There’s an inevitability about it.
They know what’s coming; have known it for weeks. The restrictions have gradually become more and more severe over the preceding months, and case rates have been climbing for a while now.
None of that makes it much easier. Everything these days is permeated with a creeping sense of dread, with the hopelessness that comes from having no significant light at the end of a tunnel that seems to have more twists and turns than ever.
They settle in front of the TV and Remus drapes a blanket over both of them. Sirius loves it when he does this, but he’s never told him as much, preferring instead to stay quiet and enjoy the warmth that radiates off his housemate, from the intimate cosiness of the gesture.
“Ready to face the music?” Remus asks right beside him. He picks up the remote control and turns on the TV without waiting for his response.
Sirius hums. “Ready as I’ll ever be!” He stretches into a yawn and flops his head onto Remus’s shoulder. Usually when he drapes himself all over him, Remus tuts and pushes him off, muttering something about boundaries, but this evening, he lets out a deep sigh and rests his head on top of Sirius’s as Boris Johnson’s dulcet tones fill the room.
“In England, we must therefore go into a national lockdown which is tough enough to contain this variant. That means the Government is once again instructing you to stay at home.
You may only leave home for limited reasons permitted in law, such as to shop for essentials, to work if you absolutely cannot work from home, to exercise, to seek medical assistance such as getting a Covid test, or to escape domestic abuse.
And because we now have to do everything we possibly can to stop the spread of the disease, primary schools, secondary schools and colleges across England must move to remote provision from tomorrow, except for vulnerable children and the children of key workers.
I want to say to everyone right across the United Kingdom that I know how tough this is, I know how frustrated you are, I know you have had more than enough of government guidance about defeating this virus.
But now more than ever, we must pull together.
The weeks ahead will be the hardest yet but I really do believe that we are entering the last phase of the struggle.
Because with every jab that goes into our arms, we are tilting the odds against Covid and in favour of the British people.
And, thanks to the miracle of science, not only is the end in sight, we know exactly how we will get there.
But for now, I am afraid, you must once again stay at home, protect the NHS and save lives.
Thank you all very much.”
Remus lifts his head away from Sirius’s, turns the TV off in disgust and looks right at him, tawny eyes boring into his. “One day!” he huffs. “One measly day, we were allowed to open for. Are we really to believe that this announcement couldn’t have been made yesterday, save us all the bother of getting the building ready, parents ironing uniforms, doing the school drop off?”
Sirius nods his agreement. The impact of this lockdown will be much greater on Remus than it will Sirius, who has already been on furlough for what feels like an eternity. Remus is a secondary school teacher, and as such has been rocked by uncertainty since the pandemic began.
“You do realise what this means?”
“Remote teaching,” Sirius says gravely, remembering the almost insurmountable challenges this posed last time around.
“Yes. Fucking remote teaching. How on earth am I meant to control a class of thirty via Zoom? They’re bad enough in person.” He shakes his head, seemingly attempting to get his thoughts in some sort of order. “It also means you’re going to have to learn how to put trousers on. All I need is the kids seeing some scantily clad lothario in the background and putting two and two together to make ‘Sir, are you gay, sir? Was that your husband? Do you take it up the bum, sir?’”
Sirius barks a surprised laugh. “They wouldn’t.”
“They absolutely would. If you give them an inch, they worm their way into your life and work out how to destroy it from the inside out.”
“I think you’re being a bit dramatic,” Sirius chips in. “I would know. That’s an accolade that’s usually reserved for me. Besides, my little dumpling, you are gay.”
“Very much so,” Remus nods. “And keeping that a secret from those nosy little scrotes is top of my priority list. It was bad enough that time little Neville Longbottom almost saw me holding hands with Luke. What was he doing straying so far over county lines? I thought we’d be safe in Ludlow. Nobody ever goes there.”
“Ah, Luke. I wonder how he’s doing in Dumpsville? How long has it been now? Couple of months?”
“Three. And if his Instagram is to be believed, he is enjoying Dumpsville just fine. He keeps posting photos of this guy called Miguel who seems to permanently wear a snapback and not much else.” He looks at Sirius. “Massive nipples. Truly huge.”
Sirius sniggers. “Well, it’s good that he’s moved on, I suppose. And you? Are you ready to venture into the horrifying reality that is virtual dating?”
Remus raises a pointed eyebrow at him. “I’d probably rather pull out my own back hair.”
“What nonsense. Maybe go for someone a bit less... cheaty this time, though, hmm?”
Remus laughs through his nose. “Shouldn’t be hard to find. It takes real commitment to be as cheaty as he was. You really do have to inject quite a lot of effort into the cause. Anyway, I’m happy living the single life for now. I will throw myself into work and become one of those really good teachers who gets the most out of their pupils, cares about their achievements, really fires up their imagination. Like in Dead Poets Society.”
“Right,” Sirius says, utterly unconvinced. “Only, I’ve never thought of you as the type to embrace professional excellence and a life of celibacy, Lupin.”
And it’s true. They both, historically, have had a lot of sex: Sirius in the casual sort of sense where he may or may not remember the name of his bedmate the next morning, and Remus under the guise of serial monogamy with men who seem perfectly nice at first but turn out to be a little bit wanky.
It’s been this way for years.
They both came out on the same day back in High School. The gang still talks about it as a classic example of Sirius’s need to be the centre of attention, to steal people’s thunder. But what they will never believe (and what he continues to insist is the truth) is that he had been planning to tell them all for a while. He’d known since puberty that he didn’t want girls in the undeniable way he wanted boys. But it wasn’t until he reached the ripe old age of sixteen that he felt able to put that want into words, to feel comfortable - eager, even - to put a label on it.
