A Bird At Your Door

He's at a party, and the room is spinning like a wheel. September was nearing its end, and Sirius intended on drinking it away. 

James and Lily's flat is thrumming with people, men and women Sirius hardly knows, and he is too drunk on whiskey to care. Heat, sweltering, presses in on them, sweat and vodka clinging to the air like it's been woven into the yellow wallpaper. Blonde and thrilled, Marlene has a heavy arm slung over his shoulders as they sit, crammed onto the sofa, sardines in a can. 

They are both staring at ridiculous, swaying James, howling into a microphone at the top of his lungs. Peter's poor karaoke machine, which he has stolen from his older sister and promised not to break, is being abused tonight, and no-one is happy about it-- except maybe James.  

"Make it stop." Marlene whines, burying her face in Sirius' chest, wriggling away from the noise, her thick hair tickling his chin. "Dear Lord, make it stop."

"He's insatiable." Sirius is laughing, stitch piercing at his side, and he's feeling drunk drunk drunk. He makes the mistake of meeting James' eye and sinks lower in his seat, hoping the billowed cushions will engulf him, but it's too late. 

"Sirius Black!" James yells into the microphone, mid-song, and points a shaking finger at him as if he's some old, angry witch cursing him into a toad. "Get your ass up here."

It has always been very hard to refuse James. He can really dig his sticky fingers in and stare just like his father; it's terrifying that somehow, after the years and years of knowing and loving James Potter, Sirius is not immune.They are two sides of the same silver coin, no matter which way they land.

Sirius' mouth is an uncontrolled thing, it stretches in a grin as he rises from the sofa on unsteady legs, his head so light he fears its loss. 

"Only if we sing Don’t You Want Me!" 

"Oh no." Marlene mutters from behind him in that fond, horrified voice of hers. 

The bounce of a snare drum starts up and a jarring synth echoes out from the machine as Sirius snatches the microphone from a breathless and giddy James.

He threads a hand through his own dark hair like it'll be a tether against the strange warping of the room around him, a rope to the real world of deadlines and taxes and bicycles. Right now, it would be very easy to forget those things existed.  

"You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar..." He chokes out, leaning into James' side so he doesn't fall and make a complete fool of himself. Flushing, the heat sitting deep in his cheeks, he winces at the low slur of his singing, the stutter over the words. Oh God. Across the room, he catches Marlene's eye, and winks. 

Later, when Lily has dragged James away from the karaoke, kicking and screaming, Sirius finds himself in the kitchen, talking to a short, brunette girl whose name he can't remember. She touches his arm, fingertips trailing against his sleeve.

As he takes his fourth shot of tequila, tongue aflame, his phone buzzes against his leg. Sirius slams his glass down on the counter and frowns down at the blurry red missed calls stacked up on his screen, reading Regulus.

The girl is still babbling about something, eyes bright and trained on him like he’s a target, but he shoves his phone back into his pocket and turns away to shoulder through the crowd.  

The liquor is hot and sharp in his throat and he doesn’t want to dance or sing or talk anymore. Sirius slips out the back-door, and the freezing bite of the September air is on him, dog-like, lapping at him, numbing his skin, his cheeks. His pack of cigarettes is suspiciously light in the pocket of his leather jacket, and he flicks it open to find it empty. 

"Fuck." Sirius snaps at no-one, at the black skeletons of the trees stretching over the paling horizon, the dusky, brick-red of the empty alley and jarring golden lamplight spilling over gleaming cars, still houses. 

The first drop of rain hits his forehead, and he can smell it in the air, the fresh gasp of a storm, upturned earth and gasoline; it reminded him of late summer nights back home, lying on the roof where he wasn’t supposed to be, hiding from his mother and waiting for lightning to strike. 

He kicks at a loose stone with his boot, watches it skid across the pavement, but a soft click from behind him has his head turning back.

A boy leans against the wall, long, bony fingers curled around the guttering flame of his lighter, cigarette pressed between chapped lips. A mess of loose curls fell into his eyes as his head bent, colourless in the growing dark. 

"You got a fag?" Sirius asks, and the boy’s eyes dart up to his face, narrowing an inch. He didn't return Sirius’ half-smile, only took a deep breath in and blew smoke up into the night sky, the white whisper of it curling around his wrist, his jaw. 

"Clearly." The boy says, in a soft, welsh lilt. In the pit of Sirius' stomach, something twists, buries deep and hooks there, into the lining of  his gut. 

"Oh." Pausing, Sirius runs a shaking hand through his hair once more, habit-bound as always as he pushes it back from his face. He clears his throat, hoping it will ward back the wave of trembling nausea rising in him. "Can I-- uh-- borrow one?"

Those eyes are on him again, staring him down, until-- "‘Suppose."

Sirius plucks a cigarette from his outstretched palm, and fumbles for the worn, red lighter in pocket that he’d stolen from someone in a bar last year. Chewing the bitter inside of his cheek, he watches the boy from underneath his eyelashes. He’s got a gorgeous sort of face, a soft nose scattered with brown freckles and pink with the arctic cold, clenched jaw, a pale neck, a dark green sweater tucked right over his fists. 

"You a friend of James?" Sirius asks as he inhales smoke, as if he doesn’t already know every single friend that James has ever made in his life. Warmth floods through his lungs, welcome and wonderful, as he holds it in, the dull ache at the back of his skull fading. 

The boy shakes his head, slowly. Sirius waits for him to say something else, but the boy is quiet, too quiet, and Sirius feels like he’s trying to scrub blood out of cotton. "Lily?" He presses. 

A nod. Eureka! A human-like response. "From school."

"What’s your name, then?"

"Remus." 

"Remus...?"

"Lupin."

"Remus Lupin." Sirius sounds out, but the words tumble out of his drunken mouth in a half-choked laugh. What a fucking name. "I’m--"

"Sirius Black. I know who you are." Remus jerks his head back towards the house, where the music is still thumping on and on and on. The corner of his pretty mouth quirks upwards, gaze flashing over Sirius as his eyes catch the light, a deep, strange yellow, the same ochre as James and Lily’s wallpaper, or honey. His voice is clear, but rougher than before. "You like a performance, don’t you?"

Heat creeps up Sirius’ neck and he bites down on his tongue before he can reply with something lewd. "Someone’s got to be the life of the party." He says instead, grinning like he hopes it’ll be contagious. 

"I’m sure." 

Remus Lupin stubs out his cigarette on the wall, the glow of red stamped to nothing, and elbows open the back door. The low hum of synth and syruppy guitar echo out onto the street from the living room. ‘Cause we’re living in a world of fools, breaking us down, warbles Robin Gibb. Remus does not cast Sirius another glance before he slips inside. 

Sirius watches him, mouth ajar, until he disappears into the flat. Dickhead. 

*

Three days later, his phone is vibrating on his bedside table. He's tired, the kind of tiredness that lies down in your bones and wages war on your blood, keeps you pinned to a mattress for days. All the same, he scrambles for the sound and pulls it to his ear.

"I said fuck off, Reggie--" He snarls down the speaker, angry words spilling out unused and scratched. From the other end, a familiar high, female voice answers before his snapping can rise in volume.

"It’s Lily!"

