Spring back 1-5

Chapter 1

Remus had thought hitting Sirius would be relatively easy.

Sirius had requested it. An early Christmas present, he had called it with a wry smile, eyes rueful and shoulders shrugged, like he thought he really was asking Remus for something that would only be acceptable on special occasions. Like the Christmas pudding Remus was begrudgingly feeding with brandy once a day, though the texture unsettled him and the very thought of suet made his stomach churn: a favor, because Sirius was shut up at Grimmauld Place and slowly going out of his mind. But Remus didn't think this request was like that at all. He had never been particularly rough with Sirius in bed before—they scratched each other sometimes, in the heat of the moment, bright sharp stings as their nails dug into each other's skin while they panted and groaned—but he wasn't averse to it. He wanted to make sure he did it right; Sirius wanted a cane, so Remus would need to ensure he didn't strike too hard and that he had Bruise-Away Balm on hand for afterwards, but that was manageable.

"You're not embarrassed about wanting it, are you?" he asked Sirius curiously.

Sirius shook his head. His hair, growing longer by the week, fell in shaggy clumps around his face, nearly brushing his shoulders. Remus reached out and pushed it idly behind Sirius' ear, fingers lingering. Sirius's skin was cold, as usual.

"Then why do you look as though I'm going to disapprove?"

Sirius blinked. "Oh," he said. His voice was a bit raspy; it had never quite regained the rich smoothness it had had in his youth. The change gave Remus a pang sometimes, though it did mean Sirius was less apt to sound like an entitled public-school prick. "Not disapprove. Just…not want to."

"You thought I wouldn't want to?"

Sirius shrugged. "Do you?"

Remus considered. He thought about standing over Sirius with a whipcord-thin cane, like some bully prefect at one of those public schools. He frowned. "I don't…not want to. I'm not sure…" He paused, considering. "I'm not sure I have many feelings about it one way or the other. I'm sorry if that's not what you wanted—"

"No," said Sirius quickly. "No, that's all right."

"You don't mind if it doesn't…you know?"

Sirius shrugged again. "I'd've liked if you liked it, obviously. But it's not really your thing, is it?"

"I didn't know it was yours."

Sirius sighed. They were seated in one of Grimmauld Place's less dreadful sitting rooms, a dim parlor with a tapestry depicting a unicorn hunt on one wall and an imposing set of built-in bookshelves on the other. It was ugly and claustrophobic, but better than the room with the actual unicorn horns mounted above the mantel, or the one in which Sirius had once had to endure endless visits with his mean-spirited grandmother who flicked him with her long fingernails when he spoke out of turn. Remus watched as Sirius gazed past him out the room's one window, where flecks of cold rain spat onto the glass as the grey day faded into greyer night.

"It's not really. Or it hasn't been. I mean…" he smiled crookedly, looking briefly at Remus before his gaze once more settled on the dull exterior view, "you'd know if it had, wouldn't you? No, I just…I've been feeling so…" A sigh. "Oh, you know. The usual." His voice took on a bitter note. "Cooped up. Stale. Unhappy." He dug the heel of his hand into a stiff brocade pillow. "Like a sulking child. I thought it might make me feel better to be treated like one."

Remus automatically tucked away the whirl of emotions that arose briefly at Sirius words. No use feeling them right now. "Huh," he said. "Do you think it'll…well…"

Sirius hadn't much wanted sex recently. He hadn't much wanted to be touched, other than occasional casual contact that almost might have passed for intimacy between friends.

"Get me off?" Sirius laughed, a little more bitterness creeping in. "I don't know. Probably not. It'll just feel…" He hesitated. "Like something, I guess."

It'll just feel like something. Remus swallowed down the words—he could taste Sirius' bitterness. He tried not to season it further with any of his own.

"Right," he said. "Well, as long as you're not punishing yourself, I suppose—"

"Of course I'm punishing myself." Sirius raised his eyebrows at him. "Do you think I'm not doing that already, daily, every time I can't be of use because I can't leave the house? Do you think I'm not doing that every time I snap at you because I'm restless and impatient and can't shove down my feelings just because I know they're not helpful?" He wasn't raising his voice. He barely sounded upset. It was as if this were basic information, matter-of-fact, obvious. "If you're giving me ten of the best while I'm facedown on the bed, maybe I can convince my brain I'm being punished enough for the moment and it can take a rest."

Remus stared at him, then looked down at his hands, which were folded in his lap, so that whatever was happening on his face didn't make Sirius uncomfortable. He was considering, weighing out Sirius' words. It was not ideal, clearly. This was not precisely healthy. It would be better, of course, for Sirius to deal with his situation more directly; but then again, he was trapped in Grimmauld Place, and there was nothing to be done about it, and though Remus didn't share the restless itch that had always lingered under Sirius' skin he could imagine it, and he knew that nothing would really fix Sirius' problems as long as he was stuck in this house and war was brewing outside. Remus would not hurt Sirius—not injure him, that is. If Sirius wanted pain, if he wanted a break from his mind and body, Remus could manage that, and do it safely. Maybe, he thought with a sudden jump of hope, it would even get Sirius aroused again—but he set that idea aside, gently. It seemed that it wasn't really the point.

"All right," said Remus. "I can hit you. I don't mind. Really."

Sirius looked a bit relieved. "Good. Er, thanks." He rested his head against the wooden detailing on the back of the sofa. He looked, Remus thought, either very tired, or simply not really all there.

"I have a cane," Sirius said to the ceiling. "Several, in fact. Lying somewhere around the house. Great-grand-somethings with bad hips, that sort of thing."

"All right."

"I'll fetch one sometime today, yeah?"

"Sure. Whenever you like."

All in all, Remus had thought that seeing Sirius's bare arse—not just incidentally, in the shower or while changing for bed, but exposed and expectant and ready—would be what got to him most. It had been weeks since they'd had sex and two or three months since Sirius had wanted Remus inside him. Remus understood: it wasn't that Sirius didn't love him, wasn't attracted to him, didn't like him like that anymore; they'd had rather spectacular sex in the year after Azkaban whenever they'd got a chance to be together, so Remus knew it wasn't that Sirius' feelings had changed when they'd been apart. It was the house. It was the heavy wood paneling and the portrait of Sirius' mother and the locked front door. Sirius had retreated somewhere inside himself, or maybe…maybe he'd turned some things off, for protection, for survival. He'd always been so vulnerable when they had sex—not shy or scared, just raw, open, like Remus' fingers sank right through his skin and touched his nerves, his muscles, his bones. Remus understood why Sirius would want—or, no, would need—to shield himself in armor right now. He must have felt as though one break, one sliver of a crack, would cause him to shake entirely apart.

Remus almost wished his body would do the same. Shut everything off. Instead, his feelings came and he tucked them away in little boxes, waiting for when it was safe enough to open them, looking at them just closely enough to take inventory. He could list off all the things he felt: useless to help Sirius, restless like Sirius, guilty for feeling restless when unlike Sirius he could actually leave the house; terrified of what he would certainly be asked to do for the Order in the near future; and full of grief. A whole swamp of grief, in fact, one that would swallow him whole if he ventured beyond its borders. And, locked up very tightly indeed, he felt resentment toward Sirius for not being able to be there for him right now. He would have spent whole days in bed if Sirius had wanted, whiling away their trapped hours in a haze of sweat and slick bare skin. He would have burrowed into Sirius' lap every night as they read on the sofa and lost himself in Sirius' smell. But it was not Sirius' fault, and Sirius was trying so hard just to keep his head above water, and Remus knew that although being a little bit hurt by Sirius' lack of desire didn't make him a bad person, he also knew it wasn't useful. There was nothing he could do about their situation. He just had to wait it out. And to be steady, and steadfast.

So he tried not to anticipate too eagerly the sight of Sirius' naked arse, though he knew it would fill him with suppressed arousal. He assumed in fact that he would become immediately erect; assumed his fingers and cock would itch to make their way inside that tight, warm hole he knew to be as soft as silk, as soft as a whisper inside some hidden inner chamber of a cavern or cave. Assumed, too, that he would not be penetrating Sirius that day, perhaps not even touching his cock, and he guessed that the likely dampening of his arousal when he hit Sirius would be, on the whole, welcome.

Sirius stretched out before him. They had thought at first that he might lie face-down atop the bed, a big heavy thing with deep purple sheets and an ornately carved headboard. But Sirius had not found this entirely satisfactory, and Remus was a little worried about the angle. So Sirius got to his knees at the foot of the bed, a blanket wedged underneath for padding, and bent his lower body till his forehead rested on his folded arms, his chest and stomach pressed against the mattress.

"This works," he said, voice muffled, and then straightened momentarily, hair mussed, and pulled his trousers and pants down to his knees.

Remus let himself really look, just for a minute. As Sirius resumed his face-down position, Remus took in the curves of his arse. It was pale, paler even than the rest of Sirius' skin, which had taken on a rather wan cast after so long stuck inside. His arsecheeks sagged a bit, as they had not done in his youth; he had gained some weight since taking up residence at Grimmauld place and it was as if his body had not quite known how to distribute it. Remus thought he looked different even from the last time he had seen him like this—his hips were fuller, his thighs a little thicker. He felt a twinge in his chest at having missed the chance to learn all the curves and angles of Sirius' body as they changed.

But his cock was rising; he had been correct about his own response. Though most days he masturbated once, sometimes twice, he had missed seeing and touching Sirius, and he felt an upward pressure on his trousers as he took in the crease of Sirius' arsecheeks, the place where they met concealing what Remus knew to be several corkscrews of rough hair and the puckered skin of Sirius' hole. Remus hoped that he'd at least get to see Sirius' hole today. Maybe when he was applying the Bruise-Away Balm afterwards. If he still felt aroused then, that is, rather than clinical, which he was more or less expecting. He swallowed.

