer section in his sadness hoodie. He doesn't need to give Regulus any more evidence that he doesn't actually have a life.

'No,' he lies.

'Right,' Regulus says, shaking his head. 'I'm sure you've got plans.'

'No,' James says quickly, panicking, 'I haven't got plans with anybody.'

Regulus stares at him for a moment, furrowing his brow, and James wonders how hard he'd have to smash his own head into the freezer door to cause instant death.

The universe must have other plans for his demise, though, because Regulus just claps him on the shoulder. 'That's really profound, mate. Not having plans doesn't mean you're alone. No man is an island, I get it.' He nods to himself, looking moved. 'Well, I should probably get a move on. Sounds like the rain's stopped for a while, might be able to get out of here before it comes back.'

'Right,' James says, nodding too hard. 'Yeah.'

'Good to see you, James,' Regulus says with a smile, and then he turns and heads off down the aisle.

'Wait, Regulus,' James blurts out at his retreating back.

Regulus pauses, turning around to look at James. 'Yeah?'

'I, um,' James starts. What the fuck was he going to say? Think of something, Potter, think. 'I've been worrying about my building lately. Um, where I live. Not sure everything's, you know, up to code and all that.' It's the best he can do when he's looking Regulus in the face. Maybe he'll come by later and check things out and then when he sees James leaning casually against his door he'll suddenly be struck by the realisation that his soulmate has been standing right in front of him all along and then they'll kiss and James will throw a parade.

Regulus frowns, and James almost feels bad about lying to him. 'That's no good. Tell you what,' he says, coming back down the aisle. 'Why don't I give you my number, and you can keep an eye out and ring me if you notice anything.'

It takes a moment for anything to penetrate the five million exclamation points that just sprang up inside his head.

'Okay, yeah,' James says when he finally regains control of his body, scrambling to pull his phone out of his pocket. 'Sounds brilliant.' Regulus is going to give him his number. It's work-related, and technically under false pretenses, but still Regulus is giving him his number. He will have a direct line to Regulus at all times. They're basically married.

After Regulus reads off his number, James double- and triple-checks that he's got it right before saving it to his phone. 'If you spot anything fishy, let me know and I'll see if I can't sort it out,' Regulus says earnestly. If James is discount frozen peas, Regulus is premium filet mignon in human form. Just, you know. Less French.

'I will.' James nods eagerly. 'I will absolutely ring you.' And then he will put a ring on it.

Regulus's face crinkles up into a smile. James wants to build a shrine to it. 'Wonderful. Anyway, I've got to run. Enjoy your dinner.' He gives James a tiny wave. James starts to return it before realising he probably looks ridiculous, so he does his best to make it look like he meant to run his hand through his hair.

'Yeah, cheers. You too. Man.' He aims for nonchalance but he thinks he may have missed the mark. Regulus just keeps smiling, though, and disappears around the corner. James manages to keep it together for a full ten seconds before he collapses against the freezer door. He is never doubting destiny again, so long as he lives.

This vow lasts until he's paying the cashier, when he realises that he didn't give Regulus his number in return and drops his change all over the floor. Oh, bugger destiny with a rake.

-

S

Sirius really does like his job, but he doesn't like every second of it.

Especially not right now, hunched over his desk after hours, looking over the first drafts of his students' final compositions for the term. He could be at home right now, getting cozy with The Only Way is Essex, but there are only a few weeks left before Christmas hols and his kids
are going to need all the help they can get.

Sirius sighs and circles a line on the pages in front of him in pen. ‘This character entered stage left two pages ago,’ he writes in the margins, ‘so while having him enter again stage right here without having mentioned him ever leaving is a fascinating choice, you should probably change it unless you plan on introducing evil twins as a plot point.’ He taps the end of the pen against his teeth thoughtfully. Too harsh… or not harsh enough?

As he bends the pen to paper again, Remus opens the door. He doesn't say hello, just tosses a mesh bag of footballs to one side and stalks to the desk nearest Sirius'. He sits down heavily, not looking at Sirius, then stands up after a moment to walk back to the door and close it. He returns to his seat and scrubs a hand over his face before finally meeting Sirius' eyes.

