Sirius Orion Black has only ever been to two funerals in his life.
The first funeral he ever went to was that of Alphard Black, an uncle of his who moved to Ireland when Sirius was around seven years old and who left all of his fortune to Sirius when he died about ten years later. It had been an odd sort of send-off in the sense that it had been colourful and light and only nine people had been invited. It had been a celebration of Alphard Black's life for the only people Alphard Black cared about.
The second funeral he ever went to was that of Lyall John Lupin, a complete stranger. Where Alphard's memorial service had been bright and close-knit, this one was just odd. There was probably about thirty people in attendance, and everyone was dressed in black attire, but the atmosphere was weird – not sad, but not happy either. It was more like everyone there was just indifferent. The vicar had shared some stories about Lyall Lupin's life and adventures, but no one had done a eulogy or got up to share their own stories of the man.
Sirius had stumbled upon Lyall Lupin's funeral by accident and, in a fit spontaneity (brought on by a bout of boredom), he had decided to join it. In the Church, he had sat in the back and watched with vague interest as the vicar said his piece and the mourners sang some hymns. And then when they all went out to watch the coffin be lowered into the ground, Sirius stood at the back once again and watched as the mourners all said their goodbyes, either by throwing some dirt or a flower into the six-feet-deep hole, or simply by just saying goodbye.
Right now, Sirius is standing in the churchyard. Most of the attendees have left, presumably to go home or to go to the After Service do. There is only Sirius and one other person at the graveside: a young man who is staring down at the wooden box below. Sirius moves forward so that he is standing at the edge of the grave as well, side-by-side with the other person. It is quiet in the churchyard except for the wind whistling through the trees and the chatter from some funeral-goers walking away.
"Lyall Lupin. What a life he led, huh?" he says, mostly because he has never been good with silences.
The man beside him – a tall twenty-something with a chevron moustache, brilliantly windswept brown hair and lovely hazel eyes – looks at him with a frown. Sirius finds himself a bit entranced by the man. It is not often you see a man with a moustache nowadays, nor a man so casually handsome. It intrigues Sirius; makes him feel a bit funny but in a good way.
Sirius offers his brightest grin. "Hi, I'm Sirius," he says. "How did you know the deceased?"
The man looks at him for a second before he replies, "He was my dad."
"Oh." This bit of information makes Sirius pause and he surveys the other man who seems rather fine, all things considered. It could be that the man is stoic, or a psychopath, or maybe he just didn't like his dad all that much. Sirius understands that, and he decides that it is safe enough for him to say, "Well, if you don't mind me saying so, you don't seem awfully upset."
The man hums and returns his gaze to the grave ahead. He shrugs and says, "My dad and I weren't really that close."
"Ah," Sirius acknowledges. "I understand that."
The man glances at him and replies, "Not close with your dad either, I take it?"
Sirius laughs at the understatement and says, "You could say that. I haven't spoken to the bastard in... oh, about ten years."
"Right," the man nods. After a second, he turns to face Sirius fully and says, "Sorry, how did you know my dad, again?"
Sirius has been caught. He has two choices, really: he can lie and pretend that he met Lyall Lupin at a coffee shop or something, or he can 'fess up and tell the honest truth. A pretty face will always inspire veracity, so he admits:
"Oh, I didn't."
The man frowns handsomely and says, "You didn't?"
"No."
The man takes a second to think about his next question before he says, "Do you know my mam?"
Sirius shakes his head, "Nope."
The man studies him and then asks, "Do you know anyone here?"
Sirius offers a sheepish grin and shoves his hands into his pockets. "No," he admits.
"Wh…" The man stands there, staring at Sirius, clearly unsure what to reply. Eventually he says, "Sorry. I'm a bit confused. Why are you here if you didn't know my dad and you don't know anyone else here?"
It is a fantastic question, really. But the truth is simple: "I was bored."
"You were bored," the man repeats, edge of his mouth twitching – like he is trying not to smile.
"Yes," he answers, even though it's not really a question.
"So, what, you just decided to come to a random funeral?"
"Correct," he answers again. "See, I was just walking around, utterly bored and also trying to get rid of some writer's block, you know? Anyway, I saw the Hearse out front, and I thought, 'Huh. I'll pop in. Pay my respects and all that.' And so, I did."
The man stares at him for a solid ten seconds before he bursts into laughter. Like, real laughter. The kind of laughter that draws attention: loud guffaws, bent at the waist, uncontrollable cackling. (It is fortunate that the churchyard is mostly empty now, otherwise this would look rather inappropriate – the deceased's son laughing moments after his father's coffin has been lowered into the ground.) It is an absolutely delightful sound, wonderfully deep and unerringly real, and Sirius feels proud to have been the one to pull it from this handsome man.
"Fucking hell!" The man manages to pull himself together and straightens up, his hand on his side as if he has given himself a stitch. "You're... My God, you're fucking diabolical."
Sirius grins and replies, "In a good way?"
The man hums and says, "I think so."
Sirius beams proudly and says, "Good. Nuttiness does run in the family, you know."
The man shakes his head lightly and says, "Did it cure your boredom, then? Going to my dad's funeral?"
"Yes," he says, looking at the moustachioed man. "I daresay it did."
"And the writer's block?"
"Give me a few days and that'll sort itself out, I reckon," he says.
They stand in silence for a long moment, the last two at the graveside. Lyall Lupin is lying six feet below them in a lovely wooden box and Sirius feels like he should be ashamed that he is having such a good time at the man's funeral but, really, who wants to be sad at a funeral?
"What's your name?" he asks the very-much-alive man in front of him.
"Remus," he says, without hesitation.
"Remus... I like it. It's very mythological, no?"
"Yep. After Remus and Romulus. Not quite sure what my parents were trying to say when they named me after the brother who is murdered, but yeah. Sorry, what was your name, again?"
"Sirius," he replies easily. "Like the stars."
Remus looks at him for a long moment, his hazel eyes bright and appraising, before he nods and says, "Very fitting."
Sirius feels something in his chest, like a flutter but softer and slower – like a slow sort of heart attack, but not a ruinous one. It feels like something is happening here, like there are doors opening and birds of possibilities flying around.
"Yeah?"
Remus nods, "Yeah."
Sirius bites his lip and takes a second to debate his next question and whether or not he should ask it, but in the end, because life is short and he is at a stranger's funeral, he decides to chance it, and he says, "Say, Remus. This might be extremely inappropriate, but would you like to go and get a drink with me?"
Remus sizes him up, takes a second to think on it, but eventually nods and says, "Sure. I could go for a drink."