A/N: Written for the rs_career_fest on livejournal. Oh, you have no idea how long I've wanted to do a prostitution!fic.
"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares."
-Hebrews 13.2
i.
Sirius sees him everywhere.
Remus is waiting for a bus on a random street corner, milling about behind the counter at the drugstore, walking his dog. He's with a wife and children on a bench. He's selling newspapers. Remus is every vendor, every face on a billboard, every overheard voice on a train. Every face hidden beneath the brim of a hat, every body that bumps against Sirius on the busy midmorning sidewalk.
ii.
Remus remembers the first time he defied his parents. He was sixteen. It was a Saturday. The opportunity, however demeaning, seemed like a one-time-only deal. James and Sirius had smirked at him, Come on, Moony, even werewolves have to get laid.
He remembers their obnoxiously cheap choice in Muggle brothels, their attempts at looking cool, and the unyielding notion that none of them had any idea what they were doing. The girl was awkward, and Remus had lied awake for hours that night, while Sirius and James had slept effortlessly, with smug smiles on their faces. Remus fidgeted and rolled over until the dawn, pondering how easily sex, even loveless sex, could make people happy- as empty, shadowed, and pathetic as that fact was.
iii.
When Sirius sees the headline, he thinks he's imagining things. First faces, now words.
Wizarding World Shocked by Sex Scandal!
Department of Magical Defense Chief Caught With High-Class Male Prostitute!
And in the lower right-hand corner, a granulated, moving image of none other than Remus Lupin; throwing an arm up to cover his face and refusing to comment, again and again and again.
iv.
It wasn't the kind of job application Remus was used to.
He remembers the intricate examination of his body, of his talents, of his abilities. He remembers being asked about his experiences. About his preferences. He remembers the dull ache in his stomach at the thought of sleeping with men who didn't have thick black hair and a mischievous smile and high cheekbones. Men who weren't him, men who weren't that name he couldn't even bring himself to say aloud.
Sirius.
"Women," Remus had declared, pointedly. "I only sleep with women."
v.
The article indicates no clear direction to the establishment. No name, no area of town, no distinguishing features. They don't even call Remus by his name. He is always this rentboy or the prostitute. Sirius feels a misplaced surge of anger at the newspaper. He wants to protect Remus and he can't: Remus is far away into his past, like a daydream or an event in a history textbook. The defensive impulse leaps into his chest, then subsides just as quickly when he realizes that protecting Remus is not his job anymore. Perhaps it never was in the first place.
On a Friday, Sirius stumbles across the venue by accident.
Remus is smoking when Sirius catches sight of him in the window over his shoulder. And this doesn't make sense, because Remus doesn't flick his cigarette like that, and Remus doesn't take long, hard drags like that, and Remus doesn't look casual and detached like that.
In fact, Remus doesn't smoke at all, for fuck's sake.
vi.
Remus prefers to not know their names.
Sometimes he'll recognize a woman- as the wife of a Wizarding leader, or someone famous herself. She'll have a wedding ring on. She'll come straight out and tell him that she's got someone back home. That he's only a temporary engagement. As if he might consider himself anything but.
Often he won't tell them his real name, either. He prefers the anonymity, the occupation of being a blank slate, a blank face, only a body in the darkness; of only having to operate according to physical instincts. Not worrying about complications, not calculating possibilities, not thinking about anything much at all except intimacy. Except making another body yield to his touch.
He doesn't like letting words and questions complicate matters. He's had enough words, enough questions, enough specifics, enough emotion to last a lifetime.
vii.
It takes Sirius another full week to build up the courage to actually visit him.
Standing self-consciously in the doorway, he marvels at the fact he was let inside this far. He clears his throat loudly, but Remus remains facing away from him. In the center of the room is an oversized, crimson bed, rising high like a platform, or a stage. Remus is sitting on its edge, lazily dangling a bottle of expensive-looking wine by its neck. His fingers are slim. His lips are wan; his smile lilting and soft, as though he's hiding something. Sirius suspects that he's hiding many things, after years of this sort of service.
Clearing his throat, Sirius finds himself unable to render a proper sentence. Remus continues looking down, almost bored and Sirius wonders how many tongue-tied patrons he meets on a daily basis. Probably many. Probably too many.
"What is it that you want?" Remus is cool, eyes lidded.
"I-uh."
"Assuming that you have the proper financial compensation."
Working as a rentboy has evidently not dulled his vocabulary or reflexes. "That's just the thing. I don't happen to have any- er. Financial compensation."
Remus looks up for the first time, examines Sirius' clothing, and goes stiff. Sirius wonders when recognition will set it, or if it already has. Remus does an about-face, and marches to the window, back to Sirius. When Remus speaks again, his voice is tight.