Sirius considers telling him he's sitting at the desk where Jeremy Givens sticks all his gum, but decides that this isn't the time. 'Hi. Talk to me. Are you all right?'

Remus's leg is bouncing up and down, as if he can't quite accept stillness. 'No,' he says, not looking away from Sirius. 'I mean, yes, I'm fine, and that's what—Jesus. I'm angry.' He looks quickly out the window with what's almost a smile, but by the time he meets Sirius' eyes again it's a grimace. 'You can keep something—you can respect student confidentiality, yeah?'

'Yeah, of course, what—' Sirius starts, but Remus's already pushed out of his seat and pacing in front of Sirius' desk.

'You know Richards? Tom Richards? Tallish, spiky hair, one of my strikers?' Sirius nods. 'I asked him to stay behind after practice because he seemed off his game. He wasn't passing to the other forward we had playing, Mike Kendall, wasn't linking up properly with him at all, and those two can practically read each others' minds normally.' He pulls that almost-smile again, and Sirius hates that look already. 'I was actually worried about him. I thought, I don't know, I thought maybe something was wrong at home.'

Remus still hasn't stopped moving. 'And so I ask him, after practice, it's just us, I ask him what's going on, and you know what he tells me?' He pauses and meets Sirius' eyes. 'He says that he and Kendall aren't speaking, aren't friends anymore, because apparently Kendall told Richards that he's gay, not that Richards put it in those terms.' The pacing resumes. 'He tells me—this boy on my team, who's been playing with all these guys for months—that he doesn't want to play with Kendall anymore, that he's already told the other lads.' His hand on the back of his neck, he falls heavily back into his seat. 'Christ, Sirius, I've never wanted to hit a student before, but I nearly lost it.'

Sirius forces his fingers to unbend from the fist they've formed, from around the script page he's crumpled into a ball. 'What—' he clears his throat, 'what did you do?'

'I told him that under the circumstances, I didn't want him playing with Kendall either, or on any team of mine, and that he was benched until further notice,' Remus says, drumming his fingers on the desk. His eyes are ablaze, and Sirius can't decide if he should be more frightened for or of him.

'Jesus, Rem.'

'I know. I know but—fuck, I don't care, he betrayed the team and the trust of a teammate and, Jesus, I feel like he betrayed me because I liked this kid,' he says all in rush, leaning forward and putting his head in his hands. 'And, fuck, Sirius, tomorrow I'm going to have to tell Kendall that the team knows, that I know, when I have no fucking business knowing, and I'm not…' he takes a few deep breaths and shakes his head, 'I'm not doing that and making him play with the prick who did it to him, too. No. Fuck that. I don't care.'

Sirius looks at the line of Remus's shoulders, strung tight as a bowstring. He's almost afraid to move, unable to cope with everything radiating off of the man in front of him. 'He's lucky that it's someone like you who's dealing with it,' he manages, but his words feel pale and useless compared to the pure energy vibrating out of Remus.

Remus lets out a harsh laugh. 'He's not lucky. There's nothing about this that's lucky. If there's—Jesus, if anyone's lucky it's me, Sir.' He looks up, and Sirius can see the redness of his eyes, the wetness of his lashes. He looks like a Rembrandt, like an oil painting of firelight. 'I hate that. I hate that the fact that I made it out of school without any of this bullshit makes me lucky. I hate being thankful for getting something that, that Kendall and everyone else shouldn't even have to think about asking for. They should just get it.'

If Sirius was afraid to move before, he can barely breathe now. The air seems stretched thin, a rubber band about to snap.

Remus swallows thickly. 'My friends didn't care, and my family was great, and it's not like there were any other guys who liked guys at my high school, so I just ended up dating girls anyway. And it was fine. And nobody cared. And fuck, Sirius, I thought that meant that things were changing, that things were better, but they aren't, I just got fucking lucky.' He wipes a hand over his face. 'I just feel… I feel really stupid, and I can't do anything about it.'