"Okay," Sirius said, letting out a long breath into the mattress. "Okay."

Remus looked at him quickly, returning from his own thoughts. "Are you all right?"

Sirius made a noise—a little annoyed huff—and Remus, frustrated with himself for such an early misstep and, more furtively, frustrated with Sirius for disliking the question, said, "Sorry, I won't ask you that. Erm…do you…" He cast about for some way to ask that wouldn't make Sirius feel bad for not knowing exactly what he was feeling. "Can I…start?"

"Yes."

Sirius knelt there, forehead on his arms, arse bare, still and silent. Remus, after a brief pause, picked up the cane from where it lay next to Sirius on the bed.

It was made of some kind of dark wood. It looked old. It was plain and thin and had sprung back a bit when Remus had flexed it earlier, trying to determine how hard he'd need to hit, and how fast. He had certainly felt clinical then, testing out the rod's flexibility, its strength. He had given a pillow a few whacks and stopped quickly, feeling foolish. He had thought that testing out the cane reminded him of searching for a wand: long, supple, a bit springy. With a bite.

Now, he grasped it carefully, lifting it off the ground.

He looked at Sirius again, unmoving. This was…strange. This was very strange. Surely—surely this was not how it was usually done. Remus had read plenty of pornographic stories and though his tastes didn't incline to the more hardcore material he'd encountered a handful of canings and floggings and spankings and most of the time there was some premise involved, some pretense of naughtiness, of punishment—usually something to do with the receiver being either a wanton slut or a very bad boy—or some exclamation of desire and need. Sirius, silent, almost certainly unaroused, waiting for Remus to hit him felt—it felt—

A wash of terror rose up in Remus' throat, rocking him back on his heels. What the fuck, he thought, registering the sudden gallop of his pulse with bemusement. He swallowed hard. He looked at the cane in his hand. He brought his other hand up to the wood and gripped it gently, running it through his fist, pushing himself to imagine the instrument connecting with Sirius' flesh. Hard, but not too hard. A little looseness in the wrist. A bit of a spring back after every blow.

At this mental image another wave of feeling hit Remus and for the first confused second he thought it was more terror: his stomach plummeted, his breath caught; but it wasn't terror. It was lust.

He gasped, biting off the sound by actually biting his lip, his cock jumping, protesting against its constriction. Oh, Merlin. It was terror, too. He was aroused and he was terrified. The wood of the cane pressed unrelentingly into his clenched fist and he realized with a dizzying rush that he was going to raise the rod up above his head and bring it down on Sirius' pale, unblemished skin.

"I—I want to hit you," Remus said, gritting out the words, voice straining to hide the wild racing of his heart. "I want to, Sirius."

There was a pause. Sirius shifted a bit, still facedown on the bed.

"That's…good?" he said, sounding a little confused, and a little distant. "Remus, I…is there a problem?"

Remus stared at him. Sirius had asked for this. Sirius wanted this, because he thought it would help him feel better. No, Remus' thoughts reminded him, because he thought it would make him feel something. Remus tried to calm the buzz of adrenaline, thinking, Well, either way, this is for Sirius. If you like it, surely that's all the better, but do what he wants. Now.

Now, Remus.

He raised the cane.

"I'm going to—"

"Yeah."

"I—" Remus brought the cane swiftly down. It smacked against Sirius' left buttock with a dull thwap.

"Ah," Sirius gasped out.

Remus froze. The cane raised an inch or so from Sirius' arse, he froze. "Did—are you o—fuck. Should I…" He breathed. "Keep going?"

"Yes. Don't keep asking." Sirius sounded a little irritable. "We said five to begin, and I'll tell you if I want you to stop before that."

Remus looked down at the faint red line on Sirius' arse. It was fading already. Disappointment curled its way up through Remus at the sight; he wanted—he wanted the marks to last.

He raised the cane and hit Sirius again, harder, landing the blow across both arsecheeks this time. Sirius let out another gasp, the sound muffled by the blanket.

Remus—wanted Sirius to gasp…louder.

He hit him again.

"That's three." He heard his own voice with a flare of shock: it was rock-steady and firm. He lifted the cane again, something surging through his arm, some electric energy, something he couldn't name or place, and he brought it down again, feeling it cut through the air, hearing it whistle slightly, and just before it hit its target Remus recognized what he was feeling: it was power. He shuddered in a staggering breath and, dizzy with it, said, "That's four," and lifted the cane again. Sirius was twitching slightly, now, the red lines on his arse quite bright, and the desire to make him really squirm exploded like blood in Remus' mouth—not just the desire, the—the knowledge—that he could—

He hit Sirius again. Five, he thought but did not manage to say, and Sirius yelped and his hips pushed into the bed, trying to get away from the unforgiving rod.

Satisfaction flooded through Remus. It nearly knocked him over, the intensity of it, the vicious bite: I made him yell.

"Five," he said aloud, belatedly, and with a clatter the cane dropped to the floor and Remus stumbled back till he was leaning against the wall, hand on his heart, breathing hard.

"R—Remus?" Sirius was stirring. Gingerly, he pushed himself back from the mattress and looked around, wincing as his pinkened arse brushed against the tops of his crumpled trousers and pants. "What…?"

With a great effort of will, Remus got himself under control. He hurried forward again, stopping Sirius from moving with a hand on his lower back.

"You shouldn't—" He breathed. "Let me take care of these. The balm—"

Sirius was still craning awkwardly over his bent shoulder to look at Remus. "Are we…done, then?"

Remus swallowed. "Oh. Oh. Right. Er. I—do you want—"

"Yeah," said Sirius slowly. "Yeah, I want more. It was…good."

"Really?" The word slipped eagerly out of Remus before he could catch it.

"Yeah. A little…odd, I guess, not…not how I normally feel during…but I—want more."

"Okay."

But Remus didn't move. Sirius started to push himself up further, twisting around again, but Remus stopped him. "Stay down, then."

"But you…" Sirius took him in, as best he could from the awkward angle. "Oh. Oh. You're—you're really turned on, aren't you?"

Heat flared up in Remus' face. "I…yeah. I'm sorry if…"

"Sorry?"

"Well, I know this isn't supposed to be about me—"

"Oh, bugger off," Sirius said, sounding nearly cheerful. "I'm hardly going to complain if it gets you going. As long as you don't mind that I won't, er…necessarily be able to…"

"No," Remus said. "No, of course, that's okay—"

"Then we're fine. Do it again." Sirius shoved his face back into the mattress and shoved his arse back up in the air.

Four red lines. The first had faded completely, but the others were still there.

Remus kneaded his cock through his trousers, just a few hard presses. He picked up the cane. It felt right in his hand. It felt good. It was terrifying how good it felt.

"I'm going to…" He swallowed. That wasn't how he'd meant to sound. He firmed up his voice, let just a trickle of what was coursing through his veins seep in. "I'm going to hit you again, Sirius. Five lashes, quick. You're…" His voice trembled. "You're going to take what I give you."

They both gasped a little at these words. Remus raised the cane. His hand was shaking slightly. All he'd been fucking wanting to be able to do was make Sirius better, make him happier, make him want to be touched, to fucking force him to eat his greens and jog up and down the stairs and do all the things that would help with Sirius's depression if Sirius weren't too depressed to do them, all Remus had been wanting was to let himself out of the little box where he'd been keeping himself safe till the worst of it all passed—and he hadn't felt this good, this strong, this capable, this powerful, in a long, long time.

He brought down his arm. The cane sliced through the air, then landed. Sirius let out a pained little grunt. Remus raised the cane again and swiftly released it. Smack. He did it again, and again, and then again.

Sirius was panting, whimpering audibly. He was squirming, twisting his hips but keeping them up, keeping them raised. Good, Remus thought with a clear sharp satisfaction, good, that's what he should be doing.

"More," Sirius said hoarsely. "More, please, Remus, fuck, please—"

Remus clenched his fist, the one not holding the cane, and counted silently to ten. "No," he said evenly.

"Please, I—"

A flare of anger rose in Remus. "I said no. You've had enough."

"But I want—"

"Quiet."

Abruptly, Sirius shut up.

"You are not in a fit state to decide what's good for you," Remus said. "I will decide what's good for you."

And that…fuck. As much as some wild unleashed thing inside him would have liked nothing more than to keep raising red welts on Sirius' skin, that thing was…calmed, somehow, by Remus' own words. Hitting Sirius was good. Telling Sirius he wouldn't hit him anymore was also…good.

He rested the cane against the wall and collected the Bruise-Away Balm from the bedside table. "I want you fully on the bed, please."

Sirius complied. Remus glimpsed his face through his curtain of messy hair and saw half-glazed eyes and a slight crease of pain between his eyebrows.

"Up," said Remus, and shifted Sirius into his lap so that his bare, reddened arse was in reach. Heart skipping a beat, he touched one of the red marks.

"Does that hurt?" he asked, pressing down gently.

"Yes," Sirius said, a slight catch in his voice.

Remus faltered. "Is it good?"

"Yes."

He pressed down a little harder. Sirius inhaled tightly. Remus stopped. He did it again. Again, Sirius sucked in a quick, audible breath.

Power. Yes, that was the word for it, the thing spiraling up through Remus' chest.

"Do you…have to get rid of them?" Sirius asked. His voice was a bit slow, a bit thick.