"Oh," Sirius licks his dry lips and flops back onto his pillow, "Morning, Lilian."

"Has...Regulus been calling you?" She asks, and Sirius wishes that his friends would stop talking to him like he’s a cornered cat in an alley, seconds from scratching out their eyes. Kindness is a very difficult thing.

"Uh, yeah. Don’t tell James, okay? Not yet."

Lily pauses, silence crackling from the line. "Okay, Sirius." She says finally, firmly, and then before Sirius can reply--  "Wanna get lunch?"

Sirius snorts, sitting up and hearing his limbs creak at him as he does. "If it’s on you."

"I'm not the one who's set to inherit a massive fortune." Lily groans. The bottom falls out of his stomach, and keeps falling, until Sirius scrunches his eyes shut against it and tries not to think. 

"Neither am I." 

Another beat of quiet. "It’s on me. Meet me at Madam Puddifoot’s." 

*

The bell at the door of Madam Puddifoot’s chimes a high, shrill tune as he pushes it open, and he winces. After eyeing the garish white frills and bright pink walls, the terrifying figures of china cats and teetering cupcake stands, Sirius' gaze anchors on the blaring red hair of Lily Evans from one of the round, lace-ridden tables. 

Dear Lord. He thinks if his mother walked in here, she might immediately combust-- which, although not particularly an upsetting ordeal, would be rather messy.

Lily is not alone. As yellow-eyed as before, Remus Lupin sits pouring over a thick book in a faded orange jumper, his honey brown curls teased into neater coils, and his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

Sirius considers turning back, but Lily has already caught sight of him and waves him over with an enthusiastic hand before he can bolt out the door. 

"This is like a place from my nightmares." Sirius mutters as he slides into a chair next to her, avoiding the pointed glare from the bespectacled old woman sweeping by with a notepad. 

"I think it’s quaint." Lily smirks, an evil smile that tells Sirius that she chose this cafe just to mess with him. She glances at Remus, as if frowning at his cheek will force him to look up, but he remains glued to the page. Rolling her eyes, she takes a pointed sip of steaming tea from a delicate, blue cup. "This is Remus. We went to sixth form together."

"We've met." Sirius rests his chin upon his entwined fingers, the press of his many rings cold against his jaw. "At your party."

Lily turns to stare hard at Remus, her green eyes gleaming with reproach. "You didn't tell me that!" 

Across the table, Remus raises his head and there's something dark and amused in his gaze that makes Sirius shift in his seat. "I didn't think it was of note."

"How sweet." Sirius croons, stretching back. "I may just swoon. Lily, catch me!"

Huffing, Lily shoves Sirius off her shoulder, and Sirius laughs even harder, as ever unable to help himself. Remus' mouth twists, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. He looks back down at his book, long fingers tightening on the soft, broken spine of the cover, but a slight crease is pinching between his brows. 

"How the hell did you manage to get a word out of him?" Lily snorted, dropping another sugar cube in her tea. It bobs up towards the pale surface once, and then sinks into the milky depths. "The only way I knew he was there was because he brought the vodka."

"He lent me a cigarette--" Sirius says, but then jolts as something sharp collides with his shin underneath the table. Drawing in a sudden breath, he snaps his head towards Remus, who was now glaring at him with a quiet fierceness, something animal and quite beautiful in the clench of his jaw.

Had Remus just kicked him?

"Remus John Lupin." Lily sets her teacup down on its saucer with a loud clunk. "You told me you'd quit smoking." 

"I'm stressed." Remus mutters, still glowering at Sirius like he was considering hitting him over the head with his stupid, bloody great book. 

"You should try yoga." drawls Sirius, though he couldn't quite imagine this angry gremlin of a boy sitting cross-legged on a mat, listening to flute music. "You look like you could do with a good soul-searching."

Remus' face darkens, and he closes his novel as he pushes back his chair to stand. "I'm going to the library." He says. 

"I'll miss you!" Sirius calls after him, but Remus doesn't even flinch as he disappears out of the door. When he turns back to the table, Lily is staring at him with narrowed eyes, green flashing at him dangerously. 

"What?" He says, tilting his head. 

*

Sirius is on his way back from class when his phone rings for the fifth time that day. The hood of his coat is tugged up to shelter him from the pounding of rain against the pavement, but Sirius pulls it out from his pocket and frowns at the screen. 

Sirius sighs, and ducks under a battered bus shelter to answer. It's dark, and cold, and there's crumpled crisp packets stuck to the floor, but it's better than outside.

"What do you want?" He snaps when he answers. 

"You would know that if you picked up the phone the first ten times I called."

"I didn’t feel like hearing your condescending bullshit."

There's a sharp breath from the other end, a scuffle of movement, and then-- "I still need you, Sirius."

The rain is louder against the roof, and it's started to flood the drains. Sirius slides down to sit on one of the hard, stone benches and swallows. He wants to go home and sleep off this weight in his chest. "Are you trying to make me feel guilty, Reggie?"

"No." Regulus mumbles down the line, his voice wound tight. "I just want you to come back home."

"I'm not allowed back home. I have no family there. That's the point of being disowned."

"You have me."

"That doesn’t matter." Sirius stares hard at one of his sodden shoelaces. "You’re still a child. You belong to them."

Regulus huffs, and Sirius can imagine his face, all crumpled, angry lines and a set jaw. It'd be like looking at the back of his own hand. "They love me."

"Not all love is good."

"It is good, Sirius."

"No. Some people love their children like they love mirrors. They need you to reflect the best parts of themselves." Sirius chokes on his own laughter, but it tastes strange in his mouth. "And I reflected the worst."

A slam of a door, and Regulus is making another small noise. "I have to go." He mutters, stiff, the words whispered under his breath, "Father’s home."

"Bye, Reggie."

"Answer your phone the next time I call. Please?"

"Okay." Sirius says, quietly, and hangs up.

He stays on the bench for a while after, his head in his hands and his eyes closed against the cold wind. After two buses have come and gone, he picks up his phone again and dials a different number.  

"Can I come over?" He asks. 

*

"Sirius Black, you silly little man." James says as soon as he opens the door to his flat, and he sounds so much like his mother that it’s scary. Now, the apartment is clear of bottles and cans, its yellow walls and odd furniture familiar and cozy. "Where have you been?"

"I saw you three days ago."

"And I have withered! I have waned! I have--"

"Been a complete pain in my ass." interrupted Lily as she swept into the living room, shrugging on a soft leopard print coat. "Ta, boys. I’m off to meet Marlene."

"You’re going to miss the Chinese." James sings, catching her around the waist before she could reach the front door. Laughing, Lily cups his face between her hands with gentle fingers, pressing a chaste kiss to his nose.

"Save me a spring roll." She says, and the warmth of their smiles washes over Sirius like he's sunken into a steaming bath.

The knot in his stomach loosens, and then drifts away into nothing. James and Lily are meant for eachother. He thinks he knew that from the moment James came back to their flat in first year, waxing lyrical about the argumentative red-head in his cardiovascular lecture.

He slips past Lily as she leaves, stepping further inside. The rain has soaked through to his skin, numb and cutting, and he seizes the first old knitted blanket he sees. 

