Lucky
In breathless silence, sometimes, Sirius can't believe his luck.
Being eighteen is not yet the rollercoaster ride he expected. The party had been fantastic, of course, with James pulling out all the stops, with the booze and the decorations and the cake that screamed, non-stop, 'HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YOU BEAST!' and was only just starting to peter out to a whisper, half eaten, at six in the morning. The sun was well and truly up, cold light filtering into the common room where Sirius woke and blinked and was alone amid the reams of gifts and discarded bottles, the occasional half-dead second year who'd gotten a bit too big for their boots and were sprawled on the floor at his feet. Sirius, smiling wryly at the chaos that is just for him, stands groggily from the sofa. Amazingly, he feels fine. Amazingly, he knows what he is doing in this moment.
He sways a little on his feet, probably still drunk – his limbs tingle from the night before, as if they are filled with Styrofoam packing pellets rather than blood. His hands feel thick and heavy. He pulls at his clothes, collects his discarded tie from the sofa and goes upstairs, slowly, almost tripping over Peter as he climbs the stairs. In the dormitory are the beds, and in the bed, the only occupied one, lies Remus, who got carried away fartoo early for Sirius' liking, as he was often wont to do, not knowing his limits. Slowly, aching a little, Sirius pads towards the bed and, for a moment, just stands over the sleeping boy.
It has been three months since they first slept together, and Sirius still winces, embarrassed at the memory. They had barely known what to do, acting on advice from rumours and a book Remus (predictably) found in the restricted section, which in all honesty had terrified Sirius beyond belief. They had been overly cautious and woefully uneducated and Sirius hadn't liked it, not at all, had been desperately uncomfortable, worried he would hurt the werewolf – worried he would hurt himself. It had been awkward and jarring and they'd not looked eachother in the eyes for days afterwards, until Sirius pulled himself together and told him they'd try again, and keep trying, until it felt like they'd been told it would. And Remus – impressed with his resolve, or something,had nodded, determined. But still. It had been a difficult road, Sirius not the most patient of boys, confused as to why, when everything else they did felt normal and okay, this was the most difficult thing. It still wasn't quite right, but they were starting to find it funny, and Sirius had been on the bottom once and that had been more okay than he liked to admit, and now- now he's looking at Remus, who is asleep, and he knows. And he's fucking terrified, but he has to say something.
It has been three months since Remus said "Pads, I-" and Sirius had turned, halfway through smoking a cigarette they were sharing, and had stupidly blurted "what?", cutting Remus off. It has been three months since the werewolf laughed and shook his head, and Sirius, suddenly, knew what he had been about to say, and felt relieved that he hadn't been asked, hadn't said something reprehensible, like "I know", or the equally pussying-out, "Thank you." But things are different now. Now they're in a space where Sirius can say anything to him, anything at all, and Remus will laugh and it will be alright. He's never been here before. With anyone. The air feels different.
He crouches down beside Remus' head, the werewolf still sound asleep, and gently nudges his shoulder to wake him. When Remus only snores deeply and rolls over, mouth open, Sirius shakes him a little more forcefully.
"Moony." He says, hushed. Remus wakes. He smiles lazily, looking embarrassed.
"Morning." He whispers. "Happy birthday. Did you have fun?"
"Yeah. It was great." He can't stop the long, pregnant silences. Remus is starting to look at him strangely. Sirius laughs and takes his hand, and feels like a girl, and lets it go, and then decides he doesn't really care about being a girl, anymore. He takes it again. "-Love you." He says slowly, enunciating, and Remus looks startled but smiles again. He replies like he knew, like this is something he's been waiting for. Eyes half-lidded, he squeezes Sirius' hand.
"Love you too, Pads." It is easy. Like saying 'pass the butter', or 'how are you', or 'did that hurt?'. Because it is true. Sirius loves him more in this moment than he did before, as if the words before were a lie, but saying it has madethem true. Sirius is hung over and his brain so is full of cotton wool, he's practically a packaging-man, what with his veins full of Styrofoam too, but Remus' eyes are closing, and he is smiling, and this moment, this moment after, he knows what he is doing, what he has done.
They fall asleep and are woken to James laughing at them, at their joined hands, Sirius kneeling by the bed, asleep with his chin on the side of it, Remus rolled away but their fingers still interlaced. Even when they separate, embarrassed, the air is new to Sirius, special, and he can't believe his luck.
this takes place in the same universe as "Feet Of Clay" - it's set around seventh year. I hope you enjoyed it, despite its shortness - please review! Just as a side note, i have a sort-of-sequel to "Feet of Clay" in the works, which hopefully will be posted one of these days. Thank you very much for reading, and if you review, i shall always reply. xxx