Only Remus knows the truth, which is that he wasn’t trying to steal his thunder at all. In fact, his coming out was a very organic by-product of Remus’s coming out. Remus had told him he was gay first, before anyone else, sitting on one of the ratty old benches outside the PE block, and Sirius really felt for the guy when he did. He thought that if he bit his fingernails any more, they might disappear altogether, and the way his whole body shook as he delivered the news filled Sirius with the unquashable need to provide comfort in the only way he knew how: to admit that he was in the same boat; that Remus wasn’t in this alone.
After they’d got it all out in the open, they had sat, staring at each other incredulously for a good long while, stunned that they hadn’t worked it out about the other, before bursting out laughing, marching, arm in arm, over to their gaggle of friends and letting them know.
Back then, of course, Sirius wasn’t anywhere near as afflicted with these pesky feelings; the ones that seem to serve no purpose, save getting in the way and threatening their status quo; carefully crafted over years of close friendship and absolutely not, under any circumstances, having sex. Back then, things were straightforward. Remus was gay, and so was Sirius, and none of it had to mean anything or impact their dynamic. That’s just how it was, right until after they graduated university (and even that is an embarrassingly long time ago) and moved in together to the very same flat where they now find themselves victims of yet another state-sanctioned period of isolation.
Not that it makes a huge difference to Sirius, actually. The pubs have been closed for some time, now, and they haven’t been allowed to see their friends in person for yonks, settling instead for virtual pub quizzes and the almost continuous exchange of sub-par memes in the group chat.
And so, they have found themselves spending a lot of time together, Remus and Sirius. And even though they have gone through it all before, this lockdown feels... different, somehow.
For starters, they are both now single men. Last time, Luke the Swine had moved himself in just as the lockdown had been announced, and hadn’t thought to move himself back out until the Autumn when Remus had caught him canoodling with a work colleague in the smoking area of their favourite pub (when he knew Remus was just inside). The audacity of it had had the group up in arms ever since. Sirius still finds himself plagued by the memory of Remus sitting on the kitchen floor, flitting between anger and outright heartbreak, and back again, every minute or so.
They joke about the breakup now, but Sirius still struggles to believe that anyone could do such a thing to someone so particularly, exquisitely wonderful. It’s almost worse than the fact that due to their horribly thin walls, he knows by heart the delicate noises Remus makes when he has sex, knows what he sounds like in the seconds before he comes at someone else’s hands.
This lockdown feels different because it’s winter now. And their imprisonment coincides quite nicely with that annual urge to hibernate, particularly prevalent in January and February. This time closely follows a Christmas day spent just the two of them, eating curry in their pyjamas and singing along to The Muppets; follows, even more recently, a new year’s eve seen in getting pissed on posh wine and dancing just them, together in the living room while Sirius willed himself to ignore the sight of Remus’s cheeks turning gradually more pink and his lips a delicious, deep maroon.
This time, there is a little fort of cosiness in the lounge, fashioned from blankets and pillows, with candles that smell like cinnamon and a seemingly endless supply of dark chocolate from the fridge.
This time, there is a soft comfort in knowing it’s just the two of them, and a quiet confidence that they will make it through. They know because they’ve done it before; know that they can emerge with their sanity intact (even if they have to sacrifice their lovely hairstyles in the process).
This time, it’s getting really hard for Sirius to keep his hands to himself.
And despite the hours, the days of forensic examination of his feelings, Sirius struggles to pinpoint when exactly his yearning for Remus Lupin went beyond the ‘mild, barely noticeable, occasional distraction’ of their youth, to ‘this boy’s hands are all I will be capable of thinking about until the day I die’.
All he knows is that the pesky feelings aren’t going anywhere. He wishes they would.
Or does he?
He bites his lip and wonders whether he would opt to go back to the mild distraction days. Then Remus shuffles into the kitchen in his slippers and a jumper so hideous that he marvels at the fact anyone even thought to make it in the first place, and he thinks perhaps things aren’t so bad the way they are. At least he’s feeling things. At least that part of him hasn’t died yet, which he’d sort of feared it might.
Remus sits himself down and scrolls about on his phone for a bit. He accepts the croissant Sirius hands him with a grateful nod.
“I got you some posh Darjeeling, too,” Sirius tells him as he covertly watches the way his fingers nimbly navigate the news. “Loose leaf. The kind that makes a big mess. Shall I put the kettle on?”
Remus looks up at him. There are dark shadows under his eyes; the marks of a week spent teaching at his laptop rather than in a classroom, of trying to get teenagers enthusiastic about John Steinbeck and probably managing to get through to just one or two of them while the rest spent the whole time on instant messenger, engaged in idle gossip.
Remus’s eyes hold a certain gentle pull. They are the eyes of someone who could only be extremely clever, and a little bit naughty, on the odd occasion when he wants to give Sirius and James a run for their money. He looks at him searchingly, as if trying to figure out whether he has any ulterior motive behind the gesture.
“Yes please,” he says in a surprised croak. “That’s really nice, thank you, Sirius.”
“Got to look after my boo,” Sirius quips, and saunters over to the kettle, gazing out of the window, at anything but the thin little hairs that wisp around Remus’s collar that have become so interesting of late. “Oh blimey, Arabella got new curtains.”