The room is silent except for Remus's heavy breaths and the sound of Sirius' brain shorting out. 'Remus,' Sirius says. 'Rem..' Remus won't look at him. Fuck it. Sirius can deal with processing this information later.

He stands and comes around the desk, drops into a seat next to Remus. 'Remus, Christ, you're already doing something.' He almost doesn't hesitate before sliding his hand behind Remus's neck. 'You can let that shithead rot on the bench for the rest of the season, first off.' That gets a slightly watery smile out of Remus, and part of Sirius' brain does backflips. 'And you can be there for Kendall. You can have his back. That's—' after all Remus's said, he feels guilty for even taking a breath, 'that's more than anyone ever did for me, all right?' Remus's eyes flick up to his. 'So don't think it's nothing.'

'Maybe it isn't nothing, but God,' Remus sighs. 'I'm still an idiot. You know, I never said anything to you guys about being, I don't know, not straight, because I honestly thought it didn't matter. Jesus, Sir, I don't even have a word for it. I thought it didn't make a difference, because I thought everyone was moving on from that stuff.'

'It doesn't have to make a difference,' Sirius says carefully. If that's what Remus wants, he can pretend not to care about this. He can pretend that this doesn't tip his world sideways, that it hasn't already. He can lock this away if he has to, if it takes this look off Remus's face.

'I wish you were right, Sir, and maybe yesterday I would have thought you were.' He runs a hand through his hair. 'But if this is how it is, if my students are going after each other for being something that I am? It matters, whether I want it to or not. And just because I've been able to pretend it doesn't affect me doesn't mean I get to ignore reality.'

Sirius rubs the back of Remus's neck gently. 'Okay. I see what you're saying. It matters.' Remus lets out a heavy breath. 'But I think the fact that you figured that out means you can't be all that stupid.'

Remus takes a few deep breaths. 'God, Sirius,' he says, 'everyone in the world is an arsehole except you,' and maybe it's the weight of everything that's been said, but they both dissolve into giggles.

'Glad to see you're catching on,' Sirius says. The part of him that's relieved to see Remus looking less likely to fly into a million pieces is just about loud enough to drown out the part of him that's still freaking the fuck out.

'Okay,' Remus says. 'Okay. I can still—I'm going to help him, and do everything I can, and if it's too much or if I fuck up I can always come cry at you about it. A good plan.' He sits up a little straighter in his seat and seems to have shaken off the worst of what's weighing him down. He even fixes his hair quickly, so Sirius knows he can't be doing that badly. 'All right, I think I'm ready to face the world again.' He looks up at Sirius and smiles. 'I'd thank you for listening, but I know you'd just tell me that I can always talk to you,' he says, cutting off Sirius' protests, 'So I'll skip ahead in the conversation and thank you for that, instead.'

Sirius opens and closes his mouth. His brain is full of fog, and the only coherent thought that is breaking through is sheer amazement that this is a person who exists. Maybe it's causing Remus pain now, but Sirius sends out mental thanks to whatever power allowed him to pass through adolescence without being ruined by reality. He feels like he gets to hang out with a unicorn. He doesn't realise he's been staring until Remus clears his throat. Right, conversation. Sirius has partaken once or twice. 'Fair enough,' he says.

'You're welcome.' Remus squeezes his shoulder, and Sirius is conscious of every square inch of contact. Because he is a bad person.

'I suppose I'll leave you to your actual work,' Remus says, leaving his seat. He walks over and picks up the bag of footballs.

'Do you have to?' Sirius sighs. 'Couldn't you have another crisis? They're much less boring.' Remus grins at him, and Sirius is glad to see his face wiped clean of the pain it had carried before.

'I might be able to come up with something else equally traumatic by lunch tomorrow,' Remus says, hefting the mesh bag over his shoulder.

'See that you do,' Sirius says, looking over the top of his glasses.

Remus laughs as he leaves, the door closing behind him with a snick. Sirius waits until he's sure Remus's a suitable distance away, and then lets out a strangled scream into his empty classroom.

