Title: Five Ways to Open Your Arms
Author: Imochan
Pairing: Sirius/Remus
Rating: light R
Warnings: sexual references, slash, some angst, and a whole lotta hugging
Wordcount: 1, 424
Notes: For Lah. Crossposted to 
two_boys, eventually, for the inaugural challenge
1.
The door clicks shut.
"Sirius?" he asks.
"Out here."
"A-- It's raining, you know."
"It's sl-sleeting," says Sirius. He is curved, wet hair in his face, spine hunched, legs jiggling in the cold. His cigarette looks like a limp, dead thing, gasping for light. The leather on his jacket rasps when he shifts, slick like an oilskin, watery London reflecting off the droplets.
"So, come in," says Remus. He leans a little, out of the window, scrapes at the flaking paint with his fingernails. His exhales freeze on the edge of his lips.
"Can't," grins Sirius, hard-edged, one breath full of words. "Someone told me the plants didn't like it when I smoked indoors oh right that was you, ha ha ha!"
"My plants don't like it."
"Your plants aren't here, stupid," says Sirius and flicks the limp cigarette out over the black-iron railing, watching it sail over the edge, scaring a nestled lump of pigeons, sending them scattering with a shiver of air. "Your plant is a ninety year-old cacti. Cactus. Cactusina. She's dying. Put her out of her fucking misery, I say."
"So kind," murmurs Remus.
"Fuck you," grins Sirius.
Remus steps back from the window, lets himself breath, a little, and take in how Sirius hasn't washed any dishes, it looks like, lately, and there's a full ashtray on the table and a Prophet spread out like a pile of leaves, haphazard, childish. He must have seen, Remus supposes. It was all over today, and nothing they could do, and Christ, he thinks, Lily was so pale. London was so cold, when he walked over.
"Whup!" Sirius exhales, trips as he climbs back in, catches himself on Remus's shoulders, manic grin plastered on his mouth. He smells like snow and smoke and something slightly sour, cracked leather.
"Drunk?" asks Remus.
"Ha ha, yeah," grins Sirius. His mouth is by Remus's ear, accidental heartbreaker.
"What is it," says Remus, and lets his palms rest somewhere near Sirius's hips. He is steadying him, he thinks.
Sirius says nothing. There is an exhale, something sharp and ragged, against Remus's damp skin.
"Nothing," Sirius whispers. But his fingers are in Remus's hair, elbows braced over Remus's shoulders, tall enough to tuck him there, where there isn't any space, because you don't want any, and it's about breathing, slowly, it's about steadying, and there's Sirius's mouth against Remus's damp hairline, when he says it again.
"Nothing," says Sirius. "Just."
Here, Remus closes his eyes, because he likes to imagine Sirius is, too.
2.
They go to Brighton, every summer. First it was because James and the Potters, and now it's because this is their place. Sirius writes little x's on the wall in his bathroom that year, to count it down, but doesn't tell anyone and when James asks he tells him to just fuck off none of your business anyway how many shots you want, then! And James says just one, and Sirius snorts, but he crosses out another day, just above the sink.
Remus wears too much clothing for the summer, the beach, in Brighton, and they used to tease him, and then they didn't, and now Sirius does, anyway, again. He looks a little silly, gangly silhouette when Sirius sees him on the sunset-lit dock, with the big shirt hanging off him, and trousers, only rolled up mid-way on his skinny calves, and Sirius rubs his thumb over his own bare ankle, just where he knows Remus's scar is, the one that's shaped like hook.
He creeps up on him, sand warm on his feet and he knows just how to make his footsteps sound like the waves, because nobody ever suspects a force of nature.
"Dock monster!" he shouts, grinning, and grabs the back of Remus's collar, when Remus startles, sandy feet scraping on the wood. "Nahaha, gotcha!"
"Oh, thank y-"
"Prude," Sirius plucks at the back of Remus's collar again. Remus smells like salt and sun. He has a tan, and it peeks out, in the triangle of skin above the shirt, before his hair, and in the sunset, it looks golden. "Y'know, the dock monster never preys on the half-naked."
"Which is why you're safe."
"Which is why I'm safe," Sirius grins. His mouth is on Remus's hair, and he likes that. He likes the way there is a perfect dip in Remus's shoulder for his arm to fit, just there, boyish sling. "Swim trunks."
"I'll take my chances," says Remus, and Sirius imagines the sun hisses with pleasure when the sea swallows it up. "Since you're here."
3.
This is the only place Sirius has ever felt both chokingly awkward and indescribably safe, beautiful and terrified - terrifying - and it could be because he's twenty-one and crying into Remus Lupin's shirt, but it's probably because he's just scared of having to move away again.
4.
When they fucked, Sirius had him on his front, biting the pillow, kneading at the sheets with hands that slipped because his palms were shaking and sweaty, and he pressed his forehead to the mattress, and choked, a little, on his own subservience. Sirius panted in his ear, tongue wet and filthy when he swore and shuddering and sent Remus biting at his own knuckles, with how white the world went.
Sirius smoked half-naked and Remus took a long shower and shivered a lot, because something inside him was cold, though maybe it was just London in November, though maybe it was just the way he lost his change for the Underground that afternoon, though maybe it was just because he'd run out of money and self-worth, though maybe it was just because. And they went to bed on opposite sides of the mattress. And Remus stared into the dark and imagined rolling over and kissing the inside curve of Sirius's wrist, while he slept.
Remus wakes up, and his first thought is no, no, no, no, because Sirius is breathing on his neck, elbow crooked over Remus's waist, fingers and warm palm splayed over that dip-swell of the stomach where lovers are supposed to fit. Sirius is still sleeping, and his breath is pressing into Remus's spine and Remus panics, quietly, because, he thinks, oh, this will be bad, he thinks, this will be so bad when he wakes up, this isn't what he wants this isn't what we came for, is it is it I don't know, he thinks, anymore.
Sirius's fingers curl. His palm is warm. It is late morning and the curtains shut out the light, so everything is grey and perfect and still. Sirius's jeans are crumpled on the floor. Remus can see one of his own socks hanging, precariously happy, from the post at the foot of the bed (Sirius flung it there, and growled, and Remus didn't laugh then, but he might now, oh absurdity). If he opens the door, he knows, he will see his shoes sitting by the door. And this will make his chest tight, because Sirius has his palm and fingers splayed on Remus's stomach, and Remus thinks, this is where we fit?
I am crazy, thinks Remus, and rolls. I am going to be pushed off the bed and don't want to get up yet I don't, thinks Remus, and rolls so he is inside the curve of where they fit, so he is tucked in close and facing love head-on, and it tastes a little like too much whiskey and too many cigarettes the night before, and it smells a little like Sirius's cologne and dirty sheets, and it just looks, it just looks so beautiful.
Remus lets his arms loop around it all.
Sirius's back is warm.
"Ah," mumbles Sirius. "Nh. Thanks."
There is a smile kissed to Remus's jaw, and he isn't lonely, anymore.
5.
"Hi."
" – hi."
"Oh. Siriu-- Look, I'm."
"Shut up. You don't start that way. I do."
"Uh – "
"Fucking shut up. I had a speech. You can't start the whole 'Look, I'm – very awkward pause – ' etcetera etcetera when it's your fucking door."
"Oh?
"Yes, oh."
"Well, let's hear it."
"Funny bloke. All right. Look, I'm. – "
"You are?"
"Well. I."
"Look, just fucking ask, Sirius."
"Hmn. Well. Can I come in? Again?"
The door creaks, when it opens.