"I daresay you're not the usual customer, either."
"Yes, yes; I know I'm poor."
"No- you're a man."
Sirius stills. This he hadn't expected. Remus would never go for women, not ever; he's completely queer, always, always-
"I read about you in the paper." It sounds childish, and Sirius imagines that Remus gets enough of all this nervous nonsense already.
"And you were intrigued by such a scandal?" There's an edge to voice. Bloody ridiculous, Sirius thinks to himself, turning slightly pink at Remus' shameless condescension.
This isn't the Remus he knows. The flirtation is haughty and blithe, cutting straight to Sirius' heart. Suddenly, the Remus he knows won't take shape in his memory. All that he can conjure is the image he sees before him, the sleek and sultry; the dry and the exacting. And the Remus he knows- sweaters, tender kisses, bags under his eyes- is fading away, vapid wind, out the window, into the night sky.
viii.
It's an out-of-body experience, entertaining strangers.
Remus loses track of the expressions, the limbs, the voices. They slip and fade into dark cement that spills into his consciousness, filling in the cracks where grief and loss and Sirius lurk. With each customer, he fills another crevice, seals off another memory, cuts off another source of his looming melancholia.
You remind me of someone, Remus wants to say to the ragged patron with mangy black hair, but that would be admitting an emotional attachment. An Achilles heel.
ix.
"It's me."
"Me who?" But Remus is anxiously rocking back on the heels of his feet. Sirius can tell that somewhere inside him, he already knows the answer.
"Moony," he says in a soft voice, and Remus starts at the sound of the nickname. "Moony, it's me. Padfoot." For a moment, there is a silence so absolute that it imprints on both of their memories forever; a silence in which Sirius thinks he feels something click, something snap into place, but then-
"No. No. I don't know anyone by that name and I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
x.
If there was anything that could split straight through the cement in Remus' brain, it was this.
Thought, inclinations, and remembrances of Sirius are what he's tried for years to drown in expensive wine and other vices. Images flash across his consciousness, frightening in their vividness. Remus tries to convince himself he feels nothing, but he can already feel them taking up room and board in the dusty corners of his brain.
Remus wonders for a second if this patron a sick joke, but the cheekbones, the eyes, the sturdy shoulders couldn't possibly lie. It's him.
Sirius wouldn't have cared if Remus had fainted, or screamed, or punched him in the face. What he did care about, what he wasn't prepared for, was tears. Sirius had never seen Remus cry. He would come back from nighttime posts during the First War with stories about severed limbs and charred bodies. Stumbling into the house with sunken eyes, he wouldn't speak until he had brewed and downed four cups of tea, at least- Even on the worst of nights, it was the most Remus could do to pull the lines of his brow into a certain downturn; to look forlorn, expression empty.
And now, here he is, eyes beginning to shimmer with-
Bloody fucking hell.
"What are you doing here?" The tears are suddenly angry, his eyes flashing. Sirius imagines his thoughts, his frustration. You've invaded my territory, and dressed like that, no less. Remus looks revoltingly guilty, but perhaps it's just because Sirius isn't used to catching him doing something so morally objectionable, something so embarrassing as whoring himself out.
"It was raining," Sirius begins to explain, "And the paper. And-" but Remus is sitting on the bed, fingers pressing tight against his temple.
"I thought you were dead," Remus hisses. It sounds like an accusation.
"I'm sorry."
"I thought you had. I don't know. Gone away. Left the country."
"No."
"Where are you living now?"
"On the corner of 22nd and West."
"I didn't know there were apartments there."
"There aren't."
Remus takes in a slow, ragged breath, then says, "I- I hardly think this is appropriate." He stands and whips out his wand, muttering something under his breath. Sirius feels himself being magically ushered to the door. Remus won't even come near me. Remus won't even touch me. Everything is happening too quickly.
"Remus- you can't just kick me out."
"Mr. Black," he snaps. "I bear next to no memories of our brief flirtation. And I would prefer if things remained as they are."
"You mean-"
"Yes, Padfoot. Fifteen years is a long time. I scarcely remember you at all."
Sirius finds himself out in the hallway once more, looking into Remus' terrifying, exacting gaze.
"But-"
But there's nothing to say, and in the brief moment where Sirius hesitates, Remus turns and, with a flick of his wrist, shuts the door behind him.
xi.
Sirius keeps warm at night with newspapers, old ones, new ones, yellowing copies he finds in dumpsters and under benches. He can't complain. It's unusually warm for January. He falls asleep to the memory of a time when Remus was wise and gentle, when Remus was thoughtful and perceptive, and slept too little, and smiled too widely, and cared about silly things, like dead languages and jazz.
And- oh, yes. When Remus loved him.
xii.