Remus sniggers. “Can’t be worse than the last lot.”
“They’re sort of vaguely vomit-coloured. Pretty ghastly, even by her standards.”
“Impressive,” Remus laughs softly. “Tell me, do you think it’s possible to sleep with your eyes open while holding a full conversation?”
“I think if anyone could manage it, it’s you,” Sirius grins in his direction. “You’re a very accomplished young man.” Remus’s hair is sticking up on one side and Sirius wants to bundle him back into bed, but he never has been able to sleep much past eight so he knows it would be a waste. Instead, he sets about steeping the tea, biting his lower lip as he pours the water into the teapot just so.
He takes out a mug from the cupboard; the one he bought Remus for Christmas, which on one side bears the words ‘You’re a wanker’, and on the other, ‘But you’re my wanker.’ Remus promptly declared it his favourite and has only once made the mistake of nearly taking a sip from it while teaching a class with his video on.
The period dramas are Remus’s idea. And that’s where all the real problems begin. They start with Persuasion, which is Remus’s pick. It sparks a wholesome, dangerous precedent of them quoting dramatic lines at each other, all breathiness and heaving bosoms. Or, more accurately, of Sirius sneaking sweeping declarations of love into their everyday exchanges without Remus noticing.
He knows it’s bad. He does know. But it’s started now and he’s come to like the danger quite a lot.
And this is the first time that there is no James-shaped buffer to get in the way and tell him, in no uncertain terms, that he has overstepped the mark. There’s no adorable toddler Harry to toddle around and keep them all distracted. No Lily plonking herself between them on the sofa with a stern look on her face, as if to make Sirius’s roaming eyes behave themselves.
“You pierce my soul,” he declares, as he offers up the wooden spoon to Remus so he can sample the culinary masterpiece that’s on the hob (a sort of spaghetti bolognese with additional tins of stuff thrown in whimsically). “I am half agony, half hope. I have loved none but you.”
Too much, Black. He scolds himself. You are toeing the abyss. Don’t cross it, you stupid handsome fuck. Don’t you dare be idiotic enough to cross it.
Remus just quirks an eyebrow at him, says “You’re ridiculous,” and hands him back the spoon, confirming that the sauce is perfectly serviceable.
“Have you seen any rogue pairs of pants lying around?” Remus asks over dinner. “I’m fairly sure I’m not imagining that my supply has diminished quite significantly.”
Sirius plasters a neutral look on his face and shrugs. “Must be the fabled pants monster who comes out at night and has a penchant for nice patterned boxers from M&S.”
Remus sighs. “Yes, silly me. That must be it.”
The next day is Pride and Prejudice day. For good measure, they watch both versions and compare notes all evening: Knightley or Ehles; Macfadyen or Firth. They play the soundtrack of the movie for days afterwards, and Sirius’s bank of flowery quotations is delightfully replenished.
In February, there is so much snow that the Met office declares a winter storm and gives it a name; Dorothy. They are not much accustomed to the ground being covered in a foot of snow, so when they venture out for their daily walk, they find that the usual landscape is transformed beyond recognition into a beautiful wintry wonderland. The snow crunches nicely underfoot and Remus’s eyes are particularly bright and mischievous.
“What are young men to rocks and mountains?” Sirius asks breathily as he climbs atop a rock and indulgently laps it all up. He’s glad he kept that one in reserve for such a fitting moment.
“Well, they’re a bit warmer, for one,” Remus looks up at him and smiles from his safe spot on the ground; a small little quirk of the lips that makes Sirius’s insides all jumbly. “God, it’s cold. I think my balls might have gone back in. Is that a thing?”
Sirius shrugs, reaches out a hand, and pulls him up onto his rock. The space is not that big and to keep them both steady, he has to place his hands firmly on Remus’s hips. Remus must be in a generous mood because he doesn’t swat him away, but huddles a little closer to him, so that his back is touching Sirius’s chest, and they watch the eerie quiet of the day, unfolding lazily before them, Sirius’s hands staying deadly still upon the belt loops of Remus’s jeans.
“When the world opens up again,” Sirius says quietly into the space between them. “I’m going to take you away.”
“You are?” Remus says in a low voice, with no hint of laughter.
“Yes. Let’s go to Scotland; to Skye, or something. We’ve been cooped up so long, and you’ve been working so hard. I’d like to take you somewhere that’s impossibly vast and pretty and cold. We can go on walks and see the seals, and we’ll stay in a pub with a fire. Remember pubs, Remus? Weren’t they excellent?”
Remus laughs softly and flops his head back onto Sirius’s shoulder, holding it there just for a second, so close that Sirius can pick out the scent of the soft skin of his neck. “That sounds nice,” he says in a low whisper, then he throws himself off the rock and leaves Sirius all a tither, watching him walk away from his lonely height, before he realises that they’re on a walk together and he’s meant to follow.
“I like your bobble hat,” he says of Remus’s Fair Isle headwear once he’s caught up and only mildly twisted his ankle on the way. “It’ll serve you very well in bonny Caledonia. You’ll fit right in. Actually, you look a bit Scottish. Have you ever done one of those genealogy tests? I bet you’re a bit Scottish.”
“No,” Remus laughs. “But I get the feeling one might arrive magically in the post in the next week or so.”
Sirius shrugs again. “Maybe it will, maybe it won’t.” He nudges at Remus with his elbow. “Hey, how much better would this be if we had a dog? Like a big red setter or something else suitably massive, padding along beside us.”
