Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related items of importance don't belong to me. They belong to JK Rowling et cetera et cetera.
A/N: This is the first HP fic I've ever written. Contains slash, does not contain graphic slash. The idea popped into my head one morning and demanded to be written.
Any and all feedback is absolutely brilliant. Thanks for reading!
Remus and Sirius, as a rule, don't let anyone know they're sleeping together.
It's only reasonable. Sirius has a girlfriend, after all. Mary or Mindy or Melissa, something like that. He's always crowing about how far they've gone, as he feels he should, though Remus knows they've done no more than kiss and touch.
He and Sirius have gone further than that, in the darkness of the Gryffindor dormitory, behind drawn curtains and a silencing spell.
Neither of them is sure when it started; the only important thing is that it happens. They don't ask each other why, as they whisper and shout and fumble in the dark.
It's only reasonable. James is now preoccupied with Lily; he's got no time to talk to Sirius about his fucked-up life, and Peter is, well, Peter. And Sirius doesn't think it's his fault if he crawls into Remus's bed with the full intention of just talking, and then other things happen, too.
He'd blame it on Remus, with his soft hair and clever hands and the way his words seem to fill Sirius's brain—nonsense, snatches of poetry, sometimes, and muttered curses and (with a gasp, and a catch in his throat) Sirius. He can't help it, he'd say: It's all Remus's fault, he's too pretty. Though of course neither of them would actually say anything at all.
Remus would turn that blame right back on Sirius—how he'll take a hug or a smile to mean let's do it, how he just has that way of looking unbearably beautiful, even when Remus is trying to turn away, trying not to get dragged under his spell, trying to keep the conversation on track and ignoring all the signs his body aligns towards Sirius.
And when it's over? Sometimes Sirius stays, and sets his alarm an hour early so he can return to his own bed and pretend nothing ever happened. And on those nights there are more whispers, but no shouts, and they talk of anything and everything except love.
And sometimes Sirius doesn't stay, and that's okay, because sometimes Remus doesn't want him to, and they lie awake in their own too-cold too-big beds and think about love in the dark.
It's only reasonable. They're teenage boys, not nearly as mature as they'd like to think, and more confused than they'll ever admit.
Remus might have it down better than Sirius does; there's certainly a reason why he's never had a girlfriend, but there's no way he'll ever tell. Not anytime soon, at least. Sirius thinks and thinks about it all on those nights he doesn't stay, but a part of him knows only Remus can answer his questions, and he's afraid of what the answers might be.
One day they will speak of love together, and soon after that each will tell the other the three words that have eluded them ever since that first awkward night in the dark. I love you.
But it'll be a secret. It'll have to be. These times, they are a-changing, but not fast enough.
Remus and Sirius, as a rule, don't let anyone know they're in love.
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