"Die Hard?" Flopping down onto his faded green sofa, James fiddles with the remote, tongue sticking out as he squints down at the buttons. "Or Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back?"

"Star Wars." Sirius sits, legs folding beneath him.   "I’m in the mood to see Han Solo and Leia yell at eachother."

James grins. "They do that in every film--" 

"I talked to Regulus today. On the phone." Sirius says, before he can hold himself back. 

It wouldn't be right to ask Lily to keep quiet about the reappearance of his brother in his life for much longer, and James knew him better than anyone else. All the same, he almost snickers at how quickly James snaps his head to look at him, mouth dropping open. 

"Are you okay?" James asks, the remote dropping between them. 

"Yeah." Sirius sinks further into the cushions as leans his forehead against James’ shoulder, and frowns into the cotton of his shirt. "I’m worried about him."

"Did he sound alright?"

"He always sounds alright, James. He’s been fucking brain-washed and he won't listen to me."

James pats his damp hair, and pushes out a gentle sigh. "You’re both too stubborn for your own good."

"Quiet." Sirius digs his fingers into James’ ribs until he yelps, squirming away from his sharp nails. He clears his throat, despite to be rid of the burning at the back of his eyes. "Put on Star Wars."
 
"Are you sure we shouldn't talk about--"

"No," Sirius scowls, "I'd rather repress it, thank you."

"You're so healthy and well-adjusted." James mutters as he lifts the remote, and the television screen flickers to life. 

*

He's late. 

With a strict instruction from Lily to bring beer and arrive at six, Sirius shows up at her and James' flat at seven. He's placing down the crate of rattling bottles on the dining table, when something catches his eye and he straightens so quickly he almost sprains his spine. 

Remus is standing there in the kitchen, hip leaning against the counter, his head bent low as talked quietly with Marlene and Lily. Shit. Before Sirius can mumble some sort of excuse, James has seized his hand and is dragging him over. 

"You're Remus, right? Lily has told me only good things." James says, and Remus jolts as he claps him hard on the shoulder. "What do you study?"

Remus tears his gaze from the girls and smiles, and he never shows his teeth, but it's golden and genuine. Of course he likes James, Sirius thinks. 

"English Literature." Remus replies.  

"You should talk to Sirius." James wriggles his eyebrows and rests an elbow on Sirius' shoulder. Blanching, Sirius wets his lips and wishes he had started drinking before he arrived. "He wanted to apply for Literature, didn’t you? Ended up sticking with Economics. Just can't get enough of his Marx."

Finally glancing at Sirius, an odd, pink flush rises in Remus' cheeks. He fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve, wearing it between his thumb and finger. "Really?"

Sirius doesn't feel like answering, so he just nods, and then excuses himself to the bathroom. When the door is locked behind him, he stands in front of the mirror for a few seconds, but he's not really looking at anything.

He wants to call Regulus, but he knows he probably shouldn't, knows it would get him in trouble. Twisting the tap, he dips his hands under the cold water and splashes it over his face until it's all washed down the drain. 

When he walks back into the living room, Marlene is fiddling with the stereo for music and Lily has discovered a pack of playing cards beneath the sofa.

Three games of Irish Snap in, Sirius realises Remus is missing. He lifts himself up from the armchair on the pretense of getting another drink, and then slips out into the hallway. He's not sure what he's looking for, or why he's looking for it. 

At the end of the passage, on the loveseat at the window, sits Remus. 

Light frames him, streaming through his curls, softening the bridge of his nose. He looks like an angel, the kind Sirius always used to stare at in church, before he had refused to go-- all brightness, but terrifying. Knees drawn up to his chest, his head is bent over a book as if he could just fall right in. As Sirius walks nearer, he sees his lips move, but no noise rises into the air.  

"Why are you here?" He asks, and Remus starts, nearly smacking his head against the glass pane. When he sees Sirius standing there, he worries at his lip with his teeth, his eyes sharpening. His finger traces the page, nail scraping against the margin. 

"This is a good reading spot."

"No, I mean--" Sirius leans against the wall to look at him, properly. "Why did you even come to this thing if you're not going to talk to anyone?"

"I'm talking to you."

"Unwillingly."

The quiet music from the other room drifts up towards them as someone opens a door. Remus bites back a laugh, his gaze drifting back down to his book. "I don't need to answer any of your questions, Sirius."

Before he can go silent again, Sirius leans over him and plucks the novel straight from his hands. He frowns at the plain front cover. It's one of his favourites.

"Give it back." Remus snaps. When Sirius glances back at him, his shoulders are rigid and his fist is curled so tightly in his lap that his knuckles have faded to a stark white. Was he going to hit him? 

"Jane Eyre." Sirius grins, but doesn't hand it over. "This can't possibly be more interesting than me." 

"Many things are more interesting than you." Remus' voice is a razor edge, but somehow he never raises it. "You are not God's gift to man, Sirius Black."

Sirius stares at him, his mouth dry. He wants to swear at him, or shout, but instead he drops the book back into Remus' lap and straightens from the wall. 

"No wonder nobody fucking cares that you're not at the party." He replies, and turns on his heel to stride back to his friends. 

*

Lying on the sofa, his head in Marlene's lap, Sirius turns to watch the television. She's weaving tiny braids into his black hair and talking over the blare of Come Dine With Me about a girl she met in her lecture and Sirius can only half listen.  

When she falls silent, Sirius sighs, admits defeat, and looks up at her. "How do you know Remus?"

"Hm?" Marlene murmurs from above, absently. 

"Remus Lupin. You know him, don't you?"

"Yes. Well, I did at the beginning of last year." Her hands still in his hair, no longer braiding. "Only for a bit. But he disappeared."

"What?" He frowns. "Disappeared where?" 

Marlene shifts beneath him. "I heard he got sick, but I don't really know, man. Why?"

He settles back into her lap and thinks of Remus and his books and his jumpers. Sick. "I was just curious, I guess."

"He's a quiet one." 

"Yeah. He is." Sirius turns his head back towards the television, and squints at an advert for laundry detergent. "I don't get why Lily keeps inviting him to hang out with us. He clearly couldn't care less."

"That's bullshit." Marlene says, and suddenly she sounds uncharacteristically firm. "He cares."

"Doesn't act like it."

She gives a little tug at one of the braids until he yelps. "Not everyone has to scream and shout their feelings to the world, Sirius."

Scowling, Sirius tilts his head back to look up at her hard, blue eyes. "You're far too rough with me, you know. I'm a delicate soul." 

"Sorry, babe," Marlene strokes his temple with her thumb. "Can't help it." 

*

"Question four. In the poem, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which seabird does the mariner shoot with a crossbow?"

"How are we supposed to know that?" says James, slamming his palm down in outrage. Next to him, Lily strokes a consoling hand through his messy shock of black hair, clearly biting down on a giggle. "Do I look like I read?"

"Not in the slightest." Sirius smirks and skillfully dodges the chip that goes flying at his head. 

It was Monday night, and James had dragged them all out to the weekly pub quiz down at the Whomping Willow, the pub they have remained faithful to for the past year. This would have been a good idea, if any of them had an inch of common sense or cultural knowledge. Marlene thought that Alaska was a country and the only thing Peter knew was all the lyrics to Total Eclipse of the Heart; as a team, they were either ignorant or useless. 