Remus has never been to this part of town before. At least, not at this hour of the night. Upon further evaluation, it was laughable to wear a dress coat and silk scarf, but Remus doesn't have the effort or right to be embarrassed by much anymore. Eyes from the shadows shoot sideways glances at his frame, and Remus walks faster, gripping his wand tightly. "Lumos," he murmurs, just in time to see a small animal scurry past him on the sidewalk.
He finds Sirius leaning against a mail bin, arms crossed over his chest, drifting off to sleep while smothered in a array of papers, torn cloths, bits of cardboard. Remus feels sick. He clears his throat and speaks rather loudly.
"Mr. Black."
Sirius jumps awake, eyes wide, wand at the ready. Realizing who is standing before him, he lowers it once more. "What the hell did you just call me?"
"Er- Sirius." Remus feels more awkward than he has in years, and he straightens his back and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets in an effort to appear nonchalant. "I think we need to talk."
"Really."
"Yes."
There is a silence at the obviousness of this statement. Sirius does not pretend to be impressed. "What is it that you want?"
"I think an apology is in line for what I said to you last night. It was rude. I- I was just surprised."
"Surprised."
"Yes."
They don't know how to communicate anymore; it's clear to both of them.
"And?"
"And- Come back to my apartment with me," Remus suggests.
He takes Sirius' overwhelming inability to respond as a resounding yes.
xiii.
It doesn't come as a surprise to Sirius that Remus' flat is expensively adorned, almost gaudy. Wide bookcases cover the lofty walls of the living room; the rug in the foyer is made of crimson and gold fibers woven together; there is a chandelier in the kitchen. Sirius feels slightly dizzy.
"Excuse me for a moment." Remus exits down a hallway to his left, abruptly out of sight.
Tentatively, Sirius tries to sit down on one of the multiple high-backed white chairs in the vicinity, but the cushion is so soft, so clean, that Sirius immediately feels indecent and stands back up.
On a diamond-encrusted coffee table, Sirius sees a bowl of daintily wrapped chocolates towering no less than a foot high. Sirius smiles to himself at the sight of something so astoundingly Remus but the sentiment turns out to be overwhelmingly nostalgic, and he looks away.
Instead, his eye catches sight of the artwork Remus has framed on the opposite wall. Abstract and violent, it strikes Sirius as peculiar that a traditionalist purist as Remus always was (on the few occasions where Sirius indulged Remus' interest in art enough to pay the slightest bit of attention) that he would own a ten-square-foot canvas of white and red smudges.
"It cost a fortune," says a voice behind him. "For a good cause, though. Some charity. I, uh, can't remember the name of it."
The irony of Remus' status as both prostitute and philanthropist is not lost on Sirius. Always trying to make everyone happy.
"I've learned to like it," Remus continues. "I never much had a taste for modern art, but I've always enjoyed routine- and it's nice to see the same thing every morning. I like the inescapability. It just- seizes you. One can't help but stare."
"I suppose," Sirius murmurs.
Unexpectedly, Sirius finds Remus is behind him, hands rubbing small circles into Sirius' shoulders. Remus' breath is warm on his skin. "But- enough about art. We should get you out of those clothes."
Remus' closet is exactly as Sirius would have imagined; endless racks of dark hues in tenuous, ritzy fabrics. The one exception is a red, cable-knit sweater on the end. Immediately, Remus grabs it and offers it up to Sirius. "Here. This one would work. I've never had the complexion for the color, but I think it would suit you well. Although first you need a shower, I believe." His thumb slides down Sirius' neck dangerously.
With a guiding hand, Remus ushers him into the bathroom, and before Sirius can get a word in edgewise, Remus is peeling off the outer layers of his clothing. "Merlin, how long have you been wearing this?"
"Long enough to not smell it anymore," Sirius grumbles, unbuttoning from the bottom up.
"Quite the miracle." Remus is unphased, unreadable. He unzips Sirius' pants deftly, yanking them down to his ankles before moving on to his own clothing. Much to Sirius' surprise, Remus tosses his garments into the growing heap on the floor instead of folding them up neatly. Sirius steps out of his underwear and, standing naked before Remus, stares as he undresses. Remus looks up and raises an eyebrow.
"What? You're just going to watch me, then? Go and get started, I'll be there in a minute."
As the warm water runs down his body, Sirius distantly wonders if he should be insulted by such sudden kindness, for it may be condescension in disguise. Remus pities him, he can tell, and although logically this should bother him, it doesn't. With a small sense of defeat, Sirius realizes that he doesn't care how Remus treats him as long as he's there, as long as he's close by and giving him attention.
Remus' nose nuzzles into the back of his ear. "Now. How about that talk?"
