“Well, I’m in love with you too,” Remus says. “If that helps.”
It doesn’t. Sirius knew this already, anyway, had known it for a long time – it was some visceral, bone-deep understanding that didn’t appear suddenly one day but came to realization gradually, like tea steeping in one of Remus’ chipped mugs. He takes Remus’ hand, holds the thin, scar-tracked skin to his mouth, kisses his knuckles, his fingertips. He holds Remus’ palm against his cheek, warm and dry and solid, and they smile sadly at each other.
“I think–I think that whatever happens, it will be what’s supposed to happen,” he whispers. The rain outside drums softly against the window panes, watching them.
“Do you really believe that, though?”
“I think that I have to. I won’t know what to do with myself if it’s not true.”
Sometimes Sirius feels like every conversation they have is just a festival of quiet admissions. Late-night confessions drenched in melancholy and drama and aching, aching fear. I think we’re going to die before the year is over. James and Lily are foolish for getting married. I love you, it’s not enough.
Remus kisses him, once, before he leaves. His lips are cracked. Sirius wonders if he’s been remembering to drink water.
After the door clicks shut, Sirius rises from the floor and opens the window. The air is cool and crisp on his skin, little specks of rain biting at his nose and forehead. There are no stars. He looks for them anyway, and he knows that soon everything will be finished.