"Is it a pigeon?" Peter suggests timidly. 

From the corner, there is a quiet breath of laughter; but when Sirius glances over, Remus is staring down at the table, shredding a napkin into tiny little pieces with nimble fingers.

He hadn't expected Remus to come, even though Marlene had said he would. He never expects him to be there, but he always is. 

"Pigeons aren't seabirds, Peter." Lily tells him, not unkindly. "Maybe a gannet?"

Bending his head, James grins and scribbles 'gannet' down next to question number four. Sirius is still looking at Remus, he can't help it, it's a funny little impulse, a habit he just can't shake. 

"Bet you know the answer." He says, before he can stop himself. But at least it means that Remus stares at him, and it's a nice change. 

"No. I don't." Remus replies, and there are patches of colour high on his cheeks. His eyes pin Sirius to his seat, and it's a gorgeous match, the golden needle of his iris and Sirius' fluttering pulse. 

Sirius just smiles. "You've read the poem." 

It isn't a question. 

Seconds pass, but it's all broken when Lily pushes at his arm. "Leave him alone." She reproaches. 

An hour later, the quiz is over and they know they have done awfully. The questions that are not blank or filled with James' vulgar drawings have half hearted guesses at best.

At the bar, they've begun to read out the answers. Mercifully, the first question (what is the smallest planet in our solar system?), they have gotten right. The next two are so off the mark that Sirius slides further down in his seat. 

"Question number four." calls out a man to the teams, "The seabird that the mariner kills is an albatross."

"Fuck!" James sighs, furiously marking the answer with a big cross.  

As Remus meets Sirius' flat gaze, his damned mouth tugs with a clever, quiet sort of smile. Then, he is leaning in, until Sirius is stiffening as the solid, warm stretch of Remus' thigh presses close.

"It's bad luck to shoot an albatross." Remus murmurs in his ear, breath hot and his voice soft. "The crew forced the mariner to wear its dead corpse around his neck as punishment."

"You knew." Sirius says, staring at him. Something within him is burning, creeping up his spine, something that tastes like smoke, and fire, and chocolate.  

Pulling back, Remus slips a hand around his glass and takes a slow sip of his lemonade. "I don't know what you mean." He replies, blandly. 

Sirius has never been so turned on before in his life. 

After the quiz is finished, and they have scored an abysmal eleven points out of fifty, James leaps to his feet, thus knocking over his chair. 

"Fancy a pint?" He asks, flashing his card at them. "Rounds on me."

Remus stands too, but he's shrugging on his thick winter coat as he does. He's winding a red scarf around his pale throat as he says-- "I'm going to head off."

"Re!" Lily catches his sleeve as he slips out from their table, "Are you going home?"

He hesitates, and for some reason, his gaze flickers over to Sirius once, fleeting, before he answers, "Library."

Sirius frowns at him. "It’s eleven at night."

Remus nods, and he's smiling again, "It’s empty."

*

Sirius is at the library.

Why is he at the library? He's drunk. Not too drunk, not outrageous and sick, like he has been before, but drunk enough that when he eventually left the pub, he didn't walk home with Marlene. He hadn't wanted to go back there and be sad again, sitting in his bedroom and staring at the wall. 

The library was empty. Sirius has never been here this late at night, but it's beautiful in a strange sort of way. The soft glow of the lamps are the only light gleaming in the darkness of the buckling, arched ceilings, and every inch of it is filled with books. In the corner, sits the only person still here, of course. 

Remus doesn't notice he's there until Sirius lowers himself into a chair at his table. 

"What--" The gnawed pen is lowered, Remus' dark, pink mouth working around words that wouldn't come. He leans back, rubbing at his cheek like there's a mark he wants to scrub from his skin.  "What are you doing?" 

"Am I not allowed to study now?"

"You’ve been drinking." Remus narrows his eyes, but he seems more sleepy than irritated, blinking just a little too much. "And you didn’t bring any work."

"Maybe I just want to bask in your presence." Sirius lifts a shoulder. It is so quiet in here, so silent that if he listens for a moment, he really does think he could hear the books whispering from their shelves.

Sirius’ gaze flickers down to the curve of Remus' sloping fingers, the blunt, bitten nails and ink-stains blotting his pale skin, and then back up to his face. He hasn’t noticed it before, but there’s a silver chain peeking out from around his neck, tucked into his jumper. 

"You don’t even like me." mutters Remus, low and under his breath, but he turns the next page so hard that it nearly ripped in two. 

Twisting his head, Sirius looks at him in surprise. He pauses, his tongue feeling stupid and heavy in his mouth, and wishes he hadn't had that third drink. "I never said I didn’t like you."

"You didn’t have to." 

"I just-- can’t figure you out."

"Christ, Black." He huffs, and for once his lovely, clear eyes are not stuck to the desk. "I’m not a problem. There’s no need to figure me out."

"Yes." Sirius leans forwards across the space of the table until he can see the smattering of brown freckles across Remus' nose. He bares his teeth in a grin. "There is."

Maybe that's why he's here.

The gaze broke, like ice over water, as Remus turns away. He drops his chin into his hand, but says nothing more, and Sirius watches the slant of his shoulders, the swallow of his throat, for just a few seconds more. 

When he gets up to leave, Remus flinches, a tiny shiver, his head lowering over his work. Sirius doesn't look back again. 

*

Next time he sees Remus, he's in the library again, which is all very new and thrilling to him. This time, he has an essay due in two days that he's barely started, and Marlene has gone back home to see her parents for a few days so his apartment is far too empty to sit in anyway. 

He's been there for a couple hours when someone slips into a seat on the other side of the table. He glances up on instinct, but then stills when he sees the familiar curls and worn jumper. 

"Hello. You're here." Sirius says, blinking. He wonders if he should feel embarrassed about their last conversation in this room, but he'd decided against embarrassment a long time ago, so he grins instead. 

"I'm always here." Remus says, as he unpacks a book, a large brown notepad and three sharpened yellow pencils from his leather satchel. Sirius watches his hands, eyes darting from his wrists up to his shoulders, then turns his head away. 

For once, he does really want to focus on his essay about microeconomics, if only because he doesn't feel like having his grade docked yet again.

But it's hard to concentrate on the tiny print when Remus is sitting across from him, bent over his notebook and scrawling away. His knee is knocking underneath the table, Sirius can feel it, hear the soft breaths of air he takes. 

He's managed to write a messy paragraph ridden with spelling mistakes, when a rattle of a wrapper has him glancing up again. Remus is biting down on a small bar of chocolate, half engulfed by its tin, and he must feel the weight of Sirius' gaze, because he looks up as he swallows. 

"My, my." Sirius set his pen down on the desk. "Is Remus Lupin breaking the rules? You're not allowed to eat in here, you know."

Remus tilts his head, and his eyes are warm. "Promise not to tell?"

"I swear on my own grave."

"You're not dead yet."

Sirius considers this, stroking at his jaw. "Then I swear on my life." 

It's silent, and Sirius reckons the conversation is over, so he stares back down at his work with a smile he can't push back from his mouth. He scribbles a few more lines about market failure, rubbing at his temple with his thumb. 

