It’s not much.
It’s not the fire-electric, symphony-singing-in-their-veins, shouting-declarations-from-bar-stools kind of love they had felt when they were younger, when they had known less of fear, and pain, and loss. Over the years, over the expanse of war and then not-war that still felt equally as oppressive, their love has collapsed and renewed and folded over again until it came to this: this impossible, slow thrum of a thing easy to slip back into.
So, it’s different, and quieter, but utterly familiar all at once, and Remus can’t help but smile as he makes his tea in the morning, despite everything. Can’t help but let his gaze linger a little longer on Sirius’ soft, sleeping form curled into himself on the couch, the sharp lines of him finally smoothed and gentled.
And now there’s a war on again, or there’s about to be; a not-so-distant thing sitting purple on the horizon and growing redder each day. But this time, they’re both being honest with each other. It feels, painfully, like a chance at redemption.
It’s not much, but it’s something. In the evening, Sirius slots his chin over Remus’ shoulder, wraps his wry arms around his stomach, murmurs lovely things into his skin while the thin, watercolor sunlight dances through the kitchen window. Their fingers find each other and intertwine without question. The kettle sings and their plants grow and flourish and outside, far away from the little cottage nestled against the edge of a wood, the rumblings of a war already once fought begin to rattle and squeal and shake.
It is almost as if nothing had ever gone wrong.