Remus looked at the bruise balm in his hand. "You want to keep feeling them?"

"Yes."

He ran his fingers gently over the marks. He wasn't a Healer. He didn't know what would be a problem to leave untreated. He thought that probably the bruises were all fine. None of them, despite the dizzying sensation of the cane slicing through the air as Remus had wielded it, were very deep.

"I'm going to put some balm on this one," Remus said, pressing at a spot where a cluster of broken blood vessels was already purpling beneath the skin. He uncapped the jar and scooped out a little of the translucent cream. He rubbed it into the welt and watched it fade gradually under his fingers.

"That'll take a little while to be fully effective," Remus said. "We might need to put it on again later."

Sirius hummed an acknowledgment. He shifted a little in Remus' lap. "You're hard."

"Yes," said Remus carefully. "Please don't worry about it."

"You wanna do something about it?" His voice still had that lazy, almost soupy quality. "Yourself, I mean."

"I…" Remus swallowed hard. He was buzzing, still, and with more than just arousal.

"I'll watch," offered Sirius.

Remus bit his lip. Sirius moved himself off Remus' lap, lying pressed up against his side, head coming to rest by Remus' hip.

"Go on."

Remus unzipped his trousers and extracted his tender cock from his straining pants. He gave it a few strokes, breathing in slowly as he looked down at Sirius, who was watching him peacefully.

"I really fucking liked it," he blurted out. "Fuck, Sirius, I—I really liked it."

"Yeah?" Sirius smiled a little. "That's good."

"No, I—" Remus shook his head, frustration spilling out, his fists clenched. "It was—really intense. Like, really."

He had to make Sirius understand. Sirius was looking at him with a knowing little smile, as if Remus had just discovered he enjoyed rimming or sex standing up. "I wanted to hit you. I wanted it so badly. I wanted to see you bruise. I wanted to make you—I wanted to make you cry, Sirius, I wanted to make you scream. I wanted to—to—do whatever I wanted with you—with your body. It felt…" He sucked in a breath. "It felt like I was so powerful. Like I could—could do anything I wanted with you. I had the cane in my hand and it—it just hit me, that—that I could. I could move my arm down and hit the cane against your skin and you would feel it. I could actually, actually hurt you. And I—" He was trembling. "I really fucking liked it."

Sirius bent his head forward and kissed Remus's hip. "Good."

"Is it?" Remus whispered.

"Yes."

"But…" Remus looked at Sirius' arse, mostly curved away from him now but still with the edges of the marks in sight. He had wanted, really wanted, to hit Sirius. "But do you…"

Sirius kissed Remus' hip again. "Yeah. I think I do."

"You're not…"

"Hard? No. But I…didn't really expect to be."

Remus nodded. "Okay." He placed his hand on Sirius's head for a moment. "Okay." He looked down at his cock. It was still, despite their recent conversational interlude, quite erect. "I don't have to get off, either."

"You can if you want."

"I…" Remus hesitated. Selfish—it felt selfish. But then again, the whole thing had felt selfish. He had done it for Sirius, according to what Sirius had wanted and what was good for Sirius, but his own desires had seized control nonetheless, making the whole thing in some way for Remus.

But he wanted to get off. He really, really wanted to. And he wanted Sirius to watch him do it.

He took himself in hand. His eyes fluttered shut in relief as he began to stroke himself. But he opened them again soon, wanting to see.

Sirius watched. As Remus' breath picked up, Sirius, still lying down, placed his hand on Remus' thigh and stroked gently, rhythmically. Remus gasped sharply, the sensation mirroring his own hand on his prick, and he—he looked over past—past Sirius' reddened arse, at the cane leaned up against the wall—and an image came of him buggering Sirius with it, as Sirius gasped and cried—

He came, neck arching back as he spurted almost violently over his trousers and shirt. A few flecks landed on Sirius's hand and Remus choked in a breath, chest seizing up. The whole thing was nearly painful; Remus had wanted it so badly.

He opened his mouth to speak but the words got tangled up: Sorry met So good for me and he ended up saying, simply, "Sirius."

Chapter 2

Notes:

me: idk maybe I'll add to this fic when I feel like it
me: *immediately writes two more chapters*

just assume...irregular posting schedule but more is coming

Chapter Text

Good days were delicate things for Remus those days. When he awoke in his bed at Grimmauld Place, Sirius sometimes still there and sometimes not, he found that, every once in awhile, he was happy. Sometimes all it took was the right slant of light through the window, falling onto the faded bedspread and illuminating the particles of dust that swam in the air. Remus tried to tend to this feeling as best he could. He would lie in bed, stretching out his arms and legs and enjoying the warmth of the blankets. He'd swim in half-sleep for as long as possible, carefully keeping the facts about his life and the world at the very edges of his consciousness. He would allow himself to envision his day up to the first cup of hot, strong coffee, and no further.

The day after the caning was like that. Remus woke up alone in bed, Sirius' side mussed, blankets askew, rain tapping against the thick glass of the window, and he felt somehow younger. The memory of what they'd done the day before was hovering somewhere, but Remus kept it at bay and let his eyes flutter shut again, calling up images of rainy mornings past, mornings of eggs and toast and parchment and overheated castle rooms.

These weren't memories of some specific adolescent moment but rather of past sensations: his body felt as it had felt then, warm, cozy, light and heavy both at once.

He lay there as long as he could, drifting, but his stomach growled and when Remus was hungry any good mood dissipated quickly, so he pushed back the covers and got out of bed.

Perhaps Sirius had already made coffee. Perhaps they might sit together and read in the library—or do some more cleaning, although that made Sirius depressed—Remus stopped himself. Coffee. Only coffee. Nothing beyond that needed to exist yet.

He put on soft trousers and a soft sweater and his softest socks and went quietly downstairs, anticipating what was to come. His hands would be too hot wrapped around the ceramic mug, and he would need to stop touching it until it had cooled somewhat, but he would want to touch it, because his fingers would be cold, so he would alternate; he would hold the cup as long as he could stand and then he would stop and then he would do it again. He would not burn his tongue on the coffee. He would be patient. He would let the rich, bitter smell soak into him, watch the steam rising, and he would stretch out the waiting as long as he could. Slow. Calm. The world beyond him and his coffee not yet present.

He smiled as he went into the kitchen, where the rain tapped louder against the windows.

"Fucking miserable weather," Sirius said as Remus walked in. He was sitting at the table, hair messy, wearing the same rumpled T-shirt and boxers he had worn to bed every night that week, and he was staring out the window with his chin propped up on his hand.

Remus' heart sank and then, as Sirius scowled sulkily at the rain that had been lifting Remus' spirits, he felt a twist of resentment stab straight through him. There goes my day, he thought, the web of good feeling blown away in an instant, and his brain said to Sirius, Can't you just…

Then came the guilt, familiar as the resentment, because no, Sirius couldn't. He couldn't just be okay, he couldn't just deal with it, for a million and one reasons and Remus knew them all and it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to be angry with Sirius for having another bad day. It wasn't fair to have secretly hoped that maybe Sirius—always cranky and slow in the mornings—would awaken ready to talk about what they'd done the day before, and whether they were going to do it again.

"Couldn't sleep," Sirius reported, with that single shoulder shrug, the one that said, I didn't expect anything else but I'm not resigning myself to this gracefully. "Got maybe two hours total? Lay in bed thinking about how useless I am." He said this last with a hard smile, as if it were a joke.

"You could have woken me up," Remus said automatically. It was true, of course, and he was sorry Sirius' hadn't because he hated the idea of him lying there awake staring into the void of his own helplessness, but he was also secretly glad. He didn't want to be exhausted today.

Sirius made a noise, like, wouldn't have done any good, and Remus tamped down the sharp little flare of hurt he felt in response. He could still sense the good day at the back of his mind, how it might have been. Coffee and quiet. But there was Sirius at the table, with unwashed hair, miserable, sucking the energy out of the room and Remus—god, Remus was such an arsehole.

"I'll make coffee," he said. "And some oatmeal."

Sirius' nose wrinkled briefly. "Don't know if I can eat."

Remus swallowed down his annoyance. "If you don't, you'll feel worse."

Sirius shrugged again, one shoulder. "Yeah."

Remus told himself: this is not Sirius' fault. He took the coffee beans from the cupboard and poured them into the grinder. He knew that this was the best way to care for Sirius—to do the basic life tasks that he wouldn't or couldn't do for himself—so he tried to feel, with every rotation of the grinder's handle, that he was doing something good, something useful.

He charmed the kettle to bring the water to a boil and got out two cups. He had brought both of them from the shitty flat he'd been staying in after his year of teaching at Hogwarts. One of them had the Gryffindor crest on it, and the other was a relic of his schooldays, a mint green mug with a picture of a chocolate frog on one side and the word HONEYDUKES on the other. He'd gotten it from a jumble shop when he was sixteen. It had been one of the few frivolous objects he'd allowed himself to buy as a teenager, and it had made him feel better on summer mornings when he sipped his tea and missed his friends. He kept it for himself today. It didn't work on Sirius.

He made oatmeal and put less brown sugar in it than he preferred because Sirius liked it a little less sweet, and he dished it out and tried to ignore the resigned sort of gloom creeping through him. He had so wanted a good day.

Sirius glanced at the oatmeal but didn't touch it. He took a couple sips of coffee, then went back to staring out the window at the rain.

Remus ate his breakfast in silence. If Sirius was going to be in a mood today, Remus needed to be well fed. He couldn't stave off his anxiety—it was already churning in his belly—but he didn't need to be snappy and irritable too.