"Why didn’t you choose English Literature?"

"Huh?" Sirius' chin snaps up again at the question. 

Remus pauses. "James said that you chose Economics."

"Oh." He's not sure whether to lie, whether it would be worth it, but instead he leans back in his seat and mumbles, "Parents didn't approve of me studying Literature. They wanted me to go into the family business."

“And you listened?”

“I used to.” Sirius says, flatly, feeling a little scrutinised as Remus gazes at him. 

"Do you like Economics?" He asks. 

Sirius laughs, a bit too loud, and receives a nasty glare from the librarian's desk. "No." 

Quiet, Remus stares at him for a second longer, and then nods. As he lowers his head again, Sirius catches another glimpse of the silver chain circling his throat. He almost asks about it, but he doesn't.

*

Nearing the end of October, a storm sweeps in. It sits in the clouds for hours, black and swollen, before hammering down on the university block. The sheets of rain run rivers down the pavements and the trees push back against the wind, branches ripped from the trunks. 

Throughout his lecture on Keynes, Sirius could hear the howling of it against the building, like it was trying to get in. He shivers, sinking down in his seat, but the scattered pulse of it remains at the base of his spine. The professor's high voice is a hum of noise in the back of his skull.

He's always loved a tempest. 

After, Sirius leans against the wall outside the hall, under the shelter of the doorway, and watches the few students struggling against the gale, heads bent low. The double doors swing, and people trickle out, tugging up their hoods.

One catches his attention and he straightens, tearing his gaze from the bruised horizon. 

"Wait! Remus!" Sirius steps into his path before he could disappear onto the street. "It's pouring out there."

Remus nearly stumbles into him, but stops before their chest can collide. For a moment, he's far too close, and Sirius can see the cast of his lashes, the blue vein that runs just underneath his jaw. Today, his skin is paler than usual, and dark shadows drop below his yellow eyes.

He frowns out at the downpour of rain over Sirius' shoulder. "I can see that."

"Your books will get ruined. That's a lot of library fines, you know." He grins, but Remus just stands there and stares at him until Sirius has to clear his throat and ask-- "Fancy a lift?"

"From you?"

"I have a car. It's better than walking twenty minutes in the middle of a storm, isn't it?"

Remus does smile, and it's a little worn, a little slow, but it's a smile. Another gust of freezing wind rushes at them, and he clutches his bag to his chest, arms folding over it. "Debatable."

"Come on, Remus," He sighs, "Stop fighting me. Whatever will I do if you get struck down by lightning?"

"Rejoice?" Remus says, his voice flat, but he glances out once more as the rain drives harder against the steps. The sky has darkened, looming over the lecture hall like a strange shadow. "Okay. Thank you."

His car is small. It's an old, egg-blue Chevy pickup, left for him in his Uncle Alphard's will this summer. He still hasn't gotten used to driving it; it's difficult to sit in the front seat and not think about his family, the words his mother had spat across the table about his uncle's sins over dinner, his missing face from the tapestry of the twisted Black family tree after she had pressed over it with a burning poker.

But the car is warm and smells like leather and pine tree air freshener, and the storm is only going to get worse. 

"What are you smiling at?" Sirius asks Remus as he backs out of his parking space, one arm draped across the steering wheel. The windscreen wipers hum as they flick away the hard sheets of rain slanted against the glass. 

"Your car is pretty." Remus mumbles, eyes flickering from the small snow-globe balancing on the dashboard and to the bright CDs strewn across the glovebox. He raises a hand to prod the tattered, red fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror, and watches them swing back and forth. 

Sirius raises an eyebrow, and jabs a finger at his radio until quiet music crackles through the speakers. "Put your seatbelt on."

"Sorry," Remus straps himself in as they pull out onto the street, the flash of the streetlights casting golden shadows that melt past the darkness of the car. He's smiling and turning his face away as if he doesn't want Sirius to see. "Didn't mean to threaten your car's masculinity."

Sirius shakes his head, biting down on his own, stretching grin until it hurts, but he doesn't fire anything back. After another three minutes of nothing but thin music, Sirius sighs and turns the radio back down.  

"Can I ask you something without you snapping my head off?" He says. 

In the black, he cannot see Remus' face, just the hard outline of his shoulders, his profile. He makes a clicking noise, with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Maybe."

"Why did you lie? About the albatross question at the quiz last week?" Sirius digs his thumb into the soft leather of the steering wheel. "You knew the answer."

Remus shifts in his seat, pulls at where his seatbelt presses against his shoulder. "I was embarrassed."

"What?" Sirius frowns as he squints through the rain at the traffic lights. "Why the hell would you be embarrassed?"

"You guys are all so close. I felt like I was intruding." Remus mutters, like he can barely get it past his teeth. 

"Remus." says Sirius, and his breath feels rather short all of a sudden. "From now on, be a doll and accept that if we've invited you to something, we want you there."

At first, there isn't even a noise in reply, so Sirius turns his head to look at him, only to find that Remus is already staring back.

A few seconds pass, the sleepy drone of the engine and the gentle throb of the radio spanning the space between them, before Remus' gaze flickers towards the windscreen. 

"Keep your eyes on the road." He replies, softly. 

*

"Happy Birthday." Regulus sings down the phone in a flat, tuneless voice. 

Sirius feels like he's been awake forever. He can never sleep properly on his birthday. Instead, he's been sitting at the window in his living room, resting his head against the glass and watching the sun rise above the blocks. When his brother calls, it's just reached seven in the morning.

"Did you get me a present?" Sirius asks, and it's a joke, but Regulus sighs a little from the other end.

"They're tracking my post, Sirius. I couldn't get anything for you without them knowing."

"I was kidding." Sirius frowns and glances down at his lap. "Your dulcet tones are enough of a gift for me." 

"I'll have to make it short and sweet." Regulus sighs, and Sirius can almost see his tight smile. "Before mother comes to check on me."

"That's okay, Reg." Sirius mumbles. He can hear Marlene waking in the next room, shuffling out of bed and switching on the bathroom light. "Thank you. For remembering."

"Don't be stupid." His brother says, and then hangs up. 

*

"Raise your glasses!" 

From across the room, James is grinning at him with the widest, warmest curl of his mouth and spreading his arms wide, champagne glass balanced delicately between two fingers. 

"Sirius Orion Black," He begins, tipping the flute towards where Sirius stood. "The only thing I will ever thank your mother for is giving birth to you. You're getting very old and senile, but I remember when you but a mere babe, swearing at your teachers and smoking behind the bikesheds. God bless your funny little socks. Cheers!"

The cheers is echoed by his friends, Lily and Marlene bursting into laughter, Peter sipping awkwardly at his drink, but Sirius' gaze flickers over to someone else. 

Remus Lupin is smiling, in that faint way that he does, a dark red glow creeping high on his cheeks. Sirius isn't quite sure how Lily convinced him to come, and he's wearing another one of his eccentric, green jumpers, but he looks so right and beautiful, Sirius doesn't care. He feels so very full of warmth and love and he thinks he might just burst with it.

Clearing his throat, Sirius grabs James by his shirt and drags his tongue across his cheek as he squirms.  

