In the dwindling daylight, you’re dawdling beside Remus, admiring your new, shiny Mary Jane’s. You’re particularly mesmerized by their intricate yellow stitching and pretty brass buckles. You also couldn’t help but admire the way your forest green, pleated trousers flowed outward above your shoes in just the way you imagined. You hum happily along cobblestoned streets and lush waving leaves, with Remus’ brown trousers in your peripheral. Your arm’s tucked into his as he guides you back to your flat as you babble about everything and nothing.
Remus can’t help but smile at the sight. You’ve been wielding a new sort of confidence lately, finally out of the growing pains and fits of discomfort of your late teens; you’re finally becoming who you imagined you would be.
Even so, not much has changed since Hogwarts. Back then, Remus would guide you on walks to Care of Magical Creatures or to the Greenhouse for Herbology when the sun was too bright and your eyes were still sleepy. You’d walk alongside Remus, arms linked, and your eyes shut, allowing him to guide you along.
Admittedly, your years at Hogwarts weren’t your finest. You were a basket case—chain-smoking and staining your hand with ink writing angsty poetry, all while almost exclusively wearing Remus’ grey, v-neck pullover or, when you were seeing him, Sirius’ brown leather jacket.
Now, you’re doing what you had always wanted. You’re a proper writer and not for shoddy publications like the Daily Prophet, but for proper, reputable publications: Muggle literary magazines and indie Wizarding publications. It’s exhilarating and exhausting.
You are always writing.
Earlier, your shoulder was hunched under the weight of your canvas messenger bag which contained your journal, a more than ample number of pens, and a book or two. This behemoth of a bag, however, is now on Remus’ shoulder. He’s walking you home from his and Sirius’ flat. You took advantage of the opportunity for company and a change of scenery, otherwise you’d go stir-crazy stewing in your flat, waiting for words to flow out of your quill.
Remus, like always, is bugging you to read your latest project—“I know you’re working on something. Tell me about it.”
“I can’t! It takes the fun out of it for me.”
“How so?” His arm tightens around yours.
Remus knows you better than anyone, and how you would say just about anything to avoid sharing your writing, even if it entered the realm of inanity. He enjoyed watching you squirm, word-vomiting a flimsy yet creative excuse on the spot. It was all so silly; you’d end up showing it to him anyway. Even so, Remus wondered what the excuse would be this time.
“If I tell you what it’s about, you’re going to form assumptions and opinions,” you began, weaving your words carefully. “I want you to have an open, unadulterated mind.”
“Isn’t that what reading is about? Confronting your preconceptions against what someone else has written—”
“Nuh uh,” you say petulantly. Perhaps he had a point, but you were too stubborn to admit it.
“Point taken,” Remus crumbles. “We’ll do it your way.” Whatever you want.
“Good,” you bounce. “It really is better that way.”
“If you say so bug.”
You beam. You adore the nicknames he gave you, but this one above all. From any other man, you might scrunch your nose, maybe roll your eyes, but this is Remus. He says it so frequently but so sparingly, so you cherish every time he says it. Always so sweetly, so kindly.
—
Now, you’re on your doorstep, with Remus the step below.
You can help but notice Remus’ eyes briefly flicker down to your lips.
“You should come inside,” your lips twitch up kindly.
Remus’ eyes widen ever so slightly in surprise, but he doesn’t say anything.
“No?” you ask, a bit wounded.
“Yes, I’d love to.”
“Cool, maybe we can read what I’m working on, but no promises.”.
“Then what was all this business about an open, unadulterated mind, bug?!” He already knows the answer.
“I just like making you crazy, Remus,” you laugh.
“You’re certainly succeeding.”
“Not nice!”
“Nor is intentionally driving your best mate mad. You’re like my personal, portable psychological tormentor.”
“Portable?” you scrunch your eyebrows.
“Quite,” he says, lacing his fingers in-between yours, and then steps beside you, to drag you along. “Come on, let’s get you inside. It’s getting cold!”
—
You live for the way Remus toes the line. You know he fancies you, part of you thinks he’s always had. He lets you get away with murder, even now—you were always stealing off his plate, wearing his clothes, hanging off of him, and sleeping with his friends. You didn’t think of it that way then, but you certainly recognize what you did now. There’s only one way he might’ve allowed it. You were a shitty friend.
You dated James very briefly in your fifth year, but you were never able to achieve the intimacy you and Remus shared. In fact, it was the very source of irreconcilable differences with James, so you resolved to be justfriends. “It’s just better this way,” James had said, and you had to agree. You, the boys, and Lily were the best of friends; you even watched little Harry from time to time.
Later, in your sixth and seventh year, you had an undefined, off-and-on situationship with Sirius. You both had a flare for the dramatic, and quite frankly, Sirius was the inspiration for much of your writing. He’d break it off, or you’d break it off, and you’d sit in your dormitory with smudgy mascara and in yesterday’s uniform as the words would flow out of your quill like a sybil possessed, cursing his smudgy “guy-liner”, as he ironically called it, and his long, dark wavy hair. Sirius rocked it, and he knew it. You hypothesised he was specifically put on this godforsaken Earth to drive you up the wall. He was cryptic, quiet, scheming, but also boisterous and beaming. In many ways, he was hard not to romanticize his contradictory nature. He was certainly a sight to behold. You had so much in common; in fact, you were too similar. Two negatives.
Even so, nobody understands you as well as Remus. You two are simply magnetic.