"I know you don't want to," he said to Sirius, "but you know you'll feel better if you eat."

Sirius arched a skeptical eyebrow.

"Well. You'll feel worse if you don't."

"I know," Sirius said, but he made no move to pick up the spoon. Remus bit the inside of his lip and sipped his coffee. If you won't help yourself—he wanted to say, but it wasn't fair, so he didn't. He wanted, in fact, to pick up the spoon and force the oatmeal into Sirius' mouth, but of course he didn't do that either.

"I'm going to do some sorting in the library this morning," he said instead. "If you want to join at any point."

Sirius made a half-hearted noise of acknowledgment. After a moment, Remus left the room.

Sirius spent twelve years imprisoned in Azkaban, Remus told himself, and now he is stuck in his horrible childhood home. He can't help Harry, he can't go on missions for the Order, and this house is full of horrible memories for him. He's depressed and he's angry. Of course he is. How could he be anything else?

It was almost a mantra for Remus at this point, and although he tried to use this explanation to make himself into the patient, calm lover he so wanted to be, the oft-repeated phrases were laced with both resentment and guilt. He loved Sirius, stupidly, desperately, and it hurt him so much to see Sirius this miserable. He loved him, and he could not fix him. He wanted to take care of him, but he didn't know how. He wanted to give Sirius everything he needed, but he also wanted to give him space and autonomy, the things he had lacked for so very long. He was angry at Sirius for not doing the things that would help him, and he hated himself for that.

Remus did some sorting in the library, and Sirius didn't join him. The rain still pattered on the windows, but the joy had gone from the sound. When Sirius was having a particularly bad day, Remus almost felt that he could sense him somewhere in the house, like some sort of magic or magnet that sucked in everyone else's energy.

He went through a large stack of moldering books checking for anti-theft hexes or other assorted nasty charms, taking them one by one from the pile and carefully inspecting each spine and flyleaf. An edgy, unsettled feeling gnawed at him. He couldn't settle into the work. He'd wanted—well, all right. Admit it. What he'd wanted wasn't just a cup of coffee and rain against the windows. He'd wanted Sirius in bed next to him; he'd wanted to turn him on his belly, pull his shorts down, and see what time had made of the thin red welts on his arse.

He snapped the book he was holding shut and stood up. Maybe he would make tea. Maybe he needed to eat something again.

When he got to the kitchen, Sirius was still sitting at the table, staring out the window.

Remus glanced at the clock. An hour and twenty minutes had passed. The bowl of oatmeal was curdled and cold in front of him. Sirius' eyes were sunken, rimmed below with tired smudges. Remus was hardly a model of rest and health but it had not been until seeing Sirius after Azkaban that he had really understood that "dark circles" could be a literal description. Remus could place his thumbs in the bags below Sirius' eyes if he wanted to; he did want to, in fact, he itched to slide his fingers tenderly into place and just—just hold them there. He wanted to smooth his fingertips over Sirius' face, run them along each tired line around his eyes, gently touch the tooth that had gotten crooked while Sirius was in prison and the two stubborn pimples that had recently appeared on Sirius' oily forehead. Remus looked at him and ached, really ached, like the ache of a strained muscle, persistent and raw. It was as though Remus had strained a muscle, really; the place inside him where he loved Sirius and grieved for him was tender with overuse. Sometimes Remus' compassion felt so overworked that it seemed to give up, and it was difficult to make himself feel anything at all. At other times—now, in the kitchen, with the December rain against the glass—he hurt in ways he could neither describe nor escape.

He wanted to go to Sirius and hold him but he did not know if Sirius wanted to be held. He wanted to make Sirius a cup of tea but he did not want to pressure Sirius to drink it. He wanted to tell Sirius all the ways he was still important, still mattered, to him and to Harry and to the Order, but he knew Sirius would not want to hear it.

"Sirius," he said abruptly, "let me see your bruises."

He hadn't meant to say it. Almost immediately he wanted to take the words back. If he wasn't prepared to make Sirius drink a cup of tea, surely he shouldn't be asking him to take down his trousers in the middle of the kitchen—

"All right," Sirius said. He stood. His voice sounded a bit distant, but he blinked at Remus as he moved his hands to the waist of his boxers and turned around.

Remus' breath caught. That had been so easy.

"Bend over the table so I can see," he instructed Sirius, as his heartbeat gave a little jump and sped up. Sirius did. He pulled down his boxers, then placed his elbows on the table, right next to the cold bowl of oatmeal, and leaned over.

Remus stepped forward. His eyes were trained on four thin purple lines of broken blood vessels crossing Sirius's arse. One was nearly faded, and the spot where he'd applied the balm, a place where three of the lines crossed, was nearly healed. But they were still there. Still visible.

He held out a hand, expecting his fingers to be trembling, but they were steady. He ran his fingers along the darkest of the lines.

"Do they hurt?" he asked softly.

"A twinge when I move," said Sirius. "Or sit right on them. I felt them last night when I was trying to sleep."

Remus' heart clenched. "Did they make it harder to fall asleep?"

Sirius paused for a moment, still leaning on his elbows. "No. It helped when I concentrated on them, actually."

That made something fizz hot in Remus' chest. He was still staring at Sirius' arse. He couldn't look away. He pushed one finger into Sirius' skin. Sirius hissed. Warmth bloomed between Remus' legs.

He pulled his hand away. "Good," he said. His voice sounded a little rough. "Good. You can…" He breathed. "You can pull up your pants now."

Sirius did. He straightened and turned around, meeting Remus' gaze. There was a little more color in his cheeks, and his eyes seemed more focused than before.

"What else?" Sirius asked quietly.

Remus looked at him, uncertain. But his heart was still pounding. "I…" He swallowed. "Would you…" He stopped. "Go sit in the library. I'll be there in a minute."

After a second, Sirius nodded. He left the room. Left the room—

Obediently, supplied Remus' brain, and he bit down hard on his lower lip and went to make tea.

He brought it in and handed Sirius one of the steaming cups. Sirius was sitting on the sofa, looking at the piles of books Remus had been sorting.

"What a load of junk," Sirius said. "Should burn the lot."

"Can't burn books," Remus replied automatically. He was still feeling strange. "Book burning is definitely off limits."

Sirius sighed. "Would've made a great bonfire."

He was probably right. Remus cast a glance at him; he was sipping his tea. He turned back to the books, knelt down beside them, and went back to work.

It was peaceful for a good long while. Sirius was quiet behind him, but the atmosphere felt companionable rather than sulky. After awhile the rain stopped and weak sun started to shine feebly into the room. Perhaps it was this evidence of better weather than made Sirius start to get restless. He left to use the loo and then came back again and stared moodily around the room. He picked up a book, paged through it, then discarded it; he did the same with two more. Remus passed him a stack of documents, hoping he would channel his energy into something useful, but after a moment he dropped them with a huff and finally slumped down into an armchair, picking at his fingernails.

Oh, thought Remus grimly, we're doing this mood now.

Sometimes Sirius' house arrest made him listless and sometimes it made him restless. And as much as Remus hated to see him motionless on the sofa for hours at a time, the jittering and muttering and shifting and pacing and picking and fussing and sighing drove Remus mad. He knew, he absolutely knew, that Sirius felt caged—quite literally caged—and so he tried not to snap at Sirius for it. But, god, Sirius was so frustrating. Every time Sirius kicked his foot against the floor or clicked his teeth, Remus' hackles rose. He tried to tune it out, but he could see Sirius fidgeting in the corner of his eye and each noise sent a tiny jolt through Remus' eardrums and into his brain.

Just deal with it, he told himself, the voice in his head sounding as if he were talking to himself through gritted teeth. Just fucking ignore it.

Remus picked up A Compendium of Forgotten Runes and inspected the flyleaf for any signs of anti-theft hexes. Sirius jiggled his foot against the floor. Remus took a deep breath. Nothing in the front of the book. Sirius let out a long sigh. Remus took another breath, even deeper this time. He turned to the back of the book. Sirius got up, walked across the room, and threw himself into another chair.

"You could run in the basement," Remus said abruptly, just managing to stop from snapping the words at him. "On the treadmill."

Arthur Weasley had, very kindly, presented them with the Muggle device a month ago. Remus had had a brief surge of hope that this would solve their problems—exercise, god, Sirius just stretching his legs, it would do him so much good. But Sirius hadn't liked it; the basement was too dark and running in place was too depressing, "like a rat in a cage," and Remus knew what rat meant to both of them and so he didn't say anything, but the fact of the treadmill just sitting there, when Sirius could have been using it instead of climbing up the walls when Remus was trying to work, send frustration pulsing through his body. Why couldn't Sirius just…

"Mm," Sirius replied, unenthused. He made, as Remus had expected, no move towards the basement.

Remus bit back further encouragement and turned back to the book.

Sirius tapped his feet rapidly on the floor.

Remus set aside A Compendium of Forgotten Runes for later, when he could focus, and picked up another book.

tap tap tap tap tap tap tap

Remus' brain screamed, He could at least be doing that elsewhere!

tap tap tap tap tap tap tap

He dug his nails into his palms and stared at the volume in front of him without reading the cover.

tap tap tap tap

He put the book down with vicious gentleness.

tap tap tap tap

"Fuck me, I'm bored," Sirius said petulantly, and Remus snapped his head to look at Sirius and said:

"Then go take a shower and put on some clean clothes!"

Sirius stared at him. Anger coursed through Remus, pounding in his ears. The tapping stopped. Heat flooded Remus' face.