Remus considers this for a moment. “I don’t need a dog,” he decides. “I have you.”
“Awww! You big softie!”
“I think you’re the only person in the world who would take that as a compliment.”
“What about a cat, then? We could get a little cat, call her Minnie. She’d follow us around and we’d feed her scraps of ham from the fridge. I quite like cats, actually. There used to be this great big ginger one on my road growing up called Billy Warm Toes.” He stops in his tracks and scratches his nose. “Actually, I think maybe it was just me who called him that.”
“I don’t think cats should eat ham. Isn’t it a bit salty?”
“We’d get her all the stuff she needs. She would want for nothing.”
He can tell that Remus is not completely against the idea, and resolves to bring it up every day until he admits defeat. That’s usually how things work between the two of them, anyway.
Over the next few days, the soft, fluffy powder turns to ice. On their next walk, the beauty of the snow has lost its appeal and been replaced with plummeting temperatures and the very real danger of falling over a lot. Sirius takes it upon himself to selflessly prop Remus up the whole way home, because Remus is wearing silly canvas shoes with no friction to the soles and Sirius likes the feeling of Remus’s arm tangled with his own, even through the padding of both their winter coats.
After an hour, and despite Sirius’s best efforts to stay close, Remus gets too cold and he’s still shivering after thirty minutes back home, even though he’s practically sat on top of the radiator and huddled up in the crocheted blanket Lily gave them for Christmas.
Sirius shoots him a concerned look. “Want me to run you a bath? I reckon a nice, warming dunk in the bath would sort you out.”
Remus looks at him from under long eyelashes. Normally, he would fight anyone’s attempt to do anything nice for him, but he must be feeling a bit peaky because he just says “Okay,” and gets back to his shivering. Sirius uses the fancy bubbles that make the whole house smell like lavender, and checks the temperature before ushering Remus inside the room and then leaving him to it, letting the door click closed between them.
What follows is an almost unbearable half hour where Sirius can hear the little splishy splashy noises that are unmistakably the noises of Remus having a bath. Every so often, he lets out a quiet sigh which finds its way through the door, and Sirius wants nothing more than to go in there and work out all the knots in that stiff neck of his, let him tell him all his worries and fears, and find a way to ease them, just a bit.
He wants and wants and wants.
It doesn’t help when Remus emerges in his fluffy dressing gown, rosy-cheeked and soft, and chooses to sit beside Sirius on the sofa rather than one of the other chairs, filling Sirius’s nostrils with the sweet smell of lavender. “Fancy a takeaway tonight?” he asks, and his hand is almost touching Sirius’s foot.
Sirius cocks an eyebrow at him. “What kind?”
“Curry?”
“Good lord, yes.”
Remus gets an assortment of vegetarian sides while Sirius plumps for lamb madras. The joke’s on him because it’s hotter than the sun, and he has to drink three cans of beer just to try and put out the fire on his tongue. Remus watches the entire spectacle with dry amusement, spooning fragrant dhal into his mouth and occasionally mopping Sirius’s sweaty brow with a tea towel.
When he rustles up some ice cream as dessert, Sirius could kiss him. Sirius could kiss him fairly often, actually, but the ice cream definitely compounds matters a bit.
They eat it from the tub, each with their own spoon, and they half watch a documentary about Columbian prisons. Remus’s hair has dried from his bath and it’s all long and curly, which makes him look younger and reminds Sirius of how he looked back in school. He wants to touch the curls, wants to hold Remus close to him, wants to tell him that he’d love him, if he asked him to.
He’d love him so much.
That night is yet another spent alone in his bed. It’s cold, and he’s restless, and it’s not often that he’s lonely but he thinks this hollow feeling comes pretty close. Remus is on the other side of the wall, but he may as well be half the world away.
He masturbates, quickly, proficiently, thinking about his last sexual conquest; Adam with the chest tattoo and thick thighs, taking great care, as ever, not to think of someone else, careful not to think about what they could be doing if Sirius were a braver, more reckless man.
--
Remus finally snaps on a Sunday. It’s one of those winter days that’s dreary and drizzly, that never quite gets light. He slopes into the kitchen, rummages in the drawer and hands Sirius the scissors; the good pair; sharp and orange-handled.
Sirius is drinking sickly sweet hot chocolate with marshmallows and reading an article about the versatility of tofu (Sirius has never tried tofu and the article falls short of convincing him that it’s the key to solving all the world’s problems). He looks up at Remus with a disbelieving smile. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Remus nods resolutely. “Yes, I’m fucking positive.” He lays out some newspaper in the centre of the room and pulls up a chair, sinking down into it and smiling nervously. “Get rid of this monstrous mop, please.”
Sirius is positively beaming. “I’ve only watched seven Youtube tutorials. Think it’s enough?”
“I think we’re about to find out,” Remus says with the quirk of an eyebrow. “No time like the present.”
Sirius snorts. “The kids are going to bully you so hard.”
“Do you think it’s acceptable to wear my bobble hat during lessons?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Well then,” his eyes are smiley and his mouth lovely and relaxed, despite his trepidation. “Pressure’s on, Black.”
Sirius sets about sectioning the hair with clips, separating the longest bits on the top from the sides, which he will do with the clippers. Remus, meanwhile, takes his phone out and puts a playlist on, seemingly unaffected by the fact that Sirius’s fingers are raking slowly through his hair. Sirius schools his expression into something approaching ambivalence; he has practised this nonchalance for years, and wonders whether Remus has ever had to practise too.
