They don't touch, anymore. There's the perfunctory goodbye kiss, of course, before either of them heads out on a mission, but other than that they weave effortlessly in and out of each other's space, never acknowledging the gap building between them.
Sirius thinks it's all inevitable – everyone's relationships are being tested and they were stupid to think they could carry on this way in the middle of a war, anyway.
At night, in the deepest, darkest recesses of his heart, he wonders if the werewolves have more to offer Remus than he does. He tries, but even he knows that being an animagus and turning in to a dog one night out of every month doesn't even come close to comparing. Remus doesn't want to hurt anyone, Sirius is sure – but he's always wanted to belong.
Remus wonders if Sirius will ever really be rid of the ghost of his family. When they'd heard what Bellatrix had done to the Longbottoms, Remus had been sick. Alice and Frank don't even know they have a son, not now.
Sirius had – not shrugged it off, not exactly, but he didn't seem to react. There was no anger, no hate, no – though Remus would have told him it was entirely misplaced – shame.
Sometimes he watches Sirius across the rickety table in their dingy flat and wonders if he misses them and the life he had before he left. An act of teenage rebellion is easy to regret later. They both know that.
So Sirius waits for any sign of Remus wanting to leave and when he asks for the salt, Remus passes it without letting their fingers touch.
They're done; just, neither of them wants to admit it.
Just a short one :). Written for the ficathon over at bloodstream7's LJ; prompt was: Remus/Sirius, first wizarding war, we're slow dancing in a burning room.