Sirius turns to face him, suspicious of how detached Remus is, how laid-back and comfortable with himself. Remus looks relatively similar to how he did fifteen years ago, albeit with healthier skin and more pronounced muscles. He looks younger, if that's at all possible, but if anyone was capable of de-aging, it would be Remus, who looked ten years his senior at the age of twenty.
It becomes abundantly clear very quickly that they'll be doing no talking whatsoever, and Remus' eyes are as lidded and cloying as they were earlier that night at the brothel. Remus directs his attention to Sirius' neck, placing open-mouthed kisses along the base.
When Sirius tilts his head back, he notices that the ceiling of the shower doubles as a mirror. Remus looks up as well, speaking between pecks. "Oh, that. It's a nice addition. Although I can't say it's gotten nearly as much use at it deserves." Sirius watches them closely in the reflection above their heads, as Remus slides his lips along Sirius' jaw, nibbles on his ear, winds his fingers through the hairs on the back of his neck.
At last he looks down. Nervously, Sirius touches Remus' chest, the skin and muscle surprisingly cold to the touch. It's been years, he realizes; the full extent of time finally dawning on him.
Sirius is careful, tracing slow circles before stepping closer, giving attention to a long, stretching scar pulling from the center of Remus' stomach all the way around to his lower back. The majority of the scars are scarcely visible now, but the few that remain, dark and jagged on the skin, are harsh and frightening. Sirius feels sick at the implication of how deep some of these once were; especially one crossing over Remus' heart; especially one slicing down his neck-
"There are potions I can take now." Remus notices him looking again. "They reduce the appearance of scars far more than just spells could. It's been extremely helpful." Eager to change the topic, Remus places a hand on Sirius' jaw, forcing Sirius to look him in the eye. "Enough, now," he sighs, and Sirius lets himself be kissed, long and hard, on the mouth.
It's not just the money. With a pang, Sirius realizes, as their tongues slide and twist, that Remus is far bolder than he is now. And they've never had that kind of hierarchy before.
xiv.
Remus is the one who guides their hips together, abrupt and surprising. The feeling is dizzying to Sirius, the raw rub of friction that he's lacked for ages. Drawing breath sharply, he returns the kiss, lips moving tentatively at first, then growing used to their once-familiar partners. One of Remus' hands closes around Sirius' cock, drawing the slightest of sounds out of Sirius with steady, sharp tugs.
The tile wall is cold against Sirius' back when Remus shoves him against it. One of Sirius' hands braces himself on the freezing surface, the other slides down Remus' spine, tracing increasingly sporadic patterns as Remus wrist flicks more quickly. With Sirius' fingers pressing into the swell of Remus' behind, he forces their bodies closer, vision already tunneling with the proximity of his impending climax.
All it takes for him to come undone is Remus' lips, pulling on one earlobe as he rolls their hips together. Sirius' head falls back once more, and at the sight of their bodies in the mirror above them, Sirius is unable to stave himself off for much longer. With a frenzied moan, he releases over Remus' hand, knees going weak. Remus hoists him up, holding him against the wall, and continues to lick down the curve of his neck as the water slides between their two bodies, running over them until all that remains of Sirius' orgasm lingers in his inability to say a word. Distantly, he hears Remus speak.
"Let's continue this elsewhere. I'm going to get all pruned," Remus chuckles.
In no time at all, Sirius finds himself on his back, the sensation of silk sheets soft on his skin. Remus pins his hands over his head. This is new, Sirius thinks.
"I want you," Remus pants.
Who the fuck says things like that?
Sirius ponders this, trying not to wince at the primitiveness of the phrase. Sirius closes his eyes and lets Remus playfully run his tongue over his chest, shoulders, and arms. "Don't speak," Sirius hears himself saying, in an equally embarrassing voice. He can already feel himself growing hard again, lust stirring deep in his belly. But it wouldn't be fair, he thinks to himself, despite the fact that Remus is working his way down Sirius' body once more.
What he doesn't like is that he hasn't done anything for Remus. It's all about him, Sirius; Remus has shaped sex around pleasuring his partner as opposed to being pleasured himself. It's like I'm a bloody patron or- Sirius hates himself for thinking this, the one connection he was fighting to avoid making.
In one swift movement, he rolls Remus onto his back. "Let me do something for you."
Remus is clearly doubtful; there's an underlying nervous tension obvious in his eyes. He's still hard, but his face is pale, his brow is set nervously. His lips are drawn back in what would otherwise be a grimace. A cold sweat has broken out onto his forehead. Sirius feels guilty at the sight of such apprehension, and he retreats, stuttering. "We- we don't have to if you don't want to."
Remus tilts his head to the side and tries to laugh. "No, quite all right. It's. It's all in a day's work."