–

Sirius' windscreen has a crack in it. He was driving through a construction zone once when some piece of machinery sent a pebble flying into the glass, and the impact instantly split a crack from one corner to the other, spiderwebbing out at the ends. It's always there now, since Sirius can't really bring himself to spend the money to fix it, and every time he drives anywhere he's half-waiting for the windscreen to finally shatter.

Sirius sits at a stoplight and stares at the crack his windscreen and all he can think about is Remus.

It's been a week since the whole episode with Mike Kendall, and maybe if Sirius were a better, less sexually frustrated person it would be a week since Remus came to him in a moment of emotional distress, but instead it's a week since Remus told him he likes men.

Suddenly all of Sirius' fantasies have become much less abstract and much more immediate. The question is no longer whether or not Remus is interested in men; it's whether Remus's interested in Sirius, which is a much less comfortable thing to have on his mind. Flirting doesn't feel playful anymore. Whatever they've got their trigger fingers on, it isn't loaded with blanks.

It's not just that Sirius knows, now. It's that Remus knows that he knows. They're both aware that something could happen, that the only thing stopping it is the two of them. It's a precarious balance, and Sirius can never tell anymore where the line between friendly and flirting falls, or if it was ever there, or what anything fucking means. He's left constantly on edge, wondering if this is the moment, or this, or this, Remus leaning too close to steal a sip of his tea, hair brushing the side of his neck, Remus smiling when he catches Sirius staring at his hands, Remus's hands lingering every time they touch, staying a beat too long on Sirius' wrist or waist or shoulder. Has he always done that? Is Sirius reading into things too much? He's crawling out of his skin, just wondering if the glass will give.

Sirius is a lot of things, but he's never been one to let things lie. He's not one to sit down and talk about things, either, and that leaves him with physical communication, which is the only thing he really knows how to do anyway. He starts choosing the tightest shirts in his closet, pulling his braces down and letting them hang loose sometimes when Remus's around. The first time he does it, he means to catalogue Remus's reaction, but then he gets distracted by the way Remus's shirt rides up when he stretches and he misses the moment entirely. Remus's eyes still track him around the room, but no more than usual. Sirius doesn't know what to make of that; he has no idea what their 'usual' is or ever was.

Eventually he realises that no matter what Remus does, he'll twist himself into knots over it.

It's starting to get to him in ways that he really shouldn't let it. Combined with the stress of classes and trying to put on a damn Shakespeare, it's making him irritable and short with everyone, even people who are just trying to help him. When his mum calls and asks about his love life in that sly, knowing Mum way of hers, he snaps at her and then feels guilty about it for the rest of the week. When the feedback from the microphones almost leaves them all deaf during a technical rehearsal, he feels like he's going to pull his hair out.

'Oh, for God's sake, Peter!' he shouts up at the sound booth in the back of the theatre.

'Working on it!' Peter throws back, and when did Sirius start taking this out on Peter of all people? Peter never did anything to anyone.

'Someone needs to get laid,' James says, sidling up next to him with a bucket of paint.

'That's rich coming from you,' Sirius says.

He spends that night slouched on his sofa, watching old episodes of Cake Boss off his external hard drive and trying not to lament the passage of his youth. He feels restless, like there's an itch he can't quite scratch. He watches the man onscreen sculpt impossible shapes out of what is supposedly food, and thinks of Remus. Well, he's almost always thinking of Remus these days, but he's specifically thinking about his stories of working in a bakery as a teenager, burning bread and stealing cookie dough. He's definitely not thinking about present-day Remus wearing nothing but an apron, or covered in chocolate frosting, sweet and sticky under Sirius' tongue. Nope. Not at all.

He pulls out his phone and stares at the lock screen, considering. They've always texted each other at random times of the day, little jokes or comments or general miscellany, but Sirius could swear even that has changed. It's not just Remus sending a message from class about the person in the next row who looks like Robbie Williams or Sirius texting him when one of his students turns in a four-page essay on the sexual implications of Jack and Algernon's conversation about muffins in The Importance of Being Earnest. Now it's late nights with Ziggy looking annoyed from the foot of the bed as his phone lights up the room, words on his screen just skirting the edges of what he'd really like to say.