"I—" Oh my god. "Sirius, I'm—"

Then Sirius stood up. "Okay," he said, his voice strangely quiet.

He left the room. Remus stared after him. A moment later, he heard the water start to run.

"Hey," Remus said when Sirius came back into the sitting room, hair damp and wearing fresh jeans and a clean black T-shirt. He was blinking and toweling his head. He looked a little dazed.

Guilt was churning in Remus' stomach, but also—god, it was terrible, but also—Sirius had done it. He had showered. He was wearing clean clothes. Remus' relief and satisfaction at this made the guilt warmer and thicker, a soupy sludge. He had shouted at Sirius. He was supposed to be the one who never shouted at Sirius.

"So…" he began, but Sirius walked over to where Remus was sitting in an armchair and sat on the floor. He sank down onto the carpet without a word and rested his head against Remus' knees.

"Oh," Remus said, surprised. Sirius pressed his head against his thigh. Remus hesitated for a second, then put his hand in Sirius' hair. It was softer and cleaner than it had been in days.

Sirius sat like this for a minute, then shifted to his knees, burying his face in Remus' legs, and said, voice muffled, "You still love me?"

"Oh, god," Remus said, shocked. "Yes, of course."

Sirius kept his face in Remus' lap. "Really?"

"Yes. Sirius—yes. Will you look at me?"

Sirius shook his head.

"I…" Remus stroked his hand over Sirius' hair, uncertain what to do. It was very hard, in this moment, not to be able to see Sirius' face. "I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"I didn't mind," Sirius said, voice muffled.

"Then why are you worried I don't…?" Remus asked, feeling a little helpless, not sure what to do or say. "Is it—Sirius, are you afraid I won't like you because you're so unhappy?"

"I don't like me when I'm unhappy," Sirius said into Remus' knees. "Why would you?"

Remus' fingers clenched a little, tugging at Sirius' hair. His throat seized up and he swallowed down what was choking him up "Sirius. I love you. It's not—it's not your fault."

"Maybe it is."

"You're trapped here. Of course you're miserable."

"I don't have to be so obnoxious about it."

"You're not…" Remus stopped. It was difficult to be with Sirius when he was miserable. Sirius was—well, he was obnoxious, quite frequently. Remus didn't want to lie, but he didn't want to say those things to Sirius, either. "It's…I still love you, Sirius."

Sirius turned his face sideways, looking at Remus through a curtain of hair. "Really?"

"Yes."

"But I'm such a fucking prick."

Remus laughed, startled. "Sirius, I hate to tell you this but…you've always been kind of a prick."

Sirius's one visible eye crinkled just a little. He huffed into Remus' knees. "I suppose that's true."

"And I've always loved you."

Sirius was quiet for a second. "Okay."

"Okay?"

He nodded. After a second, he asked, "Can I stay here for awhile?"

"On your…like this? On the floor?"

He nodded again.

Remus' heart was racing now. The strange dizziness from the day before came over him again as he looked down at Sirius. On his knees, for Remus. "I…yes. Sure, if you want to."

"Pet my hair?"

"Oh," said Remus. He swallowed. "Sure." He ran his fingers through Sirius' hair, scraping his nails gently along his scalp. Sirius let out a sigh of relief. Remus did it again, and again. He kept up the rhythm of it for a long time, and then rested his hand on Sirius' warm head as Sirius knelt at his feet.

Chapter 3

Notes:

please note the added tags--some mild ageplay and daddy kink in this chapter.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sirius had a couple of okay days, and then a couple of bad ones. He let Remus wheedle him into helping set up a Christmas tree and string some fairy lights around the main staircase's banister. He slept well one night, and badly the next. Soon his hair grew greasy again.

On a gloomy afternoon in mid-December, he was lying facedown on the sofa while Remus read in an armchair. After a long silence and a few minor shifts and fidgets, Sirius' voice said, "I want to wash it."

A pause. Remus frowned over the top of his book. "Wash what?"

Sirius huffed into the couch cushion. "My hair," he said.

Remus blinked. "Okay."

There was another pause. Sirius said nothing. He lay perfectly still again.

"Are you…going to?"

Another small huff, but Sirius didn't answer or move.

Remus put down his book. "Sirius, er…do you…what exactly…?"

"I can't," Sirius muttered.

"Can't wash your hair?"

A silence that Remus took as assent.

"I…"

He surveyed Sirius. His lover was stretched out prone, socked feet shoved over the edge of one armrest, upon which his shins were (quite uncomfortably, Remus imagined) resting. His arms lay flat at his sides. He was still facedown. Remus had the idea that speaking had become a monumental effort for Sirius in this moment.

"I think you should wash your hair," Remus said cautiously. "I think you'd feel a little better."

Nothing. Sirius didn't even twitch in response.

"I…" He fell silent. Did Sirius want encouragement, or did he want Remus to absolve him of the task? Would it be better to tell Sirius he didn't have to do anything he didn't want to, that it was okay if he lay on the couch all day? It was okay, in an objective sort of way, but it also wasn't making Sirius feel very good.

"Just a shower," Remus said. "It'll be quick, and then you'll be clean."

Sirius pushed his head deeper into the sofa, then muttered, "I can't."

Remus almost told him that was all right, that he didn't have to, but—but.

"Sirius," he said slowly, "I'm going to give you a shower."

Sirius shifted at that, just a small movement of hands and head. He didn't answer.

"I'm going to take you into the bathroom and hose you down."

A pause. "Yeah?" Sirius asked, barely audible.

"Yes," said Remus. "Yes. And I'll wash your hair."

A silence. Then Sirius said, very quietly, "Okay."

Remus raised Sirius gently from the couch. Sirius let him do it. With one hand low on Sirius' back and the other on his shoulder, Remus guided him out of the sitting room and towards the big tile bathroom down the hall. Sirius didn't meet his eye as they walked, but he leaned into Remus, bony hip flush against Remus'. Remus could smell the old sweat under his arms. There was a sort of musty scent about him a lot of the time these days, like air that didn't circulate enough. Remus sometimes held his breath unconsciously when he walked into a room with Sirius in it and then, when he realized he was doing it, always hoped Sirius hadn't noticed. He was going to wash that smell off him now, going to scrub not only his hair but every inch of his body.

He was a little bit dizzy again.

Sirius stood in front of the tub as Remus turned on the water—it took a long time for the old heating charms to kick in—and Remus stripped down efficiently. By the time he was naked, Sirius had managed only to unbutton his trousers.

"Stop," said Remus. "Let me."

Sirius dropped his arms. He still didn't look straight at Remus, but he let him tug his shirt over his head and push his pants and trousers down, then steadied himself with a hand on Remus' shoulder as Remus pulled them off his feet, catching his socks as they went. Sirius turned to the shower, but without thinking, Remus stopped him and put out a hand to test the water.

"Go ahead, it's warm enough," he said, and Sirius flashed him a look he couldn't quite gauge. His belly flipped. Despite himself, his cock was stiffening.

He stepped into the stream of water after Sirius and pulled the curtain shut behind them. It was heavy and dark and blocked most of the light, but some of the sun from the bathroom's one window filtered in through the fabric. Sirius was lit so gently in its glow that his angular elbows and knees seemed softened, all his sharp edges bathed in shadow and blurred by the rivulets of water pouring down his pale skin. He just stood there under the showerhead, not moving, eyes blinking as water dripped down his forehead. He looked so tired.

Remus squeezed his shoulder and edged past him. He stood behind Sirius in the clawfoot tub, looking at his tangled hair and his shoulder blades and the hollow of his lower back and his heart clenched. He slid his arms around Sirius, bowing his head against the stream of water, and held Sirius for a long moment. Sirius felt strange and far away but he did move, just a little, to rest his head slightly against Remus'. Remus slid his hand up Sirius' chest, feeling the water wash it clean, and said, "Let me take care of you."

Remus could feel Sirius swallow. He opened his mouth as if to reply, but closed it again. Remus said, with a rush of desire he couldn't quite hide, "I want to."

After a second Sirius jerked his head in a yes. Remus picked up the soap. All at once he flashed back to picking up the thin wooden cane: the swoop of terror, and the rush of arousal. His breath caught. He held the bar of soap loosely in his hand and looked at Sirius' bare, vulnerable back, his arse—healed now and once more unblemished—his legs, his neck, his head; why did he feel the same way he'd felt when he was about to hit Sirius?

The soap was a plain white bar, something from the Muggle drugstore. The thought flashed through Remus' head that he wished he had something a little nicer. But it lathered well between his wet palms and he stretched out his hand, feeling absurdly as though he should warn Sirius before making contact. Five scrubs, and then we'll check in.

He rubbed the soap over Sirius' back, over his shoulders, along his arms. He put the bar back down and put his hands on Sirius' skin. Slick and soapy, they glided over Sirius, washing away the grime that had accumulated over several days and the subtler, more pervasive smell of stasis. Remus worked methodically—holding in his pounding pulse, his growing desire to crush Sirius's body in a rough embrace—rubbing in circles on the back of Sirius' neck and down his spine. Sirius let him, standing there silently under the spray. Remus wasn't sure how Sirius was feeling as he soaped up his legs and the backs of his knees but for the moment that seemed less important than the task of getting him clean. He moved around to Sirius' front, nudging him backwards so Remus had room to crouch and run the soap over his feet. Sirius did make a move at that, and a little noise that sounded like protest.