Patron. Customer. Supposed to pay for you. Supposed to mean nothing to you. Remus doesn't say the words, but he might as well have. The attempt at humor does not go over well. "What am I?" Sirius snorts, unable to stop himself. "A charity case?"
To his surprise, Remus blushes. He forces out an apology. "I thought this was what you wanted."
"No. I- I don't need it. It's fine." With another surge of guilt, Sirius looks away. Evidently, Remus is not moved enough to push the issue. He strides past Sirius, grabbing his robe off the floor as he goes.
"Let's- let's go the kitchen and have some wine. Come on." Remus gestures for Sirius to follow him into the living room, but Sirius stays seated, scratching behind his ear, trying to construct a phrase that will make Remus return to bed.
"Sorry I couldn't make you feel-"
"Sirius. Don't take it personally," Remus calls over his shoulder. "I don't feel anything anymore."
xv.
"I'll sleep on the couch," Sirius offers, hours later, slightly drunk. "Really. It's far nicer than I've had."
But Remus is adamant. "My bed is big enough for the two of us." His audacity amazes the both of them.
So Sirius follows him to his –their- bed, treading lightly on the hardwood flooring; careful not to touch a thing, careful not to make any waves in such a delicate balance.
xvi.
Sirius hates the way Remus flips his hair now, this hard and icy elegance that he's developed. Remus smokes more than Sirius does, a fact Sirius is almost jealous of, in a slight, juvenile way.
The beast in Remus is far more evident now. He holds himself with the air of one about to be attacked, about to be accused. His spine is rigid, always rigid; his eyes are always wide and guarded. Sirius sometimes overhears him talking to himself in the bathroom, directing his reflection in the tasks of the day, whether they be pedestrian or psychologically draining. Or both.
Something in Sirius suspects Remus' calm and stoicism may have deteriorated over the years. Remus refuses to talk about his time alone, his work as a prostitute, or even how he's gotten to where he is now. Not that Sirius bears the courage to press the issue. Things are very different now, Remus will say, and that will be that.
Remus wakes abruptly nearly every other night, sometimes babbling, something shaking, sometimes simply confused. He doesn't share his nightmares with Sirius; only wanders from the bedroom and around the house for as long as it takes to regain his composure and crawl back into bed as though nothing has happened. He's evasive, doesn't answer the simplest of questions.
"Where were you?"
"Around."
"Are you feeling okay?"
"Nothing new."
Cagey, Sirius thinks to himself on a Friday, while watching Remus pace back and forth, unaware that he is being watched, pondering over one of the countless mental plagues he refuses to let Sirius in on. Refuses to let him listen, coax, soothe. Refuses to let him shoulder some of the burden.
xvii.
They're lying in bed one night, one of Remus' arms slung over Sirius' chest, when Sirius chooses to comment on Remus' speech patterns.
"Ever since I've been, er, back," Sirius begins boldly, "Everything you say sounds absolutely bloody scripted." Remus is silent for a moment, and, thinking he's upset him, Sirius adds an apologetic "No offense."
"None taken. I understand." Remus stares at a spot on Sirius' chest, the cogs in his mind clearly whirring at full speed. He appears to be working something out, something fragile and controversial, lying with his head in the crook of Sirius' elbow. When Remus speaks again, his voice is noticeably less affected. "It's- it's been a long time since I've tried to have any- any-"
Sirius wonders if he'll ever be able to get over the shock of hearing Remus at a loss for words.
"-Any sort of. Conversation, or. Intellectual stimulation. Intelligent discourse." He sniffs. "All- All of that."
"I'd expect you don't have the most well-read of patrons."
To his surprise, Remus actually laughs at this. "You'd expect correctly.
"Jesus, Remus. What have you done with yourself all these years?"
For a long time, Remus doesn't answer. Then, turning his chin upwards to meet Sirius' eyes, he murmurs, "The same things you've done, I surmise. Sit. Wonder. Try to forget."
"That's. That's really rather pathetic." Not to mention inescapably accurate.
He sighs. "You can say that again." Remus touches Sirius' face delicately, probing, curious. Shifting his weight, he moves so that they can see each other, really see each other, not dart around the physics of their figures, and not hide from the mounting familiarity of such intimacy.
This time, when Sirius kisses him, it means something more. This time, when Remus rolls atop him, Sirius' face held tightly between his cold palms, something other than discomfort burns in the pit of his stomach. Something other than lust, even- Something intricate and demanding, something vibrant and fully bloomed, something rich and warm and malleable.
Other than lust, Sirius thinks to himself as Remus sidles forward, hands pressed to the backs of Sirius' thighs, pulling them both into a downwards spiral of touches, tastes, sensations. There's a novel idea.
xviii.