Still watching the sugary roses bloom, he pulls up Remus's number, just below James's now on his favorites list.

‘is fondant actually magic? because i do not understand’

Not his best work, but enough to get a conversation going. A few minutes later, he's rewarded with a response.

‘you should know a baker never reveals his secrets, black ;)’

Sirius snickers and replies immediately. As he does, thoughts of the secrets Remus has revealed to him steal unbidden to the back of his mind.

‘ur not a baker, ur a mildly competent footy coach. do those reveal their secrets?’

The response is almost instantaneous.

‘more than mildly competent >:(‘

The image of Remus frowning at his phone is too good, and Sirius can't help but try to rile him up more. Sirius likes taking it a little too far with him, pestering him until he's not quite sure what Remus will do next.

‘pls. could kick ur arse myself.’

For what it's worth, he actually was pretty decent at football back in the day. Remus seems eager to put him in his place, though, and Sirius squirms in his seat when the next text arrives.

‘you want to prove that? put your money where your mouth is?’

Oh, dear. The last thing he needs is to imagine Remus lounging around his flat, in whatever state of undress he almost certainly is in, thinking about Sirius and mouths in any capacity whatsoever. He knows none of the actual words in the message are anywhere near R-rated, but his toes still curl. He takes a deep breath and waits a few minutes before responding, staring blindly at Cake Boss and trying to talk himself down. It doesn't work.

‘i'll do anything i like with my money, lupin. and my mouth. u scared?’

He knows he should be embarrassed, should stop trying to escalate something that he can't control, but all he can think about is whether or not Remus will catch his breath when he reads what Sirius sent. After ten minutes have passed without a response, though, he's less excited and more annoyed.

‘shaking in my boots. speaking of, do you actually own trainers? :)’

Sirius can just see his smug face, looking pleased with himself as he comes up with trash talk. Maybe it's a little bit attractive, but that doesn't mean he's going to stand for it. A full fifteen minutes pass before he sends his response, giving Remus a taste of his own medicine. He means to make it twenty, but he breaks before he can get there.

‘dick. let's do it, then. u and me, footy deathmatch, best man wins’

He expects another long wait, but this time his phone buzzes less than five minutes later. When Sirius reads what Remus's sent, he throws his phone down the couch and grabs a throw pillow, burying his face in it.

‘your arse is mine, black’.

It takes active effort to keep from pressing his hand against the semi he's currently sporting. Images swim unasked for before his eyes. Remus in a football kit, covered in dirt and sweat. Remus pushing him up against a wall in the boy's changing room. Remus taking whatever he wants. Sirius gropes down the couch and retrieves his phone, peeking out from behind the pillow to tap out as innocuous a response as he can manage.

‘yeah right. u talk big, but we'll see. when r we doing this?’

If the last message came in minutes, this one comes in seconds, and the idea of Remus staring impatiently at his phone has Sirius biting down hard on the pillow.

‘now. come pick me up’

And oh, that sends heat buzzing through Sirius' brain. Remus doesn't get pushy often, but Sirius knows how it looks, all fiery eyes and curled lips. Sirius has gotten him like that with a few texts, and he'd be proud of himself if he weren't in such a fucking state.

‘remus it's almost midnight’

The problem isn't really that it's late. The problem is that Sirius isn't sure he can deal with being around Remus in person right now if a series of texts about football have him seriously considering turning off Cake Boss to have a wank.

‘backing out now? knew you couldn't handle me’

That does absolutely nothing to help.

‘wanker. pick you up in twenty’

Sirius' thumb hovers over the send button for a few seconds before he finally shuts his eyes and presses it. This is not a good idea. He knows that. But he can't back down, not now.

