One day, Remus simply can't take it anymore. He goes home and takes the boxes from behind the bookstore and begins placing things in them. The books go in first, alphabetical by author, well-worn spines neatly pushed against the left side. He pulls his tiny frayed suitcase from under the bed and begins moving jumpers into it, followed by pants, followed by underwear and socks. He has to use a bit of magic to fit his robes in, but he thinks the wards will keep it secret.
Everything is going smoothly, methodically, as he moves from bedroom to living room to hallway closet. Until the kitchen. Because in the kitchen he is confronted by things that are his but aren't. Just a few months ago, he and Sirius had walked down Diagon Alley and bought a full set of dishes because he had complained proper grownups didn't eat out of takeaway containers with mismatched silver. His vision blurs as he places half the glasses in a box and the other half in the cabinet. His hands don't begin to shake until the silver, half of which is rightfully Sirius', but which Remus knows he will never use. After a moment of staring out the lone window at the brick building next door, he places two of each piece in the drawer below the cabinet anyway.
He works quickly, fighting back the wetness behind his eyes, through the bowls and teacups and saucers. Finally, there is just one offending yellow dinner plate sitting on the table unaccounted for.
Just one dinner plate. He remembers the fate of its companion but doesn't know where to leave it.
The two of them had just finished dinner. Sirius had attempted lasagna because it was his day off from auror and Order work, a rarity. The noodles had been edible, the zucchini raw, and the tomatoes overcooked, but it was the thought that counted. Sirius had never needed to learn to cook before, and it was a slow, painful process.
"You wouldn't believe what he said, Moony," laughed Sirius, as he recounted another adventure with James. Sirius loved to tell about their adventures, even though James had gone into hiding two months before.
Remus smiled encouragingly even though he knew what James said. He also knew that Sirius and Peter were seeing James without him. He hadn't seen either of the other Marauders since the wedding. He almost never got nights like this with Sirius, between the transformations and their missions. He made it a point to never take missions that made him sleep away from home except around the full moon. Sirius seemed to take them every night, leaving for days and even weeks at the drop of a hat. He was so focused on wondering when they will see each other that he didn't notice Sirius handing him the second plate to dry.
It slipped through his towel-clad hand and crashed to the floor. Remus couldn't take his eyes off it until Sirius cleared his throat. "Thought you had it," he said with a bashful shrug. He does not apologize. Neither does Remus.
The remaining plate stares at him. You belong here, it says.
Remus glares at it as though a stern glare can still fix everything like it did when they were in school. He's been glaring at the empty furniture in their empty apartment for months while Sirius goes off and prepares to leave him. While Sirius doesn't need him.
Perhaps, Remus thinks bitterly, he will need two plates. For when he has James over after another magnificent adventure now that the werewolf isn't there to spoil their fun. He pulls out a scrap of parchment and scribbles "Yours –R." on it. He places it on the plate on the table and begins lugging his suitcase towards the door. Just before he walks away, he turns back into the kitchen and grabs the quill again. He crosses out the "R" and replaces it with an "M". Better safe than sorry.
Twenty-four hours later, James and Lily are dead, Sirius is a wanted man, Peter is nothing but a finger, and Remus is on the run, alone, with half a set of dishes.
Thirteen years later, he and Sirius are sitting alone in a cave, waiting for word from Dumbledore. He wants to apologize, so badly he can't breathe or think or loosen the tightness in his chest. Sirius reaches over and runs his fingers across the other man's cheek. "Can I show you something?" he asks.
"Sure," says Remus to the floor, still trying to untangle the now-forgiven hate for killing his best mates from the still burning hurt from all those years ago in the kitchen.
Sirius reaches into his coat pocket, still the one he wore when he was captured all those years ago, and pulls out a tiny tube of parchment. He presses it into the werewolf's hand.
Remus unrolls the parchment, yellowed with age and scarred with creases. It says "Yours".
"I had to tear off the last bit in case they ever searched me," Sirius explains as he covers Remus' slender fingers with his bony ones. "But I kept it with me and read it every day. I was so glad you took that mission. I was so afraid they would take you too."
"The… mission…" Remus repeats slowly.
The older man buries his face in Remus' neck. "I'm so sorry," he whispers, tears running freely, "I'm so sorry we lost all that time."
"We… time…" Remus reads the paper again. Yours. His eyes widen. "I'm… I'm sorry too."
Sirius looks up, resolute. "You have nothing to be sorry for."
"I… do." The story is on the tip of his tongue, waiting to spill out and ruin the moment with boxes and suitcases and lone dinner plates.
"Not to me," says the dark haired man. "I'm still yours, like I was that day."
Remus sighs and nuzzles Sirius' hair. The tightness eases, and he breathes again.