While Remus is at work, fucking a girl taller than him, scarcely twenty-one, with short brown hair and freckles, Remus' mind wanders. He imagines Sirius at home, by himself, staring at walls, sitting awkwardly on snowy futons, pressing his face into Remus' cashmere sweaters, breathing in the smell of him.
But that couldn't be. After all, Remus made a point of washing the scent of himself, of anything, out of his clothing. He's thrown out the things that feel too personal; deleted the parasitic. Gotten rid of the articles which evoke memory, emotion: any suggestion of who he once was. Every last one, tossed without a second glance; destroyed for his own good.
Well. Not every last one.
xix.
The letter Sirius finds on a Sunday is yellowing in the top left-hand drawer of Remus' desk. He isn't snooping, only looking for a quill, but much to his surprise, he encounters his own handwriting staring back at him. October 29th, 1986 reads the parchment, and a lump rises in his throat.
Moony-
I don't think it's safe for me to be here anymore. I've left town. Do the same, if you can. Check up on Lily and James. I haven't let you know my whereabouts on purpose, and I've done the same with the Order. There may be a spy in our ranks. I am not sure of anything anymore. I will come back to you when I am sure everything is resolved. I'm sorry.
Please don't try to find me.
I love you.
-Padfoot.
xx.
When they make love, there's a certain note of urgency in Remus' actions. Sirius would have expected the opposite, would have imagined Remus to treat it as routine and effortless motion. But Remus holds on too tightly, tangles his fingers too deeply in Sirius' hair.
"Come on," Remus demands, forcing their hips together. The savage rhythm quickens, and Remus' jaw is set in a way that is almost angry, almost as though he's on the prowl, ready for attack. In the morning, Sirius finds fingerprints on his forearms, lower back, shoulders. He doesn't mind; it's nice to have something of Remus' to keep.
They're both breathless, sweating, but Remus goes to greater pains to disguise it. It requires a great effort, but Remus tries to be as quiet as possible; when he climaxes, his face is pressed into the muscle of Sirius' back, jaw clenched, nothing more than the slightest sliver of a gasp and a wisp of a name escaping from his lips.
Remus never stays in bed long afterwards; he's too jittery. Some nights he'll just fidget, for hours on end, turning over a thousand times in a thousand different positions before finally drifting off to sleep, leaving an infuriated Sirius in his wake.
On this night, this Wednesday night, he climbs out of bed and makes a beeline for his closet. When Remus returns, he is fully dressed, complete with coat and boots, wand in hand. It's obvious he's going out. Sirius just lies aimlessly in bed: naked, too tired to feel exposed or jilted.
"I'll be back later," Remus mumbles, distracted.
Sirius lets him go.
xxi.
On a Tuesday, something breaks. Sirius wakes in the middle of the night without Remus by his side. When found, Remus is crouched by the kitchen sink, a kettle of Chamomile forgotten on the stove. Sirius tries not to make noise as he steps through the threshold. He can see he's intruding on something private. But Remus just stays there, low to the floor, one hand balancing himself, one hand tight over his mouth.
"Are you all right?'
Remus jumps. He wipes his eyes and tries to speak, but the only sound that comes out of his mouth is a high, keening gasp. He won't make eye contact. Sirius feels his cheeks flush. They've wandered out past the boundaries and into some dark, furious ocean, bent on suffocating them both. The air in the kitchen is suddenly too hot; the space between them is suddenly even more scalding, but Sirius draws the courage from somewhere to cross the distance between them and wrap his arms around Remus' tense frame.
"Remus." Sirius presses his nose against the lobe of Remus' ear, which is bright red with embarrassment. "What's going on?"
"No," Remus mumbles, suddenly so verbally stinted that he can't form a proper sentence. Sirius works a hand through Remus' hair, fingers brushing against the scalp. He can feel that Remus is shaking and holds him tighter, trying to keep the tremors under control.
"What's going on?" he breathes again, lips moving on the hollow of Remus' neck.
They're both acutely aware of the tower inside of Remus crumbling to the ground with every tiny, aching sensation against skin. Remus' fingers are twitching and retreating; he's forgotten their practical uses. His knees are weak, bent, turned inward and resting against each other. And Sirius' arms refuse to let go, refuse to surrender.
"You're not all right, Remus," Sirius tries. "You've got me scared."
His knees give way, and they both end up on the floor; a tangled knot of trembling limbs and flexing fingers and the implicit terror neither of them can put into words.
"I lied to you," Remus chokes. "I remember everything about us. I remember everything."
On the stove, the kettle lets out a high, screaming, whistle.
xxii.
Rarely are they lazy and quiet, so Sirius values these moments more than anything else. They lie in bed, with nothing to say, neither having enough energy, enough words to bridge the gap between them. It should strike Sirius as tragic, but he finds it peaceful, not having to try, for once. To let their bodies speak where words fail.