"James Potter." He sighs loudly into his ear, digging his nails into his side so that he has no escape, "You are the light of my life, the fire in my loins, the--"

"The fire in your loins?" Lily cuts through his speech, her red eyebrows raised. "Watch it, Black."

Sirius sticks out his tongue. "He was mine first, Evans."

Somehow, Regulus' voice sits at the back of his head, knocking at his skull, even as his friends wrap their arms around him and hand over their strange collection of birthday cards.

The urge to step outside and smoke is wearing on him, but he knows he should slow down before he dies an early death and satisfies the dark wishes of his mother and father. Instead, he tucks into the takeout they've ordered and watches Peter poorly act out a charade that none of them can guess.   

It's then that he realises that Remus is not in the living room. He had excused himself to the toilet ten minutes ago, but Sirius hadn't seen him since and wouldn't be that surprised if he had jumped out the window.

Setting down his plate, Sirius slips into his corridor. The bathroom door is shut, but light streams out from underneath the frame. 

"You better not be in there reading." Sirius calls, "Or I'll be flushing your book down the toilet."

There's no answer but silence for several seconds, and then a harsh, jolting crash came from the other side of the door. Sirius' hand leaps for the handle and he presses closer, his heart pounding. 

"Remus?" He says, and his throat tightens against his own will, "I'm coming in."

When the door swings open, Sirius finds Remus not unconscious on the floor or bleeding profusely, but standing by the sink like some frozen statue. The water is still running. He's silent and ashen and he turns to look at Sirius with wide, flickering eyes.

"I've broken your soap dispenser." He mumbles. His voice grates, hoarse and straining against his throat. Gaze drifting down to the jagged pieces of white china scattered across his grey bathroom mat, Sirius frowns. 

"Are you okay?" He asks, but when he stares at Remus, he can see the answer for himself. The bloodless white of his skin is stark as he braces himself against the counter, arm trembling with the burden, and a light sheen shines from his forehead. Sirius takes a step closer, carefully edging around the broken pottery. 

"I'm fine." Remus squeezes his eyes shut.

"Are you shivering?"

"No."

"You've got a fever." Sirius says, flatly, but Remus huffs, and straightens on swaying feet. Before he can push past him, Sirius wraps his fingers around Remus' wrist. He is scorching to the touch, almost painfully so, but Sirius only holds on tighter as he tries to yank himself away. "Hey. Stop wriggling away from me."

"You're incorrigible." Remus replies without any bite to his words, watching him through dark half-lidded eyes. "I told you, I'm alright."

"Don't be silly." The bathroom is a mess of crumpled toothpaste tubes and Marlene's gel hair clips. Sirius pulls open the cabinet door and scrunches his nose as he rifles through the face creams and bottle of pills. "There's ibuprofen in here somewhere." 

Remus shakes his head, leaning back against the wall, but at least he isn't trying to escape anymore. His jaw twitches, tightening against the chattering of his teeth. "I just need to get home." 

"I'll drive you."

"You've been drinking."

"No, I haven't." Impatient, Sirius scowls, tugging at his sleeve to guide him towards the bathroom door and prodding it open with his boot. Out in the corridor, he can hear Marlene shouting something about ducks and their rightful place. "I'm not always drunk, you know."

"Why do you act like it then?"

"Clearly you're well enough to be a prick--" 

Behind him, Remus stumbles, elbow smacking into the small of Sirius' back as he clutches for the wall, but Sirius catches him before he can fall. He wraps a steady arm around his waist, the solid weight of him pressing into Sirius' side. His jumper smells like him, sweet citrus and the frozen spice of his aftershave. 

"Sorry." Remus grinds out, through low, quiet gasps. He's still trembling. "Dizzy."

"Okay." Sirius smoothes a gentle hand through his honey-spun curls, brushing them back from his damp forehead and out of his eyes. "Maybe you should just crash here." 

"But we're-- we're in your flat."

"Your observational skills astound me, Miss Marple." Sirius thanks a God he no longer believes in that he left his bedroom door open; the other boy is far too tall and limp and lost and Sirius doesn't think he could have let go of him just yet. Dark presses in on them as he steers Remus towards his bed. "With your help, we'll find out who shot the governor in no time."

"What are you talking about?" Remus whines as he's pushed down onto the mattress, but he's flopping back against the pillows a moment later. His breathing shakes in his chest, like he can't quite take in air, and Sirius' own lungs feel like they are contorting for a moment, twisting into something horrible.

"Don't worry." Sirius says quietly. "Just stay here, alright?"

Once back in the living room, he leaps atop the coffee table, much to the horror of Marlene who shrieks from the sofa. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," He takes a sweeping bow, and then bends his head pitifully, "I love you all dearly but I'm afraid you have all overstayed your welcome. I plan to spend the rest of my birthday in perfect solitude." 

"Huh?" Peter grunts, his third glass of champagne half way to his mouth. 

Marlene is frowning at him. "I live here." 

"Sirius--" James pauses, glancing at Lily, "What do you mean?"

"Nothing." Sirius beams and steps back down. He heads for the kitchen, but James is on his heels, even as he pulls open one of the drawers. After rifling through the mess of old keys and spare batteries, he discovers some paracetamol hiding behind some faded takeout menus. "I'd just rather be by myself right now."

James folds his arms across his chest, like they're six again and Sirius isn't sharing his toys. "It's your birthday."

"Birthday smirthday! What is it Aristotle said?" Sirius says, brightly, and he really doesn't want to meet James' eye. "After all, what are birthdays? Here today and gone tomorrow."

"Eeyore said that, Sirius." 

"Everyone's a critic." 

"Sirius!"

"Fine, fine," Sirius lowers his voice, gnawing at his lip, even though he knows the others are listening because none of them can mind their business. "Remus is really sick and I don't think he would want any of you to know, let alone be there while he's dying in the other room. Okay?"

"Oh." James squeezes his arm and smiles, brown eyes glinting behind his round glasses. Sirius loves how James smiles, with the whole of his face, like he really enjoys it. "Alright, you silly goose. Can I get him anything?"

"I've got it handled. I'm a mean, lean, illness-fighting machine."

"Do you remember when you got chicken pox and cried for two days because you thought it was permanent?"

"Don't be cruel, James." 

*

Remus doesn't wake up til the next day. 

It's eight in the morning, when Sirius hears the creak of his bed from where he's sitting on the sofa, swaddled in blankets and blinded by the sharp rays of golden light streaming through the window. 

He rubs his palm against his cheekbone and sits up from the cushions just as Remus appears from the hall. One pale hand is threaded where the messy locks of his hair curl at his neck, and the flush is still dark against his skin.

When he catches sight of Sirius, he skids to a stop in the doorway, sock-footed and wide-eyed. 

"Morning." Sirius mumbles, his swallow rough against his throat. He doesn't know how to talk, just gazes at where his collar bone slips out from his jumper, the curve of his shoulder like some sort of hungry dog.

Remus rubs at the back of his head, "Morning."

"Looks like the fever broke." Rising from the sofa, Sirius pads over to the kitchen to switch on the kettle. His hands shake, only a little, and he takes in a deep, steadying breath. "Tea?"