"My feet are—" he began, "you don't have to…"

"Hush," said Remus, and Sirius fell silent. Remus, water dripping from the ends of his hair and into his eyes, inspected Sirius' feet. They were dirty and his nails were yellowed and warped. They needed to be cleaned. Really, they needed more than Remus could do in the shower; they needed to soak in a bucket of warm water and Remus needed a brush and a scouring charm to get between his toes, and clippers to trim his nails. The image of Sirius sitting docilely before Remus, letting him trim and scrub and poke at his skin, sent sparks up Remus' spine. But for now he would just do as much as he could. He instructed Sirius to lean on the wall and, as water poured down Remus' back, he gently took each of Sirius' toes in his fingers and rubbed between them, removing bits of fuzz and the smell that still clung there.

When he stood, Sirius was looking at him with a shellshocked sort of haze in his eyes. Droplets of water clung to his eyelashes; his hair was soaked through but still unkempt, and he swayed a little, as if he were having trouble standing.

Warmth bubbled up in Remus' belly, hot and strange. Sirius swallowed again—Remus could see his Adam's apple bob—and Remus reached out and very gently touched his cheek. Sirius' eyes fluttered closed. Then he opened them again, and there was something overwhelming in them that Remus couldn't place as fear or need or relief or anything that really had a name, but Remus couldn't name his own overwhelming feelings either, so he took up Sirius' hand in his and squeezed it.

"Can I keep going?" he asked softly.

Sirius opened his mouth but it took a moment for sound to emerge. "Do you really want to?" he asked hoarsely.

Remus nodded. After a second, Sirius nodded back.

It was more intense now. Perhaps that was partly because Remus was facing Sirius as he slid the soap over his chest and down his arms. He spent some time on Sirius' hands, more than he needed to, washing each finger and massaging it gently as hot water poured down on them both. Then he soaped up his own hands and, with only the slightest hesitation but certainly a bit of warmth in his cheeks, he slid them down between Sirius' legs and wiped down his prick and his balls. His cock hardened further while he was doing it, with a strange sort of syrupy arousal that felt heady and illicit. There was something so oddly intimate about washing Sirius' cock, something very different from stroking it or having it in his mouth. Intimate did not quite cover it, in fact; it made Remus feel almost as though he were doing something he shouldn't, not because it was wrong exactly, but because Sirius must have felt—well—surely Sirius felt small in the same way Remus found himself feeling big, feeling like—like he was taking care of a child, almost, though of course he wasn't, but Sirius must have felt—and then Sirius let out a small sigh and his muscles relaxed (Remus had not known they were tensed) and Remus felt a wave of—of—accomplishment, maybe?

He smoothed back his wet hair, shaking the drops from his eyes, and with a furtive excited feeling he thought he had better clean Sirius' arsehole, too. So he soaped up his hands again and, quite steadily, reached under Sirius' prick, in between his legs, and spread soapy lather up and down Sirius' crack.

Sirius gasped at that, a sharp intake of breath not quite muffled by the sound of the water, and Remus kept his pace deliberately steady and rubbed at Sirius' arsehole till it was soap-dry and clean. He even pushed his finger just a little bit inside, wiping away anything that might be clinging there.

And Sirius let him. Sirius held his shoulder and tipped his head back and let the water stream down his mouth and chin. Then when Remus stood and felt that he had to kiss Sirius, had to, hard on the mouth, Sirius let him, receiving the kiss with a small noise, and Remus, feeling dizzy with competence, told him it was time to wash his hair.

He took a long, long time with it. Tangles had formed and Sirius had neglected to comb them out, so Remus gently extricated the knotted strands from each other, pulling his hands back to find his fingers webbed with stray hairs that he wiped onto the tile wall. The cheap shampoo smelled vaguely of coconut—again, Remus wished for something more luxurious—and he scrubbed and scrubbed until the foamy lather dripped down Sirius' back. He scraped his fingernails along Sirius' scalp and again he felt Sirius' muscles unclench. Sirius' hair, free of the oil and the sweat, was thick and soft. It might have been the softest Remus had ever felt it, in fact, warm with water and slick from the shampoo.

There was a cluster of suds at the corner of Sirius' eye. Remus wiped it away quickly so it wouldn't sting. A wash of protectiveness slammed through him, what he wouldn't do for this man, and Remus was breathless with it, with his need to care for Sirius: he wanted to wrap him up in a great big fluffy towel and put him under the covers and keep him warm and dry and safe. He wanted it so badly.

Sirius—Sirius looked like he might let him do it, too.

"Time to get out," Remus murmured, and he knew what he sounded like and it made his heart twist and jump. He was so steady, though, as he turned off the tap and reached beyond the curtain for Sirius' towel and began to dry him before he could get cold. Once Sirius was dry he ran the towel over himself. Then he stepped out of the shower and put out his hand.

Sirius took it. Sirius stepped over the edge of the clawfoot tub and managed a strained "thank you" before he made a strangled sort of gulping noise and then sat down hard on the floor.

"Sirius," Remus said, alarmed, dropping to a crouch next to him, "what—"

Sirius shook his head. A couple of tears oozed out of his eyes, slowly, and he shook his head again, looking helpless.

"I don't—know—" he managed, and then wrapped his trembling hands around his bare knees. Remus bit his lip. He didn't know what was happening. He only knew that Sirius wasn't able to cope with whatever it was.

"Let's get you to bed," he said. After the barest resistance Sirius let him stand him back on his feet. He led him naked into the bedroom down the hall, holding him around the waist and no longer pretending to either of them that he wasn't adopting the soothing manner of a nurse or parent. He stopped them in the doorway of their bedroom, but the sheets weren't clean and he knew Sirius's side, especially, smelled of sweat. So he went down the hall and opened the next door he saw, remembering just too late to stop that it was Sirius's childhood bedroom.

He started to turn away, but Sirius stepped into the room, and Remus watched as he climbed docilely into the twin bed, sliding beneath the faded red and gold comforter, and blinked at him with wide dark eyes.

"Stay with me till I fall asleep," Sirius murmured. Tears had not entirely stopped leaking from his eyes. He looked exhausted, and very small.

Remus sat on the bed. He stroked Sirius' shoulder and arm under the blanket, watching his eyelids flutter, feeling somehow both utterly calm and utterly afraid.

He watched Sirius fall asleep, then stripped the sheets from their bed and replaced them. He climbed under the covers, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, certain he would be awake for hours. But exhaustion overtook him all at once, and he slept.

He was awoken sometime in the middle of the night by the sound of the bedroom door opening.

"Sirius?" he murmured, rolling onto his side, still half-asleep.

He could see Sirius silhouetted in the doorway, naked, hands clenched at his sides.

"I," said Sirius. He cleared his throat. "I…had a bad dream."

Blinking himself awake, Remus sat up on his elbow. "Oh," he said, as the memory came back to him more fully: the shower, and putting Sirius to bed. "Come here."

Sirius came. He padded on bare feet and Remus shifted back and lifted the blanket for him.

"Can I…?" Sirius asked. He sounded hesitant. Remus couldn't really see his face in the dark.

"Of course," he said, and Sirius climbed in. Remus covered them both with the blanket and Sirius scooted in closer. Remus wrapped his arm around Sirius' back. Sirius was shaking.

"Oh," said Remus, startled. "Oh, Sirius. What…"

Sirius dug his fingers into Remus' t-shirt, clenching the hem. "Bad dream," he muttered.

Remus ran a hand gently down Sirius' back, something rearing slowly up inside him. "Will you," he asked, "tell me what it was about?"

Sirius' fingers spasmed, tugging Remus' shirt. His head was facing Remus but it was bent over, so all Remus could see was his freshly-washed hair.

"I can't," said Sirius in a low voice. "Too…"

Remus swallowed, hard. "Too scary?"

"Yes." After a long moment, Sirius said, "But you…I had to make sure you were still…"

Remus' heart clenched. "I'm here," he said, running his hand up and down Sirius' back. "I'm here."

"And…" A pause. "And it's okay if I sleep with you?"

This is our bed, Remus almost said, but the thing that had been rising up in him clamped down on the words. Remus' blood was pounding in his ears. "Of course, sweetheart."

Sirius' breathing was still quick, frightened.

"Do you…" He hesitated. "Do you want me to talk to you? Tell you a story, maybe?"

Sirius' breath hitched. "Like…" He swallowed hard. "Like a…bedtime story?"

The blanket that covered them was cavelike, the pocket that held them inside growing warmer by the second. "Sure," said Remus. And then, because it was so silent and so calm and so dark, he ventured, "Did your parents ever…?"

"No."

Remus went quiet, but his hands pressed tighter around Sirius' back. "They should have," he said. "They should have taken care of you." He kissed Sirius' head. "Like I'm going to."

With a tiny whimper, Sirius shifted his body even closer, forehead still bent against Remus' chest. Remus felt Sirius' legs brush against his, and then—

"Sirius. You…"

Sirius was hard. His cock was resting against Remus' belly, a light touch, but warm.

The knowledge that it had been weeks, at least, since this had happened stopped Remus' whirring brain for a moment. What should he—what if he—if he did something Sirius didn't want, if he touched Sirius and his arousal faded, what if that happened and Sirius took it as a sign that he was never going to want sex again—

And that thing, that big looming thing inside Remus, snuffed out those worries like a light.

"You want me to make you feel good?" he asked softly.

Sirius' fingers clenched again. He was still trembling from his nightmare.

"Come on, sweetheart. We're gonna make you feel better, okay?"

Sirius nodded into Remus' chest. Perhaps the trembling wasn't only from the nightmare anymore.

"Please," he said, and then, as Remus slid his hand down between them, Sirius whispered, "Please, Daddy."