The clippers glide through the soft curls of Remus’s hair, sending severed tendrils floating down to the floor. Remus closes his eyes when Sirius runs his fingers through the sides to check the length. Sirius looks for too long at the gentle curve of his lips and almost drops the clippers right in Remus’s lap.
“Okay, this bit isn’t terrible,” he announces, surveying his work. “So far, so good. Now for the tricky bit.”
He unclips the longer sections of Remus’s hair which fall straight into his eyes, and Sirius lets out a soft laugh at the sight of Remus blinking it away, brushing it out of his eyes for him in a gesture that’s almost certainly too tender.
Sirius starts to cut into the unruly mop on the top of Remus’s head. “Tell me, do you find the manic laughter comforting?” he asks, a few minutes in.
“Very much so. I’m also fairly sure that when I get it done by a proper barber, his dick is further away from my head.”
“Ah, then he’s doing it wrong,” Sirius winks and jiggles around a bit for emphasis, ignoring the flip flopping of his heart at the sight of Remus’s dimpled cheeks as he smiles.
The haircut is a triumph. Remus looks... well, pretty fucking hot, actually. But Sirius manages to keep those thoughts to themselves, even though Remus keeps touching the newly shorn sides and smiling softly to himself. He takes a shower to get rid of all the excess hair and Sirius is almost certain he can hear him singing ‘Free Nelson Mandela’, which is altogether too endearing.
It’s getting too much. So when Remus goes to the supermarket and asks if Sirius wants to join him, he shakes his head and makes up an excuse. Usually, they would go together, and Remus looks a little concerned, but doesn’t say anything, returning an hour later with overspilling bags which end up on the kitchen counter while Remus embarks on one of his trademark rants.
“I mean,” he gesticulates wildly. “What on earth is the point of wearing a mask at all if you’re just going to let your great big nose hang out? Would you wear a pair of pants with your cock out?”
Sirius sniggers. “Me personally, or...”
Remus lifts a pack of eggs from one of the bags and puts it down on the surface. “Yeah, okay. Wrong audience, evidently.”
“What shall we do tonight?”
“I’ve bought all the ingredients for chicken pie; the one you like with the leeks and bacon bits. So that’s pretty much my evening plan sorted.”
Sirius smiles. “I’ll be your sous chef. I’m a dab hand at leek chopping.”
“You certainly are. It’s one of your finer qualities that makes up for your weirdly long toenails and potentially very unhealthy obsession with Thierry Henry.”
Sirius pouts. “Thierry Henry is God, Remus. Show a bit of respect, please.”
Remus shrugs. “I wasn’t a fan of those Renault adverts. And my good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.”
“That is a failing indeed,” Sirius laughs, and spanks Remus on the bum with a pack of spaghetti on its way to the cupboard. “Put the radio on, will you? If we must do a Saturday confined to the kitchen, we may as well do so with the backdrop of some serious eighties bangers.”
--
“Remus,” Sirius whines as they sit in the lounge a whole, torturous week later. “Remus, I’m bored.”
Remus glances up from his book and a frisson of excitement runs down Sirius’s spine at the expression on his face; a look that he only ever gives Sirius; a look that’s fond and weary and just for him. “Sirius,” he says firmly. “We are in lockdown. I’m fairly sure it’s meant to be at least a little bit dull.”
“That’s preposterous. You need to entertain me.”
“Oh? And what remedy do you suggest?”
Sirius giggles. “I dunno. A puzzle. Kitchen cricket. Staring competition.” His eyes blaze and he leaps up, holding his hand out. “Dancing,” he says, grinning unabashedly. “Even if one’s partner is barely tolerable.”
Remus’s mouth quirks up in the corner. “My partner is perfectly tolerable. And I daresay he’s unlikely to take no for an answer, but I’ll resist all the same.”
Sirius smiles schemingly and sits himself down in Remus’s lap.
Remus sighs into the space between them, but doesn’t push him off. “It may be possible to do without dancing entirely,” he recites with ease. “Instances have been known of young people passing many, many months successively without being at any ball of any description, and no material injury accrue either to body or mind.”
“Blimey, you’re good. How do you remember such long quotes?”
“I like to be prepared for all eventualities. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find one yet that conveys the extent to which I really can’t watch any more Soccer AM.”
“Ha! Well, keep me posted. Tell you what. Do twenty minutes of Mr Motivator with me and I’ll leave you alone with your porno book all day.”
“It’s not a porno book,” Remus says haughtily. “It’s Lord Byron.” But Sirius can tell he’s already gearing up to put his leggings on and indulge Sirius in some glorious nineties aerobics activity. Remus is good like that. He sighs once more for good measure. “Do you promise? Just me and my porno book until at least nine-thirty?”
“Remus,” Sirius says, wriggling around on Remus’s lap. “Cross my heart and hope to die. I will just sit in the corner and do my own thing and you can think all of your dirty thoughts in peace.”
Sirius tries. He does. But twenty minutes after finishing their workout, twenty long minutes of unpunctured silence and trying not to look at Remus in his leggings, his resolve begins to crumble.
“How do you think Harry’s coping with lockdown?” he asks, secretly enjoying the way Remus’s mouth creases in mild irritation.
“I think we should be more concerned about how his poor, shattered parents are coping,” Remus says wisely. “Apparently, Lily let him in the bath with her yesterday and he promptly took it upon himself to sully her bath water with an impressive quantity of urine.”
