He knew how long it had been since they'd ended.
There was the thrill, of course, in knowing Sirius was back; but it wasn't the rebellious, womanising teen, or the self-aware, fully realised man; it wasn't even the angry, hunted man he'd known more recently.
Instead, it seemed as if Sirius' body had been inhabited by a wavering figure; someone who laughed for too long, for no reason, and ate as if the food was running out. He was animalistic, unused to anything but simplicity, and in truth he frightened Remus. Just a little.
They were in that tentative stage where neither knew quite what was happening - Remus remembered it all too well, but this time even lacked the charm of the first. It hurt, not being able to touch him, and also being afraid to.
He was content to sit back and watch, most of the time. He enjoyed the playful inevitability of Sirius getting on Molly's nerves, and even left Tonks in favor of taking 'Padfoot' for a walk.
He knew it was only the beginning, too. That soon he'd start aching harder for the feel of Sirius' skin on his; start deviating from doggy walks and using them as an excuse to snog the other man senseless in some rainy and unfamiliar place. Soon, Sirius would come to him for advice, or to rant, and they'd end up doing something entirely different - neither quite sure where it began, both unwilling to stop...For such was Sirius, in any shape or form, and despite himself Remus couldn't quite bring himself to behave as if anything had changed at all. Tonks was fading, pink to brown, but Remus had never felt brighter.
Or guiltier.
He was already finding it hard to meet Harry's eyes when they talked. The boy looked so much like James that it was unnatural, and Remus knew all too well that his old friend would have told him it was stupid - too late, too spent. This figurative James was right, of course. Just like the real one had always been.
But Sirius was Sirius was Sirius, the star to his moon, not long for this world; he was passion and danger and pain and sadness, all curled together in a ball of canine flesh.
Every month, Moony welcomed Padfoot like nothing had happened. The bonds of animal brethren were stronger than those of human lovers; if that was even the right word.
He would persist. Hold tighter. Press them together in the spare moments.
But, all along, in the end, he would suppose that he'd always known these things aren't meant to be.