The drive to Remus's only takes ten minutes, but Sirius needs ten extra to change into sport-appropriate clothing and think about dead animals until his hard-on calms down. He maintains an even and sedate pace all the way to Remus's block of flats. He will not speed. Maybe the prospect of spending time with Remus can get him to agree to sports at an unreasonable hour of the night, and maybe a few innocent texts can get him hard, but he will not hurry. Sirius has some dignity.

When he pulls up, Remus is already outside on the pavement, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, beanie pulled low over his ears. He's carrying a duffle bag, which he slings over his shoulder into the backseat as he slides into the passenger side. Sirius is watching everything, the way his shorts sit low on his hips, the way his body twists when he turns back around.

'Hi,' Remus says, reaching to buckle his seatbelt. He grins at Sirius, his cheeks red from the nighttime chill, and Sirius tries so hard to keep himself under control.

'Hi yourself,' Sirius says, dragging his eyes away from the locks escaping from under Remus's hat. 'Ready to be beaten at your own game, literally?'

'Stop stalling and drive, Black,' Remus says. Sirius doesn't need to be told twice.

He peels away from the pavement just a little too fast, and it's a quick ride to the school with the two of them trash-talking back and forth and the tension crackling in between. They're laughing by the time the two of them pile out of Sirius' car, but it still doesn't feel like there's enough air to fill Sirius' lungs on the walk across the carpark, in and out of the puddles of light formed by the streetlamps. Soon they fall into silence, their breath making twin clouds in the crisp air, shoulders brushing with every step.

They reach the chain link fence that surrounds the pitch, and Remus reaches into his duffle, pulling out the keys to the gate. The lock opens with a clunk, impossibly loud, and Sirius coughs out a nervous laugh.

Remus turns around at the sound, smirking. 'Don't worry, there's no one else around.'

Sirius knows this, knows that even if there is, Remus's technically allowed to be here whenever he wants, but it still feels dangerous. Everything feels sort of dangerous lately. Remus opens the gate and motions for Sirius to walk through, then ducks under the stands to unlock the hidden breaker box and flip on the lights. The pitch floods with light in front of them, bright green and wide open under the night sky and no place at all to hide.

Sirius squints at Remus, walking backwards onto the pitch and feeling words churning up like they always do when he's nervous. 'Worried? Who's worried? The only one who should be worried is you, Lupin, because you're about to suffer a humiliating defeat at the hands of the
Black-o.' He pauses and thinks through that sentence again. 'Or the feet of the Black-o. Whatever would be more humiliating.'

Remus just laughs and pulls the football out of the duffle. He tosses it into the air and starts bouncing it off his knees, higher and higher each time, following the ball with his eyes. His concentration makes the lines of him long and steady, and the column of his throat is pale and
perfect under the pitch's fluorescent lights.

Sirius swallows. He is perhaps in over his head.

Suddenly Remus kicks the ball, catching it mid-air and sending it soaring past Sirius. He takes off at a run, blowing by Sirius before he's even registered what's happening. Sirius curses under his breath and goes tearing after him, pleased when he closes the gap quickly.

'Too slow, Rem,' he says, coming in from the side with a slide tackle that knocks the ball from Remus's feet. He scrambles upright and starts running the other way down the pitch as fast as he can, the ball dancing ahead of him. He hears the pounding of Remus's feet behind him a moment too late, unable to stop Remus from colliding with him roughly and stealing the ball away.

Remus comes to a stop a few paces from Sirius, breathing heavily through his grin. 'Just lulling you into a false sense of security, Sir,' he says, his left foot resting on the football.

Sirius may be a bit winded, but he's aware enough to see the fierce joy in Remus's eyes, the predatory set of his shoulders. His cheeks and lips are bright pink, either from the cold or from exertion, and Sirius can see the fluid way his muscles move under his shirt when he shifts his weight for another attack. Competition looks good on him.

Keeping eye contact, Remus feints right, then left, and Sirius banks hard and follows him each time. Finally Remus slips past him with a spin move, his shoulder sliding across Sirius' with a force that feels intentional. Sirius isn't far behind him, and this time he grabs Remus's shirt, slows him down so he can steal the ball back. Remus isn't easily outdone, though, and they spend what could be minutes or years upping the ante, swearing and laughing and using dirtier and dirtier tactics to regain possession as they sprint up and down the pitch.