Remus was swamped, suddenly, by a flood of some lung-clenching, breath-stopping something, a bigness, a—a towering—giant—something, something that shot heat straight into his cock but also into the arches of his feet and the pit of his stomach and his cheeks and his ears, something like an injection into his spine of—of electricity, or—or energy, or—

Power, his mind supplied, and there it was, the cane, the soap, Daddy.

"Daddy's going to make you feel so good." He clasped Sirius' cock in his hand. Sirius whimpered like he was surprised—maybe he was. Remus squeezed gently, not moving his hand up and down yet, and whispered, "You had a bad dream, honey, but Daddy's here and he's going to take care of you."

Sirius gasped at honey.

"Just lie there," Remus said soothingly. "It'll be okay. Daddy'll make you feel good, I promise."

Gently, he began to stroke Sirius' cock. It felt—fuck oh fuck it felt small. Small enough to crush between his fingers, if Remus had wanted to. He kept his touch light. His head was pounding with the awareness of what he could do to this man, if he let himself. Sirius was inhaling little hitching breaths, one hand clutching the blanket, the other Remus' waist.

"My sweet tender boy," Remus breathed; the words felt so good to say aloud, after so long holding them in in case they irritated Sirius, so he said more. "My precious, precious boy. It's so hard for you. So hard. I know. Daddy knows. He sees how hard you try, baby." Sirius whined, feet kicking slightly against the mattress, but Remus kept up a slow, steady pace. "Daddy's so proud of you, honey. Daddy's going to make you feel so good."

He tightened his grip slightly on Sirius' cock. Sirius was breathing hard, definitely trembling from more than fear now. Remus jerked him off as gently as if Sirius had never had it done to him before.

"Daddy's going to take care of you," Remus whispered, leaning his mouth close enough to brush against Sirius' ear. "I'm going to take care of you. You're going to do what I say, my love. I'm going to spoon-feed you if you won't eat your breakfast, and change your dirty socks for you, and wipe your arse when you need it—"

"I need it," Sirius wailed, face pushed against Remus' chest, dampening his shirt with tears. "Daddy, I need it, I—I can't—please, I—"

Triumph swelled in Remus. "Hush, now, baby," he murmured. He gripped Sirius' cock, tugging and twisting. "You'll do whatever Daddy says?"

"Yes," Sirius whispered.

"Whatever Daddy wants?"

"Yes!" His hips bucked.

"Daddy says come," Remus said, the words crisp and unyielding and Sirius sobbed into his chest.

"I—I—"

"Come, Sirius."

Liquid spilled hot over Remus' clenched fist. Sirius choked his way through his orgasm, wild inarticulate noises breaking free from his throat as he flailed against the mattress.

"There," said Remus. "There, there." He soothed Sirius' hot brow with his clean hand. "All better, baby."

Sirius sniffed, a loud wet noise of clogged mucous and tears. Remus reached over to the side table and pulled two tissues from the box. He slid one under the blankets, cleaning up Sirius' spunk as best he could. Then he held the other to Sirius' nose.

"Blow," he said.

For a moment, Sirius only stared at him.

"Blow your nose, Sirius."

Sirius did. Remus caught the snot in the tissue, wiped at Sirius' upper lip, and then dropped both tissues onto the floor. Sirius scooted in to let Remus take him in his arms. Remus felt as though he could crush a brick with his bare hands. He held Sirius tenderly, until he fell asleep once more.

Notes:

I am on tumblr if you want to say hi. (:

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Remus decided that the weekend would be entirely given over to Christmas biscuit baking. Sirius had seemed relatively calm and present for the last couple days, but Remus could sense his restlessness creeping back in. He thought that if he gave Sirius a bunch of mundane but absorbing tasks to do with his hands, he might stave off that particular mood for a little while longer.

In the past—really, in the very recent past—Remus would have floated the possibility to Sirius as a question: I'm going to bake cookies; do you want to help? A chance for Sirius to say yes or no; an opportunity for him to exercise his autonomy, at least over this one small thing, since he had so little choice about anything else. But Remus was beginning to understand—thought, at least, that he was beginning to understand—something about the way Sirius' mind worked right now.

He was certainly beginning to understand something about his own.

"Sirius," he said, his red-and-white-checked apron (a gift from Molly Weasley) already tied around his waist as he opened the door to their still-dark bedroom, Sirius blinking blearily at him from under the covers, "I want you in the kitchen in twenty minutes. We have a lot of baking to do today."

Sirius stared at him, the blanket pulled up to his nose.

"It's ten in the morning. Time to get up."

"But…" Sirius' voice held a bit of a whine, and Remus said briskly, "No buts. I'll see you downstairs at 10:20."

He shut the door. One-third of his brain was setting off alarm bells as if he had done something catastrophic; the other two-thirds was doing something else entirely. It was going quite…calm wasn't exactly the world, was it? It was a little like a boat that had been rocking on the waves suddenly catching a current and cutting cleanly through the water. Also there was something smug about the way his mind drew an underscore below what Remus had just done: Good, that's finished, time to preheat the oven.

Shortbread, Florentines, gingersnaps, stained-glass sugar cookies, and gingerbread men. That ought to be enough to distribute amongst their friends—Molly and Arthur, Bill, Tonks, Minerva, Kingsley; maybe he'd even send some to Dumbledore, since the man had a notorious sweet tooth and Remus was only furious with him about half the time—well, maybe he'd better add almond biscotti as well.

Remus felt flush with purpose and holiday cheer by the time Sirius arrived in the kitchen exactly twenty minutes later, dressed in fresh slacks and one of Remus' old sweaters, blinking bemusedly at the bags, bottles, and canisters of flour, sugar, nuts, and spices that were arranged in tidy rows on the ugly granite counters. Remus picked up an admittedly rather frilly and moth-eaten apron he'd found crumpled in a bottom drawer and looped it over Sirius' neck, tying it efficiently at the waist. "Chop," he said, handing Sirius a cupful of blanched almonds.

Looking both sleepy and as if he though Remus had gone a bit off the rails, Sirius sat obediently at the kitchen table and spread the nuts out on a cutting board that Remus had set up for him. There was a whistle—kettle boiling. Remus poured out the water into waiting mugs, then stirred some milk and a little sugar into the cups of strong tea. He placed one in front of Sirius, who drank gratefully.

"Clearly I will need this today," Sirius muttered. "Er, Remus…"

"Yes, my dearest love?" Remus asked innocently.

Sirius stared at him for a moment, and then a grin cracked across his face. "You've gone mental."

Remus shrugged. "Maybe. I guess you'll have to follow the whims of a mad dictator today. At least there'll be biscuits at the end."

"Gingersnaps?"

He almost laughed at the note of genuine eagerness in Sirius' voice, and then it slammed into him with the force of an unexpected shove: Sirius, wanting something, wanting something and asking for it, just like—like years and years and years ago, kiss me, Remus, come on, it's cold, let me put my hand in your pocket, Remus, come on, just one quick run to the kitchens, we won't get caught, I saw Bitsy earlier when she was tidying the common room and she said there are fresh gingersnaps and she'd put a few aside—that memory, a line pulled tight between now and then, and he thought Sirius felt its tug a little too because he looked almost worried, as he waited for Remus to reply, that the answer would be no; but Remus rushed to fill the gap by holding up the packet of minced ginger he'd ordered specially from Hogsmeade and saying, "It wouldn't be Christmas without them."

Sirius's eyes softened a bit and he darted out his hand to take Remus', then bent his head quickly to kiss it, lightly, almost deferentially. In a heartbeat he was back with the knife in his grip, attention on the almonds, but Remus could tell they both felt the constriction of the space between them. Remus felt it burning at the back of his throat and behind his eyes.

The timer chirped out, "Oven ready!" and Remus hurried to finish mixing the sugar cookie dough.

He set Sirius to measuring out flour and dried fruits and sorting out the colorful little hard candies they'd melt and pour into the holes he was making at the center of each sugar cookie, where they'd become little pink and green and yellow stained-glass windows. The kitchen filled with the smells of vanilla and cinnamon and molasses, a rich warm aroma that Remus breathed in so deeply he could feel his toes and fingers tingling with it.

He looked over at Sirius, still working away at his tasks. "Sirius," he said, laughing, "I don't know how you're working like that."

Sirius was bent over a bowl of dough, stirring assiduously. "Like what?"

"With your hair all over the place. You'll get it in the biscuits! Let me." He stepped behind Sirius and, wiping his hands on his apron, began gathering all the loose strands that had fallen forward, some of them dusty with flour, and gently combed them back with his fingers. Sirius tensed for the briefest of moments and then relaxed into Remus' touch. Feeling as though he held something extraordinarily precious in his hands, Remus carefully loosened a few tangles and then gathered all of Sirius' hair at the nape of his neck. He glanced around the kitchen and spotted a discarded red ribbon from the packet of candied ginger. He tied it around Sirius' hair, tightening it as best he could into a knot and a bow that would hold at least for a little while.

"Yes?" he murmured, still standing behind Sirius, bent over him with one hand brushing his shoulder.

"Yes," said Sirius quietly. "That should help."

At the end of the day they had several hundred biscuits stacked precariously on various kitchen surfaces and Remus was sorting them into tins—some to give away, some to keep—while Sirius swept sugar and flour and the occasional stray almond off the floor. He shooed Remus from place to place in order to hit every spot, batting at his heels with the broom when he didn't move quickly enough. He even crouched down with a damp rag and wiped up crumbs from the nooks and crannies made by the table legs and the awkward gap between the stove and the counter. When he finished, his cheeks were pink with exertion and half his hair was slipping loose from its bow. Remus' heart gave a little twist in his chest at the sight.