Absentmindedly, Remus draws a fingertip along Sirius' forearms, figure-eighting on the skin, eyes half-shut, hair falling in his face. Steady breath tickles Sirius' throat, and occasionally, Remus yawns. He likes seeing Remus like this, languid and free, comfortable and soft. It reminds him of many things, namely ancient summers, namely lying in the grass, namely the bliss of youthful naiveté.
Many, many things. The most nagging being that things can't go on like this forever.
"I want you to leave your job."
The words are out of Sirius' mouth before he can stop them. Remus freezes, then says in a voice that is nearly inaudible, "Go on."
"These past few weeks have been a bit of a daze, yet you can't tell me that you don't- Well. You know. And- And I reckon there's something in there that means something, but I dunno what. It's. It's worth exploring."
"Sirius." Remus sits up in bed, weary. Sighing like he does when he has a headache, he pinches the bridge of his nose. "What are you saying?"
It's worth a shot, just tell him. "I'm jealous. I care about you too much. It's torture to think about where you go every night, what you do. I want to be the only one- The only one who-" he swallows. "I know it's a lot to ask. But couldn't you just consider it?"
It kills Remus, but he knows what he has to say. "I can't."
Sirius blinks. "Oh." If he's surprised, he doesn't show it.
"It's the way things are now." Remus nods vaguely to himself, as though this is a reasonable explanation.
"Don't be such a bloody prick. There's more to life than all of. Of. Of. All of this." He gestures weakly around the room. "You never cared about money before."
"And I don't care about money now."
"And you don't care about me either, evidently."
"That's- that's not it. It's not as easy as just getting up and leaving."
"Really."
"No. It isn't." Remus rolls his shoulders back, suddenly quite tense. "And furthermore, if you're expecting me to live with you, to care for you, to support you, then you ought to be realistic for a moment here, and recognize that neither of us are particularly viable employees for virtually any employer. People don't want people like us, Sirius. Or do I have to remind you that you're an escaped convict and that I'm legally a beast?"
"I-"
"I wish I could just pick up and leave, and be romantic, or whatever it is that you're looking for- a fling, or an infatuation- I wish I could do something worthwhile for you, but it's not that easy, Sirius, and you'd think so, too, if you thought at all for five-"
"Remus, I-"
"I keep saying that. I keep saying it's not easy, but bloody hell, you won't listen! You act as though I'm a horrible person for not acting like I'm eighteen bloody years old." Remus has closed his eyes without remembering doing so. He draws a long breath. "And one more thing. There's nothing stopping you from leaving me-"
"Remus. I love you."
Remus freezes. His eyes stay shut. "Oh," he hears himself say stupidly.
It should be easy. It should be simple and reflexive for Remus to reply, just as it was when they were young and naive, but Sirius' affectionate confession immobilizes Remus. Opening his eyes, opening his mouth, he finds that he has no words for Sirius, has no words for anything anymore.
Remus knows his heart isn't capable of thinking on those terms anymore. The word love isn't in his vocabulary, as much as kill isn't in the vocabulary of a tiger.
It should be a given, as natural as smiling or saying good morning. He should be a good lover, a tender lover. An attentive and giving lover. The sordid recognition he isn't these things jumbles up in his throat, making it even more difficult to force out the words.
"I'm sorry," he hears himself saying, distantly.
Sirius rolls over, without another word, and eventually falls asleep facing away from Remus, the expanse of his back like a brick wall, a barrier far too insurmountable and rough to touch; a wall to high to scale.
When he wakes with the dawning sun, Sirius is gone.
xxiii.
Remus lights up a cigarette and stares at the ceiling until the complete realization assaults him and the pain sets in: a harsh, white burn, searing through his esophagus.
Sirius shows up on a Thursday later at Remus' establishment. Wearing the same red sweater, no less. He looks furious, anxious, prepared for a challenge. Sirius looks more like himself than ever since his reappearance, which unnerves Remus. The set jaw is exhilaratingly familiar, but the fire in his eyes makes him squirm. This is the Sirius he once knew, this is the Sirius that stops at nothing, this is the Sirius who steps over boundaries and surpasses limits without a blink of the eye.
Remus knows, even before it begins, that he's going to lose this round.
"I owe you something, don't I?"
Remus swallows nervously.
"How many times did we fuck? Thirteen? Fourteen? I don't know what the going rate is, you know." He sneers, savage. "Maybe you can help me out. Send me a bill or something."
"I, er-"
"Isn't that standard procedure?"
"Well- yes. It's true that most patrons pay right on the spot-"
"Is it also true that you regularly bring patrons home with you?"
"No- no, I don't."