Sirius realises somewhere along the line that they never established how exactly one wins whatever game they're playing, but then Remus makes a break down the pitch and Sirius is too busy chasing him to care.

One of them—Sirius couldn't say who—finally goes too far, underestimates his own strength, and the two of them go down in a tangle of limbs at midfield, the ball rolling away slowly before coming to a stop. Sirius lunges after it, but Remus is too quick, throwing his body across Sirius' to hold him back. His hands find Sirius' wrists, holding him down, and Sirius has to admit he is well and truly pinned.

Everything has gone so quiet all of a sudden, just the sounds of the two of them trying to catch their breath, Remus sitting astride him now. His beanie has come off somewhere in the melee, and the lights of the pitch above him pick out his curls in silver. Sirius has always known, intellectually, that Remus is bigger than him, but it's different to know it physically, to have Remus's body cover him and blot out the stars. He's imagined them in this position before, but actually feeling Remus there, feeling him with his own actual body and not his imaginary daydream body, is a little too much. Half of him is knotted up in his nerve endings, incapable of rational thought, and half of him is miles away, clinically analyzing everything that's happening from somewhere in space. Both halves are about thirty seconds from catastrophic failure, and that could have consequences that Sirius isn't prepared to deal with.

Sirius meets Remus's eyes, and Remus's mouth slices open in a grin that leaves Sirius as winded as any tackle.

'Gotcha,' Remus says. 'Looks like I win.' He's frozen still, though, and while his smile is sure, there's a question in his eyes that Sirius has no interest in answering, or doesn't know how. He thinks instead of the grass prickling against the back of his neck, narrows his focus to that single sensation.

'Is that how this works, then,' Sirius says softly. He's stalling, holding off the moment he can feel humming toward them. Remus huffs a small laugh that turns to fog in the cold air. Sirius had forgotten the temperature, can't quite take it seriously when he can feel the heat of Remus down to his bones. Even that has him reeling, the thought that the warmth seeping into him was part of Remus half a minute ago.

'You tell me,' Remus says quietly. Sirius takes a deep breath, feeling panic thread its way through him, crackling along every nerve. He searches for a response, something clever and witty that will get him out of this without having to risk anything, but when he reaches for a rejoinder he finds his brain is full of static. His throat feels tighter and tighter, and when he lets out a breath a small whine comes with it.

Remus's hands loosen on his wrists, distracted, and if Sirius is honest with himself, what happens next is pure fight or flight. He surges upwards, taking advantage of Remus's moment of inattention, and bowls them both over. Leaving Remus flat on his back, Sirius runs for the football, snatching it up with his hands. He's got no plan, no strategy besides move move keep moving, but when he looks back Remus is upright and running after him, thank God.

Sirius runs the length of the half and carries the football between the goalposts. When he turns, football held overhead, Remus is slowing to a stop, a tired smile on his face and his beanie in his hand.

'You know, that's not actually how the game is played,' Remus says wearily, tugging his hat back onto his head.

'Expecting me to play by your rules was your first mistake, young Remus,' Sirius says, tossing him the football.

Remus fixes him with a considering look. 'Yeah, I guess it was,' he says, cocking his head to one side. Then he drops the football, and before Sirius has time to react, Remus's grabbed him around the legs and heaved him over his shoulder into a fireman's carry, ignoring Sirius' squawks of alarm and protest.

Sirius contemplates his upside-down view of Remus's arm. He'd like it better right-side up, and with his crotch not pressed dangerously against the muscle and bone of Remus's shoulder. It's a very nice arm, admittedly, but even so.

'Remus,' he says, his voice deceptively calm. 'What the shit are you doing?'

