Pairing: Wolfstar (Sirius/Remus)
Disclaimer: These lovely boys are the invention of J.K. Rowling, so... Just in case you weren't aware, they're not mine.
A/N: Written for the 2012 Winter Wolfstar Wank. For the prompt "Sirius and James."
Sirius and the Potters were all seated around the table on a lazy morning. The windows were open, letting in the faint hum of the world thrumming with life and the muggy air that kept them all feeling rather lethargic. Mr. and Mrs. Potter always had toast and jam on the table at exactly eight o'clock each morning, and while James and Sirius were never awake until later, a hot breakfast was always ready upon their arrival to the breakfast room.
"You've got another letter from Remus," Mr. Potter announced. Sirius dropped his knife and splattered marmalade all over his shirt in his quickness to hold out his hand for said letter.
The Potters' owl hooted from the window sill, before taking off again with a ruffle of feathers. Mr. Potter passed the letter into Sirius's hands, where it was tucked neatly alongside his plate. The previous calm of the morning was suddenly a burden, as Sirius wanted nothing more than to run off somewhere quiet and read his letter from Remus, and set about immediately writing a response.
There was never much to report— Remus spent most of his holiday at home, and had little else to recount besides the number of books he was finally crossing off his reading list. It was only his monthly transformations that necessitated conversation, but Sirius looked forward to every letter regardless. Sirius, even, did not have too many newsworthy events. He and James spent most afternoons down by the pond behind the Potters' house. Sirius had learned to skip rocks, and catch frogs, and he savored the feeling of warm summer mud between his toes. He was a city boy finally let free in the country. Some nights, he would race James down the dirt road— broomstick versus motorbike. But all was mostly quiet, and Sirius found he rather enjoyed it.
School was rowdy and exciting, just as Sirius preferred, but this sensation of home was new. It was quaint, and full of a sleepy contentedness. Every morning, someone asked how he slept, or what he wanted to do that day. Every night, someone told him to sleep well. Mr. and Mrs. Potter cooked his favorite meals, and taught him muggle card games, and they were content to listen to the symphony of insects each evening or the stories James and Sirius had to tell.
Each letter he sent to Remus came with some new discovery about the wonders of the Potters— "Did you know Mr. Potter can foxtrot?" or, "Mrs. Potter and I went to the market today, and we bought fresh vegetables, and she taught me to make stew." Sirius was forever fascinated with the feeling of family, and took each sign of tender affection as a milestone discovery.
The most important part of the letters they shared, of course, was that they existed at all. Although on the surface, there were no mad adventures to recount, Sirius wanted to hear every detail about Remus's days, and he wanted Remus to hear every detail of his. He had grown accustomed to his constant presence, and he didn't want the little moments to slip away during the distance.
"James, Sirius, why don't you invite Remus to stay for a little while? It would certainly save Sirius some parchment," Mrs. Potter suggested over the lip of the large mug she used for tea each morning.
Sirius's first thought was that Remus and Mrs. Potter would surely be fast friends, and his second thought was that he might have to tell the Potters about him and Remus should he ever come to stay.
"Yeah, maybe," Sirius said with crumbling enthusiasm.
The Potters had become parents to him. They cared about Sirius. He was not about to do, say, or admit anything that might challenge that attitude. He had seen paternal love fall away in an instant, and would not tolerate the experience again.
James shot him a quizzical look, because Sirius lit up whenever he received a letter from Remus and he never threw away a single one. They were all folded neatly— the neatest Sirius had ever taken care of anything— on the desk in Sirius's new bedroom. James could hardly comprehend why Sirius would be anything less than ecstatic about having Remus come to stay.
"We'll ask him," James decided, giving his mother a swift peck on the cheek as he got to his feet, draining half a glass of juice and wiping his mouth savagely on the back of his hand. "Thanks for breakfast, mum."
Sirius followed suit, and the two headed upstairs. James, however, shepherded Sirius into his bedroom, closing the door behind them and indicating that Sirius should have a seat.
"Why don't you want Moony to visit?" He asked without pretense.
Sirius stared at the letter in his hands, tracing with his eyes the way the letters curved to form his name. He memorized the indent of Remus's quill, and the tidy way he wrote. He was thrilled enough by the envelope.
"I want to see him, but I feel like— I guess it would be a bit off, having him here," Sirius admitted at last. James merely raised an eyebrow and requested better explanation.
"I feel like I'd be inviting someone to your house, but I'm just a guest here as it is, and I don't want your parents to be inconvenienced because of me and—"
James just laughed. "Merlin, you've been spending too much time with Moony. You sound just like him, you bloody sound exactly like him. It's not as though he's some stranger you picked up at a bar and brought here for a shag— he's our friend. About time I had him 'round, really."
Sirius stayed quiet. Those were the surface reasons. He knew the Potters were generous enough and all around lovely enough that they would see Remus's visit as a downright joy. James would be no more a third wheel here than when they were at school— albeit, they would lack the necessary balance Peter added to the group. It would not be so strange to have Remus around, if Sirius didn't feel as though it would be entirely dishonest.