"Thank you." Remus says, quietly, but he's not really looking at him. "For letting me sleep here."

"Anytime."

"Um." For the first time, Sirius realizes that Remus is staring at the bright, red balloon tied to one of the wooden dining chairs. He's chewing down on his bottom lip so hard it looks like it could bleed, and Sirius wants to tell him to stop. "Your birthday. Did everyone--"

"I sent them home."

Finally, Remus' sharp eyes are on him. "You…"

"I don't even like birthdays." Sirius lifts a shoulder. The kettle is whistling, a high, whining pitch as it shakes to boil. He pulls down two chipped, orange mugs from the shelf. "You did me a favour, really." 

Remus frowns, crossing the flat with a slow stride to stand by the sofa. "Why would you do that?" 

"You were ill. It was a bit scary, actually."

"I really-- I really should have just gone back to mine."

"You could barely walk." A smile works at the corner of Sirius' mouth. "Anyways, I enjoyed playing nurse. Consider it my birthday present."

"I already got you a present." Remus says. Nothing colours his voice, its bland and low, but Sirius nearly knocks over the half-full carton of milk all over the counter. 

"Did you?" When Sirius twists back to look at him again, Remus is already watching him with the familiar hard set of his jaw and furrow of his eyebrows, an old darkness settling over the beautiful lines of his face. Sirius pauses, a silver spoon piled with brown sugar frozen between the cups. "What?" 

Remus clears his throat, but the words are still said with a bite, like he's gritting his teeth. "I can look after myself, you know."

"Didn't seem like it--"

"Well, I can." He snaps, and Sirius blinks, setting down the spoon on the counter. "I don't need you babying me."

Fuck. Sirius digs his nails into his palm until it hurts, until the hard crescent moons are engraved into the skin. "I was just trying to be a good friend." 

The darkness slips from Remus' face, just for a second, crawling back into the soft parts of his eyes, but he's standing there in the living room, quite still, as he says-- "You're not my friend."

It sounds like a question. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

"Yes, I am." Sirius replies. He thinks it’s probably not the right answer, because Remus doesn’t speak again. He’s very good at that– not speaking. It’s unfamiliar. Sometimes, Sirius feels like he could start speaking and never ever stop. 

Sirius suddenly feels very stupid, and very tired, but Remus is already picking up his shoes, so Sirius turns back to stare at his milky mug of tea.

His chest is burning, burning, burning, and it keeps on burning even after Remus has opened his front door and left. 

*

It's three in the afternoon. Sirius picks carefully through the small pile of presents cluttering his coffee table, until his fingers slip across a distinctly Remus-shaped gift. 

It's wrapped in brown paper, the type used in a fish and chip shop, and tied with a red ribbon. Remus has signed it, just in the corner with his lovely, scrawled handwriting, so Sirius prises open the creases neatly. 

It's a book. Of course, it's a book. 

*

For a week, Sirius avoids the library. 

He shoves his piling assignments into his desk drawer and misses another deadline, but he doesn’t want to see Remus Lupin sitting there with his books and his chocolate and his yellow pencils. 

He doesn’t want to know why he feels so sick and strange and idiotic when he opens his mouth around Remus Lupin, and he doesn’t want to know why he cares so much that Remus Lupin does not want anything to do with him.

He’s feeling thirteen again, and he kind of wants to call James and whine down the phone, but he doesn’t.

When his professor corners him after his Thursday lecture, he knows it’s over. McGonagall is a fierce, Scottish woman whom Sirius thinks might just thwack him with her umbrella if she had a chance, and now, she glares at him through wire-rimmed spectacles.

"Mr. Black," She says in a brittle tone that makes Sirius wince and glance towards the door. "Are you aware that as of yesterday, there are four assignments that you have not yet handed in?"

"Really?" Sirius smiles at her, politely, raising his eyebrows. "Strange."

"You are a very intelligent young man, Mr. Black. I’m sure you would find this class a lot more enjoyable if you put in the work." McGonagall stares at him for a few long seconds, then sighs. "I expect next week’s essay to be on my desk on Wednesday morning, nine o’clock sharp. Understood?"

He nods, "Understood."

On Sunday, he drags himself from his warm bed, swallows down boiling mouthfuls of coffee, and walks to the library. It’s a Sunday, he tries to reason, who works on a Sunday?

And when he arrives and sits down at one of the tables, tucked away into a dark corner, it is mostly empty, so he pulls out his headphones and his essay. 

The Commodores are singing about an easy breakup in his ear when a shadow falls over his table. He glances up, and his heart buckles. He pulls in a breath so tightly that he can hear it fluttering against his rib-cage, pulse throbbing at his throat.

Remus is watching him like he’s said something and is waiting for a reply, his mouth still parted just a little and eyes flickering from Sirius’ face to the pages of curling writing scattered across the desk. Sirius pushes his headphones down his neck, but he can’t actually get anything out between his teeth.  

"Did you read it?" Remus repeats.

Sirius pushes his tongue into his cheek. "What?"

"Vanity Fair." Remus is flushing, and Sirius likes it when he goes all pink like that, when his brows pinch. "Your present."

"Oh. I didn't like it."

"Really?"

"Human nature is weak and everything is futile." Sirius narrows his eyes, and suddenly he feels like telling Remus to just fuck off. He jabs the lid back onto his pen as if that will punctuate his point. "Not exactly very cheery, is it?"

"That doesn't mean it's not good." Remus chews at his lip, his gaze now fixed on the pen in Sirius’ hands. 

"I never said it wasn't good." Sirius fires back, even though Remus hadn’t raised his voice. He leans back in his seat and hopes the librarian is on a tea break. "I don’t mind misery, I just wish it had been a bit more anthemic. Like... Wuthering Heights."

Remus huffs out a laugh. "I always thought Wuthering Heights was a bit ridiculous." 

"It's a classic."

"It's unrealistic and cliche. You can't die from a broken heart." 

"I’m sure you wouldn’t." Sirius drawls, in the coldest voice he can force, and tastes satisfaction on his tongue when he sees Remus flinch. Good. "Wuthering Heights is a Gothic novel. It’s about melodrama, not reality."

"Fitting for you then." 

Sirius casts him a cutting glare, sniffs, and then looks down at his essay, pulling his headphones back over his ears. His hand darts to turn up the volume of The Scissor Sisters' She's My Man, but then his headphones are being tugged down again by a deft hand. 

"Sirius--" Remus says, very quickly, before Sirius can even open his mouth. He shifts his satchel over his shoulder. "I’m sorry."

"For?" 

"Um," He swallows, rubbing his palm against his worn denim jeans. "Being shitty." 

"Vague."

"It was your birthday and I ruined it completely." Remus says, leaning a little closer, his frown deepening. His hair was bleached light in the early morning sun, gold flecking his right cheek. "I should have just thanked you for looking after me, instead of--"

"Yelling at me." Sirius supplied, helpfully, because he looked like he was struggling. 

"Yeah. I hate getting sick, that’s all." He pauses, and Sirius has to look away from the quiet blaze of his eyes. "You really didn’t need to stop your celebrations for me. I didn’t want you to see me like that." 

"Just me?"

"Anyone." 