"Interesting." Sirius' eyes flash. "It strikes me as strange that you would make exceptions for one person."
"It was an exception." Remus is desperate. "I invited you to my flat. I wanted you there."
"It strikes me as strange. Unless there were- uh, extenuating circumstances. If you know what I mean. If there was some reason behind the invitation. An emotional attachment. A particularly strong emotion. You know."
"Sirius-"
"And it strikes me as even more strange that you would allow a patron to live with you for two weeks. Without financial compensation. That seems a bit outrageous, doesn't it?"
"You disgust me," Remus says, but there's a doubtful, needy note to his voice.
"I'm aware." He's more vicious than he had originally intended, and Remus' stony features are just making it worse. The fact that Remus will react to nothing, will be swayed by nothing is infuriating. "Do I mean nothing to you?"
"You can't possibly be asking that."
"I bloody well am." They're close now, faces mere inches away.
"Sirius. You already know the answer." Remus' ears are turning red.
"Do I?"
"I believe so."
In an instant, Remus lunges forward, but Sirius catches the movement and is faster. He pounces, and they end up tangled on the dark carpet, their fingers laced together where Sirius is forcing Remus to the ground.
Remus tries to catch his breath but doesn't struggle. "This is interesting," he murmurs, and the dry humor is far more reminiscent of who he used to be than any other phrase he's spoken since their reunion.
"Quite," Sirius' lips scarcely move. He lets go of Remus' hands to lowers himself slowly, but Remus throws his arms around Sirius' neck and yanks him down, forcing their lips together. Sirius shrugs out of his own shirt and sloppily yanks off Remus' as well. Running his hands down Remus' sides, he notices that already, Remus' pants are tight. Sirius palms his erection through the fabric.
"Don't be a tease," Remus snaps, moving to fiddle with Sirius' belt. But without warning, Sirius whips out his wand, and, with a flick, Remus' arms are above his head once more, bound by invisible cuffs. "Sirius! Bloody hell, untie me."
"Moony," Sirius says matter-of-factly, "I'm going to have to ask you to kindly shut up." But before Remus can protest, Sirius pushes their mouths together, nipping at Remus' lips. His teeth graze along Remus' jaw, then his tongue, making Remus shiver slightly.
Sirius' thumb drifts over the head of Remus' cock, agonizingly slow. Remus makes a low noise in the back of his throat and bucks his hips upward. Pushing them back down to the floor, Sirius lowers his lips onto Remus' erection, making sure to keep eye contact with Remus every second that he drags his tongue along the length. But Remus' eyes flutter shut, and he bites his own lips to keep his moans inaudible. The noises Remus is making are nothing short of growls, rough and tight. Constrained. Closing his mouth around Remus' cock, Sirius can feel Remus breathing in short bursts through his nose.
Lifting Remus' hips, one of Sirius' fingers trails towards Remus' entrance. Remus starts, but does not complain as it slides inside of him. Slowly, Sirius moves, positioning Remus' legs against himself. Muttering a lubrication spell, Sirius can see that Remus is coming undone, fraying at the seams, every muscle in his body tightening, eager for relief. Sirius pushes into him, slowly at first, then gaining speed. Remus' lips are trembling, his eyes still squeezed shut, features twitching with the furious effort of maintain composure.
Sirius can't take it anymore. He can't stand Remus' mask, his silence, his repression. "Tell me that you want this," Sirius hisses, breath ragged.
"I- I-" Remus struggles with the words, struggles with keeping himself from going over the edge.
"Tell me."
"Ah-"
"Say it."
And in the moment before Remus' consciousness explodes into blinding, white light, he chokes out from bruised lips an unbridled, long overdue confession. "I love you."
As he lies there in the aftermath, Remus becomes intensely aware of the silence surrounding him, of the lack of skin upon his own. He realizes his wrists are no longer tied. His eyes fly open. "Wait-" Struggling to stand, he reaches out to stop Sirius, make him stay, make him come home-
But Sirius has already Apparated, leaving emptiness in his wake.
xxiv.
A few evenings later, there is a knock at the door of Remus' flat.
Remus opens it. Sirius is standing there, wearing the red cable-knit sweater, and holding a half-wilted bouquet of flowers, the only ones he could find or afford. He runs a hand through his unwashed hair nervously. Briefly, Remus considers closing the door, but the fleeting fear disappears when he sees that Sirius has broken into a smile, a genuine smile.
"Yes?" Remus asks softly.
Sirius doesn't speak. Instead, he steps over the threshold, tugs Remus close to him, and presses their lips together. One hand slides underneath the hem Remus' shirt. For an instant, he pulls back and rests his foreheads together.
"Good evening, Mr. Lupin. Interested in doing some charity work?"
This time, they both manage to laugh.
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