“Aha! What a legend.” He bites his lower lip. “I’m a bit worried, though. I’m his godfather and I’m missing all his important milestones. What if he doesn’t know me when we come out of lockdown?”
Remus puts his book down and his expression softens. “Hey, don’t worry about that. We’ll Zoom him, yeah? Shall I see if they’re free this afternoon?”
Sirius nods placated. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s Zoom him. I can teach him about Mr Motivator.”
Remus lets out a tiny laugh and looks at Sirius, expression laced with unmistakable fondness. “He’ll like that. And you can show him your leotard.”
“It’s not a leotard, Remus, it’s an authentic nineties unitard.”
“Sorry,” he laughs, eyes glinting. “My mistake.”
--
“Do you want the last chocolate éclair?” Remus asks, head buried in the fridge that evening.
Sirius grins at him wickedly. “You are too generous to trifle with me,” he says in a low, sultry voice. “One word from you will silence me on the subject forever.”
Remus stares at him. “I’m not sure if that’s a yes or a no.”
“Go halves?”
“Sure.” Remus cuts it clean in two and pops it on a saucer, brings it over to the sofa and sits slightly closer to Sirius than is strictly necessary, so that their knees are touching and Sirius can smell the washing powder Remus uses on his clothes.
“I think,” Sirius announces. “That when I do end up going back to work, I’ll have forgotten how to talk to people who aren’t you.”
“You’re not very good at talking to people who aren’t me anyway.”
“No,” Sirius agrees. “No, I say fuck too much and divulge too much information about my medical history.”
“Speaking of which, have you booked that doctor’s appointment yet? Your allergies are definitely getting worse. I can hear you sniffling at night.”
Sirius pushes down the panic that rears up in his belly at the thought that Remus can hear him at night. He paints a neutral expression on his face and shrugs. “I hate the doctors. Every time I go, they take one look at me and make me do a chlamydia test.”
Remus snorts.
“I’m beginning to think it’s personal. Have they ever made you do one?”
“I’m a gay man under thirty. What do you think?”
“Oh, good. I take some comfort in the knowledge that it’s not just me.”
“Hmm,” Remus looks him up and down. “You do look a bit scuzzy round the edges though.”
Sirius bursts out laughing. He lets out an involuntary, piggy little snort that Remus thinks is the best thing in the world and spends the night trying to get him to recreate it.
They fall asleep on the sofa together and when Sirius wakes, somewhere in the hazy grey area between midnight and dawn, Remus’s head is in his lap, and it’s so sweet he can hardly bear it. He runs his fingers lightly through the softness of Remus’s freshly cut hair - which really is looking marvellous, although he says it himself - and lets his fingers linger there indulgently.
Remus hums and leans into the touch, but Sirius has no idea if he’s fully sentient or not. He runs a tender thumb over his temple and Remus’s eyes flicker open. “M’awake,” he mumbles, and squeezes them shut again, nudging Sirius’s hand with his head to indicate that he should carry on.
Sirius is glad that Remus’s eyes are closed and he can’t see the sappy grin on his face as he plays idly with the tendrils of hair between finger and thumb. He thinks he must have slipped into some sort of trance after that, because next thing he knows, it’s minutes, maybe hours later, and Remus makes a soft little noise in the back of his throat when Sirius’s hand stills. A jolt pierces through Sirius, just south of the belly button. Emboldened, he runs his thumb over the swell of Remus’s bottom lip and Remus’s hips jerk upwards, as if of their own accord. His eyes are still closed, but his lashes flicker delicately as his hips sink slowly back down into the sofa, and Sirius thinks that no decision in his life has been as important as the one where he must choose what to do next.
He repeats his last movement, gently caressing the velvety skin of Remus’s lip, and there’s no mistaking the full-on whimper he lets out as he does.
He gazes at him, stretched out along the length of the sofa, looks at the pale skin of his face, his Adam’s apple, the skin that dips below his collar, the bulge in his trousers that Sirius hopes to God means what he thinks it might.
He wants to ask Remus a million questions. He wants to ask him if he wants to, wants to ask whether they should, wants to ask what if? He wants, perhaps most of all, to ask him whether any of this is real for Remus, or whether it’s just the hazy magic of the lockdown talking.
Then Remus’s eyes flutter open. They are bright and clear: full of the same want that pulses through Sirius’s veins every time Remus gets all moony-eyed about Proust; every time he manages to drink them all under the table; every time he goes out without an umbrella, gets caught in the rain and comes back looking like a particularly striking Victorian waif.
“Remus,” he whispers, afraid to speak too loudly and jolt them out of this thick fog that permeates the air. “Re.”
His hand cups Remus’s jaw and he strokes along its stubbly angles, once, twice, then Remus grabs his wrist, fingers wrapping tightly around him. There’s a determination in the firm line of his mouth and he hoists himself up, twists around so that their faces are almost level.
Sirius heaves in a deep breath, then is filled with the compulsion to say something, anything to diffuse the tension. “And at home by the fire,” he says, in a voice that is too high pitched, “whenever you look up there I shall be, and whenever I look up, there will be you.”
“Oh my God, stop talking,” Remus huffs, and he pulls him forward by the neck, parted lips meeting Sirius’s with an urgency that takes Sirius’s breath away.
Sirius’s sigh of relief is loud and hangs heavy in the air between them. He puts everything into the kiss: his entire catalogue of naughty thoughts about the man clutching onto him, and five long years of yearning.