"Okay." Sirius says, fiddling with his pen. His heart loosens, drifting away from him, and it doesn’t feel like it’s going to rise up his throat anymore, so he grins. "Are you going to sit down and work, or keep standing there like you're lost?"

By the way that Remus’ eyebrows jump upwards, Sirius has the vague impression that Remus wasn’t expecting forgiveness, but then Remus is taking the seat opposite him. He rifles in his bag and draws out a brown, bound book that must be some sort of Dickens novel, his thumb flicking through the thick pages. 

Music continues to mumble from his headphones, but Sirius doesn’t put them back on his head yet. He really does want to finish the rather long-winded conclusion to his assignment, before McGonagall feeds him to her cat, but he’s watching Remus instead.  

"Any plans for Christmas?" He asks.

Remus glances up at him, cheek leant against his knuckles. "No. I'm staying here."

"Too busy stealing all the presents and joy?"

"What?"

Sirius’ smirk only widens. "Like the Grinch, Remus."

"Oh." Remus frowns down at his book again, "I've never seen that film."

"That's a crime." Sirius slaps his hand down on the table, and Remus startles, his chin slipping from his hand. "You must rectify this!"

"We’re in a library, Sirius." Remus hisses, but he’s biting down on a smile as his gaze flickers over to the librarian’s desk. "Do you know what that means?"

"That we have no lives?"

"It means you have to sit still and be quiet."

"Oh dear." Sirius sighs, and writes the last sentence of his essay. 

*

At the start of December, Sirius sits down and dials his brother’s number. 

"Reg?" Sirius begins when he picks up, leaning back in his chair until he hears it creak beneath him. "Listen, I’ve been thinking– maybe I could see you at Christmas. We’d have to work out something to tell mother and father, but you could catch a train–"

"Sirius." says a taut, high voice from the other end, and it’s like snow and ice down his back, pressing against his spine. He freezes, placing his mug of coffee back down on the kitchen table before it can spill any further over the tremble of his hands. 

"Mother." He says. "Where’s Regulus?"

"Stop contacting your brother. Your number will be removed and blocked."

He swallows. "You can’t!"

“If I discover any further communication, it will be Regulus that is punished. Keep that in mind.”

“Wait–”

But there was a deafening click, and the line hummed its own death. Sirius pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at the screen. 

*

On the twenty-sixth day of December, Sirius is walking. Breath misting in the air, he huddles into his leather jacket against the freezing cold, a blue woolen scarf tangled around his neck.

Dark is setting, but the streets are quiet, and he hasn’t seen another person for ten minutes, only the glittering lights from front porches and drawn curtains. 

He knows he could have gone to James’ house this Christmas, like he had done for the past five, but he knew James wanted this to be a special Christmas with Lily and his parents. He owes James that much after the years of hiding from his family at the Potter house.

Besides, he’s pretty convinced that Euphemia Potter would see through him, and he’s still feeling a little sore. The weight of his mother’s voice crawls in his stomach even now, digging into his gut with red taloned fingers. 

He knows where he’s going. When he reaches a small block of flats east of the university campus, he makes the winding climb up the staircase until he reaches the door branded number six. He stares at the blank face of wood for a fleeting, hesitant moment, and then knocks. 

The door swings open, groaning at its hinges, and in the frame stands Remus, wreathed in a slouched brown jumper and checkered pajama bottoms. There’s a small streak of chocolate on his freckled cheek.

Remus stares at him like he’s a ghostly apparition, hand gripping at the door. Grinning, Sirius reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and brandishes a plastic, well-loved DVD case in his face.

When Remus doesn’t move an inch, Sirius lowers his arm. "Let me in." 

Remus blinks, bewildered. "What?" 

"I came all the way over here."

"It's a fifteen minute walk."

Sirius scowls at him, but his gaze has fixed on the smear of chocolate. He wants to lick it off. "Let me in. It's boxing day."

"Are you using the holiday spirit to manipulate me?" Remus asks, raising an eyebrow, but to Sirius’ surprise, he steps back from the door and allows Sirius to slip past him into his flat.

It’s tiny, and warm, and smells like freshly-brewed cinnamon tea and kitchen cleaner. The green, thick curtains are tightly shut against the windows, and the blue light of the television is glowing out across the small sofa and shelves of books.

The door shuts with a click behind them, and Remus twists to look at him, hands tucked into his pockets. 

Sirius raises the DVD again. "You have to see this film." 

"How the Grinch Stole Christmas?"

"It's essential!"

Remus wets his bottom lip. "I'm already watching something."

Glancing over his shoulder at the television screen, Sirius scrunches his nose, "A documentary? At Christmas?"

"Yes." Remus frowns, eyeing him in a rather disgruntled manner. "It's about the ocean."

"Well, watch my film afterwards."

"Okay." Remus stretches his hand out for the plastic case, and Sirius gives it to him, before taking a seat on the sofa. It slumps beneath him slightly, cushions engulfing him, but he curls his legs underneath him.

There’s another beat of silence as Remus hovers there, and Sirius can’t see his face in the dark of the living room, but he can imagine his lovely scowl perfectly. 

"What are you doing?" Remus asks him eventually.

"Watching your documentary."

"Sirius. It's boxing day." He says, "Shouldn't you be with your-- family-- or something?"

Probably. 

 "No." Sirius’ voice wavers a little and he winces. Shaking his head, Remus sinks down onto the sofa next to him and delves for the remote amongst the piles of blankets and stray cushions. 

"Are you going to talk the whole way through?" He asks as he lifts the remote, his mouth fluttering with the sort of smile that Sirius really loves, like he knows. 

"Me? Talk?" Sirius grins back at him and pulls his knees up to his chest, resting his chin upon his arm. 

The documentary blares out from the small screen of the television, blue waves rising up in a crash of foam as a penguin dives beneath the surface. Sirius is still staring at Remus, just a little, at the side of his face, his freckles, his eyelashes, the tip of his nose.

He thinks he could stare at him for a very, very long time. 

Twenty minutes later, Sirius has nearly fallen asleep. The radiator is stuck on heat and he's listening to the steady rise and fall of Remus' chest, but something in the documentary catches in the back of his brain before his eyes can close. 

"Harp seals have a very short nursing period. Suckling is intensive." The narrator says. Sirius is sitting up straighter, frowning at the screen above the blanket he’s tugged up to his shoulders. "After twelve days, it is abandoned on the ice by its mother, leaving it vulnerable to predators." 

And it’s strange, but something hard sticks in Sirius' throat, jagged and aching, like he’s swallowed wrong. He blinks, shifts, and bites down on his tongue. 

"Sirius," When Sirius meets his gaze, Remus is watching him. "Are you crying?"

"No." Sirius mumbles, rubbing his sleeve across his face, but it comes away damp. Fuck. Fucking shit. "It's just a stupid seal."

"Do you want me to turn it off?" He fumbles for the remote and pauses the programme, leaning a little closer. "We can watch the film instead."

"She's a bad mother." Sirius says, staring down at his hands, heat still flickering behind his eyes. His fingers curl and uncurl, from fists to palms. 

"The seal?"

"Yeah."

"Yes," Remus nods, quietly. "She is."

He gets up, and he slides How The Grinch Stole Christmas into his DVD player.