You both read a tremendous amount. During summers and holidays spent away from Hogwarts, Remus was owling you both Muggle and Wizard books for you to read and mark up. Remus had already marked it up every book he sent, so you’d respond to his margin notes both serious and silly, and send it back.
During the school year, you were glued to his side. You and Remus spent many late nights in the Gryffindor Common Room, cramming for exams or toiling over essays, drinking hot cocoa, quizzing one another or proofreading. You also spent most mornings after the full moon in the Hospital Wing with Remus, because well, you couldn’t bear the thought of him being alone. You were very into Astronomy and, as a witch with a particular love of Astrology, with your special attention the Lunar cycle, you quickly pieced together Remus’ lycanthropy. You came from a very progressive Wizarding family, so you accepted Remus without question. How couldn’t you?
Because you excelled at Divination class, you also often helped Remus interpret his cards when working with Tarot. When Remus was struggling with palmistry, you recall spending one afternoon tracing Remus’ palm in the grass by the Black Lake. You could barely elaborate on your interpretation on his palm lines, stumbling and blushing profusely. You remember his heavy breath with every stroke along the lines of his palm, how his mouth slightly ajar.
You’d be lying if you said that you didn’t like him too, but back then, you would never entertain the thought. You loved being his friend. It was so easy. Words were almost superfluous. Most of the time either of you could glance at the other and you’d know exactly what the other was thinking. You’ve talked so much shit through knowing glances. You could be unapologetically you with him. Why complicate your friendship with a relationship?
—
You unlock the door and slide off your Mary Janes, pull of your coat, and then your rings and your beaded bracelets.
“It’s like you’re shedding skin,” remarks Remus who already placed his shoes neatly by the door and his coat on the rack. Your bag sits on small table by the door.
“Precisely. Come on, I’ll make us hot cocoa, with extra marshmallows.”
“Sold.”
Walking carefully, you bring two mugs filled to the brim with marshmallows to the coffee table, and then you and Remus both squish onto your very well-loved couch. Remus set a record on the turntable.
“Thanks bug,” Remus said casually before slurping up some marshmallows. He’s particularly handsome today. He is wearing the red, striped jumper you bought him at the charity shop down the road. You’re pleased. He’s always looked much better in red that you were.
Under the low-light, you realize that Remus is nervous. He’s bouncing his leg.
You rest your head in your hand, and you look at Remus some more. You wanted to trace his face the same way you traced his palm on the Black Lake, across the bridge of his nose to his eyes, along his lightly freckled cheeks. You wanted to thumb his pretty, long lashes, run your finger through his mousy brown hair.
“What?” Remus asks sheepishly behind his mug, his lips slightly crusted with chocolate.
“Nothing,” you hum contentedly, the corner of your lips twitching upward.
Remus just stares at you. “Okay, weirdo.”
He almost disregards you, that is, until you let your eyes wander all over his face, searching for some sort of permission. That’s when Remus’ eyes flicker back down your lips, and they stay there.
You lean in so close you can feel his breath tickle your lips.
Remus gently tucks your stray hair back and cradles your face, thumbing the soft skin along your jaw. Even though you know he’s going to kiss you, you can’t help but feel stunned when he connects your lips suddenly.
Despite your stupor, at once, you deepen the kiss, with open lips—sloppy and desperate. All you can think about how he tastes sweet like marshmallows.
Without interruption, Remus effortlessly tugs you onto his lap, and suddenly you’re straddling him, grazing the skin beneath the hem of his sweater.
Annoyed with the hem of his sweater, and well, the presence of his sweater in general, you tug it off, up and over Remus’ stomach, his chest, up his arms, and over his head. You were relentless.
Between kisses, Remus breathes, “You’re so… fucking… crazy.”
—
“Well, bug, that was certainly a way to get out of showing me your piece,” Remus threw himself back onto the couch, you were tucked into his side, eyeliner and mascara smudged.
“That’s a way to put it,” you say, feeling a little lighter. “But it did work.”
You stew in the silence, mentally thanking yourself for lighting a candle on the coffee table, inhaling the rosy, woody, deep red candle you concocted, littered with rose petals, lavender, and hibiscus flower. For attraction. Candle-magic was your specialty.
“This… this isn’t a one-time thing right?” Remus asks suddenly, fingers combing through your hair. “Merlin, it would crush me if it was.”
“You think so little of me,” you say quietly, suddenly feeling small, staring at the flickering flame.
“Oh no, bug you misunderstand me,” says Remus helplessly. “It’s just like I said: I’d be crushed if you didn’t want me the way I want you. I’m all in for you. I’m never quite sure with you.”
“I don’t exactly have the greatest track record…”
“I don’t care about that.”
“You did,” you pipe up.
“God I sure did,” he laughs. “Can you blame a bloke? All of my mates! You even snogged Peter.”
“He’s a great kisser. Attentive.”
“Blegh,” Remus said, ruffling up his nose, “Not exactly something I want to be hearing.”
Your laughter dies down, and suddenly he’s asking, “…Why not me?”
“I couldn’t have you,” you reasoned plainly. “You were too good for me, too good to me.”
“Well that’s just ridiculous.”
“You think too little of yourself, Lupin.”
“You think too little of yourself, bug,” he echoes.
“Maybe.”
“I think you’re incredible, you know?”
“That I do,” you say boldly. That is, you know he thinks you’re incredible, but Remus seemed satisfied with your answer. (Maybe someone needed to knock your newfound confidence down a peg, but that somebody certainly wouldn’t be Remus.)
“Good.”
You burrow a little further into Remus, content in the warmth he radiated. You could get used to this.