He already felt anxious when Mr. or Mrs. Potter received the owl before Sirius. He awaited the day when one of them asked the inevitable— why he wrote to Remus so often. Sirius was good at hiding this, but the Potters were bound to notice that Sirius and Remus were different from Sirius and James. They were bound to question why Sirius offered to share his room with Remus, or why James made himself scarce so that Sirius and Remus could be alone.
And when the truth came out, how would the Potters feel?
It was one thing to keep some secrets to himself. It was another to bring that secret under the roof they so generously provided, and do all sorts of things with the secret that Sirius firmly believed the Potters would disapprove of. His own parents never knew, but they would have been furious. Adults were fussy about certain things, Sirius had come to believe.
"I don't want your parents to find out," Sirius said, "about me and Remus."
"Why?"
"Because—" Sirius struggled to find the words, digging for just the right confession. "Because what if they don't like it?"
James sat beside Sirius, so that they were shoulder to shoulder. It felt like they had grown up this way— sharing a bedroom, sharing their secrets. "They're not going to turn you away, Padfoot. You're like a second kid to them."
"That doesn't mean anything. I can be anybody's kid, and they could still turn me away."
Sirius was pulled into himself, shoulders hunched and hands clutching Remus's letter as though tethered to it. There were not words for how Sirius appreciated all the Potters had done for him. It was remarkable, truly and wholly, that they considered him a son. But that was no argument for acceptance, because Sirius had never known that to be a condition of parenting.
"Whatever you want to do," James said after a moment. "But if you want to see Remus, then see Remus. I won't have you suffering the distance all summer long, just because you feel like you have to lie."
"I'll ask him when I reply," Sirius consented. He still sounded less than thrilled. But he wanted to be truthful where it mattered, despite how hard that mantra was to live by.
"Again, it's up to you, but— If you want to tell them, I think they'd be glad to know. I think it would make you happy," James concluded.
Five days later, the plans were set for Remus to come visit. He would have to wait a few days before he could depart— the full moon was nearing, and while James and Sirius insisted they be allowed to keep him company, Remus was adamant that he would not turn up at the Potters and become a monster on their property.
James said no more on the subject of Sirius's to-tell-or-not-to-tell dilemma, but Sirius thought it over constantly. It was evident that James had not forgotten, either, because he seemed bent on orchestrating conversations to suit Sirius's need. He prompted his parents into complimenting Sirius, as though to give him constant reminder that he belonged there.
The night before Remus was due to arrive, Sirius pulled James aside just before dinner.
"I want to do it," he said.
James grinned so broadly that Sirius doubted whether he hadn't accidentally said 'Lily wrote to say that she wants to have loads and loads of babies with you.'
"Excellent." James beamed, clapping Sirius on the back before they entered the dining room and took their respective seats.
Sirius was unusually quiet as he cut his pork chop. Instead, James yammered on about this and that, buying time and covering Sirius's silence. He painted with his mashed potatoes, the words say it, say it, say it repeating over and over in his head. There were no right words to say, just a simple truth, blurted into the world. It was just the same as saying 'Did you know it's supposed to rain tomorrow?' and 'These vegetables are very good.' It was just the same, say it.
He and James made eye contact across the table. Sirius nodded.
"Oh, Mum, Dad— Sirius has news," James said, wrapping up the story he was telling.
Sirius mouthed a sarcastic "News?" across the table and James responded with a just-give-it-your-best-shot shrug, as Mr. and Mrs. Potter turned to Sirius with expectant smiles.
"Right, er, news— Well, I just sort of, I wanted to—"
Say it. Say it.
He struggled with the words in his head, twisting them, trying to see if there was a pleasing way to turn them. But he found none, trapped as he was beneath the stares of the Potters. He gave up on eloquence altogether, throwing the words out into the universe and letting the universe make of him what it would.
"Oh, piss it," Sirius said. "I'm gay."
Mrs. Potter was the first to speak, with a gentle, knowing voice, as though she found the situation rather endearing. "Does this have anything to do with Remus arriving tomorrow?"
"It might," Sirius confessed sheepishly, staring into his mashed potatoes, and hoping that no immediate dismissal from the Potter home was a good sign.
"Well, that's good to know," Mr. Potter said, catching Sirius's eye and nodding firmly. "Thank you, Sirius."
Mrs. Potter, who was seated beside Sirius, placed a soft hand on his shoulder, and told him to relax. She didn't like to see anyone looking so panicked at the dinner table. Leaning in to his ear, she whispered, "I can't say I'm surprised."
When he looked around with confusion, she sat back in her chair, placing a finger against the tip of her nose.
"A mother always knows, Sirius."
Dinner proceeded as it did every night, though it was the most buoyant meal Sirius had ever experienced. The faces around him smiled and laughed, and looked at him with love, and James talked about this-one-time-in-fourth-year and how brilliantly Sirius transfigured their Potions professor's robes into a tartan nightgown— accidentally, he later claimed. There was no explosion and no repercussion from Sirius's admission, just people who cared about him.
When they were finished, Mrs. Potter asked who wanted dessert, and all three men around the table dutifully raised their hands. Sirius noticed that he received an extra large slice of pie that evening. He would never know whether or not that was intentional.