He pulls Remus into his lap and strokes hard fingers through his hair, sliding their tongues together, pulling away to press harried kisses to his face, gripping an assertive hand to the curve of Remus’s arse and whispering stupid things that he’ll regret in the morning, probably; hard to tell when he can barely fill his own lungs with oxygen, when Remus is moaning, is hard against him, is unbuttoning Sirius’s shirt with devout concentration, like it’s the most important thing he can do.
“Remus,” Sirius pants as his shirt disappears completely, pulled clean from his shoulders, and Remus presses a splayed hand to the softness of his stomach. “Are you sure?”
Remus shakes his head, and it could mean anything, but then he says “Please,” and his hands find their way to Sirius’s belt. “Please, Sirius.”
Sirius has bitten on his bottom lip so hard he can taste blood, and he pulls Remus back down to kiss him sweetly, softly, to put some much needed brakes on this whole thing. “Are you sure?” he asks again, much more quietly.
“Yes.” Remus jerks his hips forward to meet Sirius’s and he catches his moan between his teeth. “Yes, I’m fucking postitive.”
Sirius clutches at him, kisses down his neck and nibbles gently at the supple skin of his shoulder. “You’re fucking lovely,” he breathes, “you’re just the best fucking thing.”
And then his fingers skirt the hem of Remus’s t-shirt and he’s touching the silky skin of his abdomen, the trail of hair that leads from his navel to the waistband of his boxers. “You’re so lovely,” he repeats, and he pulls his t-shirt off, leaving Remus sat astride him, torso bare and lips parted, hands running reverently over Sirius’s back. He kisses him again, hot and fierce, and there’s a rhythm to their rutting that makes it feel like they’ve done this before, like this isn’t terrifying and strange and remarkable beyond measure.
Without being able to see what he’s doing, Sirius manages to pop the button of Remus’s jeans open, sliding the zip down and plunging a hand inside his pants, finding exactly what he’s looking for: the hot, slick skin of Remus’s dick. Remus makes a noise that almost has Sirius coming right there, untouched.
“Sirius,” Remus pants as he wraps his hand firmly around his dick, not breaking eye contact for one moment. “Take your trousers off this instant.”
Sirius breathes a laugh through his nose. “I can’t,” he says in a low voice. “You are in the way. And it feels like it would be a fucking tragedy to make you move.”
Remus cups his face reverently in his hands and presses a searing kiss to his lips. “I’ll come back,” he promises, and lifts himself up, efficiently ridding himself of all remaining clothing and standing, totally bare, grinning dorkily at Sirius, who takes a moment to let it all sink in before shimmying out of his trousers. He looks Remus up and down, completely beside himself with the brilliance of it all.
“I fucking knew it!” Remus points an accusatory finger at Sirius, more accurately at his boxers - patterned and from M&S - which aren’t actually his at all. “All this time, you let me think there was a pants monster on the loose!”
Sirius barks a laugh and gazes down guiltily at the garment he ‘borrowed’ from Remus. The situation is made all the more ridiculous because his cock is straining at the fabric and Remus is looking at him with outright dismay, like he’s committed an act that is too heinous to be comprehended.
“It’s me,” Sirius says eventually, grinning sheepishly from ear to ear. “I’m the pants monster.”
Remus tuts heavily, moving into Sirius’s space, shaking his head gravely. “Badly done, Emma,” he says smoothly, eyes full of laughter. “Badly done, indeed. What am I going to do with you?”
“Whatever you want,” Sirius beams, running his fingers through Remus’s curly hair, finally allowed to do so at will. “Whatever the fuck you want.”
Remus smiles wildly and whips the boxers down, holding Sirius’s arm steady while he steps out of them and kisses him slowly, carefully.
Sirius clutches at him helplessly, flops back down onto the sofa and grabs him by the arse until he’s straddling him, knees either side of Sirius, who sets straight back to caressing Remus’s cock reverently, to licking his neck, the skin stretched tight when Remus throws his head back.
The noises Remus is making are even better than the ones Sirius has heard through the wall. Better, because they’re all for him. The stakes feel dizzyingly high, but Sirius can’t think about those. All he can think about right now is making Remus happy; making Remus come.
Afterwards, Remus is quiet. The sex had been every bit as good as Sirius hoped it would be, and he is giddy at the thought that they have finally crossed that threshold.
Remus seems... well, the opposite of giddy. He seems pensive and unsure, and he makes to sleep in his own bedroom that night without a hint of his asking Sirius to join.
Sirius, who can’t stand the thought of having to go a whole night without knowing if he wishes it hadn’t happened, grabs his arm gently and looks at him. “Remus,” he says in a low voice. “Do you... have I done something wrong?”
Remus flaps around a bit in his Remus way where something is bothering him but he needs time to get to the words that express exactly what’s wrong.
“I don’t regret what we did,” he says eventually. He keeps looking at the door to his room and Sirius gets the impression that he would much rather be in there than here with him, having this conversation. He hauls in a deep breath and hits Sirius with a pained look. “Oh, God. Don’t make me come out and say it, Sirius.”
Sirius, on some level, knew this might happen. He feels stupid, feels like he should have known that all of it was too good to be true. He bows his head and nods. “Right. Okay.”
“This meant more to me than it meant to you,” Remus clarifies, and Sirius finds himself squeezing at Remus’s bicep more tightly. “I know lockdown is hard for you. You’re on furlough, your dating life has dried up, and I’m... well I’m here and available, and I wanted you. You haven’t seen another human being in weeks. None of that’s your fault.”