'If you can make up rules, so can I,' Remus says, striding across the pitch. He doesn't even sound like he's making much of an effort, the bastard, and Sirius needs to stop feeling things about how easy it is for Remus to physically throw him around or else he's going to find himself in a very compromising situation soon. 'My rule says that the loser has to carry the winner off the field.' His grip on Sirius' thigh tightens, and it's all Sirius can do not to squirm against it.

'Good rule,' he says into Remus's arm. 'Next time can you give the winner a bit of warning?'

'Next time the winner will be me,' Remus says, and Sirius can hear the smile in his voice even if he can't see it. 'So I'll be sure to let myself know.'

'Smartarse,' Sirius grumbles. He glares down at the grass, which really isn't fair. The grass never made him have inconvenient sexual urges. At least not directly.

Then the world tilts and he's being set down, right-side up, on the edge of the pitch. Remus picks up his duffle bag and shuts the lights back off before opening the gate and ushering Sirius through with a bow. Sirius smiles, even if he can't quite meet Remus's eyes. 'I could get used to this,' he says, waiting for Remus to catch up. Remus just laughs.

They cross the carpark in silence again, and Sirius can't quite tell what kind of silence it is. They reach his car, and it's only when Remus's bag hits his backseat with a thwap that Sirius realises it's empty. 'Your football,' he says. 'I'm sorry, I didn't realise. We can—'

'I'll get it on Monday,' Remus says with a shrug. He slides into the passenger seat and pulls the door closed.

The drive back to Remus's is almost as quick as the drive to the school, and when Sirius pulls up to his block of flats he can't decide if he wants Remus out of his car as fast as possible or if he wants to keep driving until his petrol runs out so Remus can't ever leave.

Remus unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches into the backseat for his bag. Then he turns to Sirius, holding out his hand. Unsure, Sirius clasps it in his own.

'Good game,' Remus says, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards, and then he slips out of the car, leaving Sirius with a phantom warmth in his hand and a stupid expression on his face. Both stay in place the entire drive back to Sirius' apartment, Sirius doing his best to ignore the
insistent pulsing in his groin. He feels like he's suffocating in the small space of his car, overwhelmed by sense memory. Remus's weight pressing him into the ground. Remus's lip caught between his teeth in concentration. Remus's voice rumbling low in his chest. This whole thing has been throwing sparks at the dry kindling of his mad, terrible wanting, and now a fire's been lit under his skin, smoldering between his nerve endings and making him sweat in his seat.

When he finally makes it back to his apartment, he pauses only long enough to throw the deadbolt before staggering into his bedroom. He doesn't even make it onto the bed, falling on his knees just inside the door instead. He braces against the bed with his forearm, burying his face against the duvet, and pulls his sweatpants down just far enough to take himself in hand. He groans at the first touch, desperate for it, for anything.

He doesn't waste any time, taking tight, fast pulls, and fuck, it almost hurts to do it dry, but if he doesn't get some sort of release in the next two minutes he's going to die. Breathing shallowly, he lets the leftover pieces of the night take over. He thinks of Remus above him, and the smell of grass, and how it would feel to get fucked with that grass against his skin and that face looking down at him. He imagines Remus taking him apart on the midfield line, under the lights, out in the open. He remembers Remus's hands tight on his wrists, and shudders wrack his entire body. One, two, three more strokes, and he's done, coming into his own hand with a broken sound.

He sits there he doesn't know how long, coming down less from his orgasm than from the entire night. God. He is a fucking wreck, and it's only getting worse. He can only imagine what Remus would think if he saw him like this, alone on his bedroom floor with his prick out and a hand full of come. What is wrong with him? He hasn't been like this over anyone since he was sixteen years old and terrified and helpless to stop himself from thinking of the fit boy from biology class every time he got himself off. This has gotten completely out of control.

Sirius finally musters the energy to go clean himself up, deciding that staying on the floor until he withers into dust under the weight of his sad, sad state of affairs is not actually the way he wants to die. When he raises his head, though, eyes fall on his pillow. There sits Ziggy, grooming one paw imperiously and staring at him with what can only be disdain.

He drops his face back onto the bed with a defeated whimper.