Sirius feels wildly like he needs to set the record straight. He loosens his grip on Remus’s arm and fumbles instead to link their fingers together. “Remus!” It comes out in a whine, but that’s going to have to suffice for now. He doesn’t really know what to say.
And so, characteristically, inevitably, he turns once again to the words of a period drama in the hopes that they might salvage the situation. “I cannot make speeches,” he says heavily. “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me.”
Remus pulls his hand away and his brow furrows. “This is not the time to fuck around, Sirius. I’m telling you that this wasn’t a quick, convenient shag. Not for me. I’ve liked you for a fucking eternity. A lot. I mean, a lot. And then tonight, you offered it all up on a plate, and I’m weak. I’m selfish. I did it knowing that you don’t feel the same. But you deserve to know that it meant more to me. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that we’re here right now. I don’t regret that it happened. But right now, I’m upset.” He looks desperately sad, and Sirius just wants to pepper his face with kisses. “I’ll get past it. I will. And we can be friends again.”
Sirius lets him get it all out, stands patiently, heart breaking a little as he takes the words in.
“You’re an idiot,” he says eventually. “Remus, you’re a fucking idiot. I don’t want to be your friend. This isn’t a lockdown thing; this is... well, it’s been a long time. You’re all I’ve wanted for a long time.” He looks down at his shoes and back up at Remus, whose mouth moves through ten different emotions and it would be funny if they weren’t stood on a fucking precipice, if this didn’t matter so much. “Have I no hope?” he asks, and this one doesn’t feel like a joke. It feels like a raw, wretched plea.
Remus pouts, softening before his eyes. “Sirius, you don’t do relationships.”
“And you do them really, really badly, with terrible men who hurt you” Sirius says, voice clipped and terse. “Do you have a point?”
“Some might argue that you have the ability to hurt me more than all those terrible men put together,” Remus points out. “And they might have a point, there.”
Sirius nods, understanding but not even slightly agreeing. He fumbles for Remus’s hand and holds it loosely between them. “What happened tonight... it didn’t mean more to you,” he says in a quiet hum. “This meant... well, everything, really.”
Remus shakes his head, like he’s trying to talk himself out of believing it.
Sirius carries on determinedly. “And I’d like nothing more than to kiss you: not because you’re the only person here; not because I’m sex-starved; but because you’re the person I want to be with, in this big, scary way.” He runs a thumb over the fine creases of his palm. “Now, will you let me in your room, please, or am I going to have to stand here making awkward declarations of love all night?”
Remus laughs wetly. “You’re not dicking with me?”
“I would never dick with you.” He raises an eyebrow. “Unless you count what we just did. In which case, I will dick with you all you like.” He laughs a little at his own joke but it melts into a profound sigh as he scrabbles around in his brain for words that will make him start to understand.
Remus tilts his head to one side and looks at him searchingly. “You groomed your pubes,” he says after a moment. “You haven’t seen anyone but me in months, and still you groomed your pubes.”
Sirius grins sheepishly. “Well, I’m just one of life’s eternal optimists. I wanted to be prepared just in case you decided to jump me in the shower like in one of those terrible locker room pornos.” And then realisation slowly dawns on him. “Wait a second. You’re one to talk; you were neat as anything down there!”
Remus blushes furiously. “Well, maybe there are two secret optimists in this house.”
Sirius thinks that if he smiles any more, his whole mouth might drop off. “Oh fuck it,” he says, completely resigned and thrilled by it. “I love you, you twat. I really fucking love you. Now, can we go and snuggle in your bed please? All of this is making me feel a bit fragile, and my beautifully groomed testicles are getting chilly.”
He is suddenly acutely aware that he is stark-bollock naked. When did Remus find the time to put his pants back on and why didn’t he suggest that Sirius do the same? It seems remiss of him. Naughty Remus.
Remus huffs a laugh and pulls him forward, looking at him like he’s not real and combing his fingers through his hair. “Look at you,” he says, laughing. “All naked. And all mine. I feel like if I blink, I’ll wake up and realise it was all just my sordid fantasies, getting the better of me as usual.”
Sirius nuzzles at his neck. “You fantasise about me?”
Remus snorts ungracefully. “Only since we were fifteen. Let’s not do this, it’s embarrassing. Shall we go to bed?”
“Yes please.” Sirius barrels past him and leaps onto Remus’s bed, lying on his side, thighs spread and hand seductively behind his head. “Get over here, Lupin.”
Remus’s smile swallows his face. “You’re ridiculous,” he grumbles, but he’s walking over to the bed, taking his pants off as he moves, and Sirius grabs hold of him, wrestling him into the sheets and plastering him with kisses.
“I love you,” Remus says breathlessly, eyes wild and sincere.
“Fucking finally,” Sirius beams, and resumes the kissing campaign, resolving to leave no centimetre of Remus’s skin unkissed. Remus, for his part, seems like he might let him try.
“Your hands are cold,” Remus gasps at the sensation of Sirius’s fingers stroking up his sides.
“Mmm,” Sirius agrees. “My bum is even colder. Want to warm it up for me?”
Remus laughs musically. “You know,” he says in a low voice. “For fear of being serious, just for a moment, there’s nobody I’d rather spend my lockdown with.”
Sirius grins. “Oh, dear sweet Remus. I think we can both agree that there’s nobody else who would have me.” He buries his face in Remus’s armpit and breathes him in.
“Well, then.” Remus cards a hand through Sirius’s hair. “I guess I’ll have to do.”