"Sirius," he said quietly, "would you go build a fire in the sitting room?"

Sirius nodded. "Are you…"

"I'll be there soon." He smiled, though his pulse had begun to beat louder in his ears. "I'm just going to get us some tea."

"And biscuits?"

"And biscuits."

Sirius went. Remus stood still for a moment, looking after him. Yes, he thought. Yes, I think so.

He charmed a plate of biscuits to follow behind him and he held a steaming mug in each hand as he made his way to Sirius. He could hear the fire crackling and fizzling from the corridor. Sirius had stacked up a small pile of extra kindling beside the fire screen—an embroidered floral piece that was actually rather pretty—and he'd sat himself on the sofa, not quite relaxed. He looked up at Remus, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

"Yeah," Remus said. He was quiet; Sirius was so beautiful. His loose, longish hair; his dark eyes. "Yeah, let's…" He took a breath. "Your head on my lap?"

Sirius nodded.

Remus arranged himself and the tea and the biscuits. Sirius took a sip of his tea, then placed it on the coffee table and, without quite meeting Remus' eyes, moved so he lay on his side, feet tucked up against the armrest, cheek against Remus' thighs.

Gently, Remus put a hand on Sirius' face and guided it so he was looking up at Remus.

Remus could see him swallow nervously. There were tiny lines of tension around his eyes.

"Hush," he said, and with the word felt himself slip into something, slip down, a little bit, into somewhere quiet and close. "Rest, love. You did so much today."

He smoothed a hand over Sirius' forehead. Sirius let out a small shuddering breath and Remus felt him unclench.

"Now we get to eat some biscuits," Remus said. "Best part, hm?"

Sirius blinked at him, then said, a little hoarsely, "I liked making them too."

He smiled. "So did I." He picked up a gingersnap from the platter. He could tell that it was crunchy all the way through, just as Sirius preferred, though Remus liked his a little softer. It was studded with crystallized ginger and the dusting of sugar on top made it glisten in the firelight. Beautiful. When he was in the kitchen, he'd lingered a little longer than necessary making sure he chose the most perfect of the biscuits to bring to Sirius. It was a small and sentimental gesture, certainly, but it had felt to Remus like a peculiarly solemn moment. He had felt…prepared. And capable.

He brought the gingersnap to Sirius' lips. "Open up," he said softly.

A startled flash in Sirius' eyes—but only for a moment. It faded immediately and was replaced by a sort of softening: a smoothing out of the lines around his eyes, a sleepy blink.

Sirius bit down on the biscuit. Crumbs scattered as he broke off the first bite. Remus brushed them away and smoothed down Sirius' hair as he watched Sirius chew and swallow.

"Did they turn out all right?" he asked.

"Yes," Sirius whispered.

Remus fed him another bite. He chewed slowly; he looked to Remus as if he was really tasting the biscuit, really tasting the sharp ginger bite and the sweet crust of sugar.

He touched Sirius' throat lightly as Sirius swallowed.

"Hold your hand there?" Sirius whispered when Remus began to move his fingers away.

"You mean—" Remus started to ask, then, instead, fitted his hand gently around Sirius' throat. "Like this?"

"Yes." Sirius' response was barely audible. His big eyes had gotten, impossibly, bigger.

Remus fed him another bite and felt Sirius' throat contract as he swallowed. Sirius' skin stretched beneath Remus' hand. Remus could feel all the bones of his throat, the muscles, the things that protected and supported the fragile, vital windpipe, the place where breath and sustenance entered Sirius' body. His grip was light, but he was having a hard time accepting that. Although he knew he was not pressing down, merely holding his hand in place, his grasp felt so strong, so heavy. So implacable, so…immovable, so…

Sirius opened his mouth again, like a baby bird. Remus fed him another bite.

He could flex his fingers, he thought. Tighten his grip. He could squeeze, and Sirius' breath would stop.

He thought that one of these days, sometime soon, he was going to do that for Sirius. In their bed, with Sirius naked. He had a suspicion, so strong it was nearly knowledge, that Sirius would feel Remus' constricting grasp as an anchor and a relief.

Now, though, he fed Sirius biscuits and watched Sirius' gaze relax bit by bit as he sank deeper and deeper into himself. His eyes were shining with terrifying, heartstopping trust. "I love you," Remus whispered.

I love you, Sirius mouthed back, so far under he could barely make a sound.

Chapter 5

Notes:

thanks for all the comments, folks. I know I'm slowing down a bit on posting but I'm still writing; I have no plans to leave this fic hanging.

Chapter Text

In bed with Sirius, early in the morning. Remus was still half-asleep, emerging languidly from a barely remembered dream. Light from the window was shining onto Sirius' face. Sirius blinked at him, smiling sleepily.

Remus woke up a little more and smiled back. He reached out and brushed his fingers over Sirius' hair. "Morning," he murmured.

"Morning," Sirius replied, though the word was slurred with sleep.

Remus trailed his fingers down Sirius' cheek, feeling the pebbly stubble there, then down his throat, hooking his hand into the collar of Sirius' faded t-shirt and rubbing his knuckles against Sirius' chest. Warmth pooled between his legs, flushed his face. He ran his hand down over Sirius' shirt and gently rubbed at one of his nipples.

Sirius jerked back.

Remus lurched away, every fuzzy remnant of sleepiness banished at once as his stomach fell with a sick jolt. Hurt blistered up his bones. The shame of rejection made his fingers curl, his spine arch in on itself.

It took less than a second before they both managed to stop their bodies' trajectories away from each other. Remus banished the pain from his face; Sirius blinked himself further awake.

"Sorry, I just—"

"No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…" Remus took a breath. "Sorry."

"It's okay, I just—I don't feel—"

"No, I know. It's all right."

Sirius muttered, "No it isn't."

Remus almost put out a hand to stroke his hair reassuringly, but he stopped himself with another tiny jerk back. "It's…" He said, carefully, "It's not your fault."

Sirius shrugged his shoulders, picking at a hangnail and not looking at Remus.

"Do you want to…do you want to go have some coffee? We can sit on the sofa, I could make a fire…"

"I think I want to sleep more."

"Oh," said Remus. "Okay. Yeah."

Sirius pulled the blanket up higher and turned onto his other side. Remus stared at his back and a wave of memory came up and slammed into him: lying curled around Sirius, the air outside the blankets far too cold to even contemplate leaving the bed, his hand sliding over Sirius' hip and down between his legs, feeling his cock grow hotter and harder as Remus squeezed it and Sirius groaned. It wasn't a memory of one day; it was a memory of many days.

Remus found himself sitting upright and shoving his feet into his slippers before he realized he was moving. Urging away the burning in his eyes and throat, he collected some crumpled trousers and a sweater and brought them out into the corridor, closing the door behind him with a small click.

He put his clothes on in a guest bathroom, staring at himself in the big heavy mirror. Even considering that the full moon was coming up soon, he looked unusually wan and pale. He raised a hand to his face and, very gently, brushed his fingers over the fine lines that had recently begun appearing at the corners of his mouth. Then he ran them over his lips, catching a patch of dry skin, and then cupped his cheek in his hand, cradling it tenderly for a long moment.

It was too much. He knew he had to get something to eat for breakfast because if he didn't he'd really be a mess, so he hurried to the kitchen and cut a couple slices from a loaf of bread; but then he shot back up the stairs, down the hall, and up and up again till he'd mounted the unfolding stepladder leading into the attic and pulled it shut behind him.

He sat down roughly against one of the big dusty trunks that cluttered up the still-neglected space and ate his slices of untoasted bread while dashing a couple of tears from his eyes. The attic was very cold. The eaves were drafty, and the few grimy windows were single-paned, unlike the thick mullioned ones throughout the rest of the house. He could feel the winter chill seeping in through every crack.

He cast his gaze around for a suitable container for some charmed flames and found a big cut-crystal vase, its ridges thick with dust. He conjured the flames and then stuck his hands under his knees, trying to warm them up.

If he had not understood that Sirius was very depressed he would have thought Sirius had fallen out of love with him. In a way, he thought, some part of his body did believe this; that part of him sent out signals of embarrassment and reproof whenever he tried to touch Sirius and Sirius pulled away: stop humiliating yourself. He doesn't want you. When those words, or others like them, actually rose to the surface of his consciousness, he patiently and diligently rebutted them. But the thought lived in his body somewhere he couldn't quite reach, in that curl of shame that twisted through him whenever he was confronted with his unreciprocated desire.

Of course it did. He had spent the years between ages twelve and sixteen believing fully that no one would ever want him (gay, and a werewolf, and ugly besides); spent those years believing that Sirius, specifically, would not want him—that it was embarrassing and presumptuous and delusional to even entertain the notion, to even imagine, in the private confines of his four-poster in the middle of the night, Sirius' hand in his own. So much so that every few months Remus would spend a week or two having convinced himself that he did not, in fact, have feelings for Sirius, that his burgeoning libido had simply attached itself to the nearest attractive male. Because it was creepy to think about your best friend like that, he told himself. And it was pathetic to have a crush on the same person everybody else did—all those Hufflepuff girls, giggling in the corridors. And if Sirius sometimes seemed to save his slyest smiles and his best jokes for Remus, well—after all, they were friends.

He'd been nearly unable to accept that Sirius wanted him at first. But Sirius had made that disbelief impossible to hold onto. Day after day he had caught Remus in surprise kisses the second they found themselves alone, had dragged him into broom cupboards and secret passageways. And he had touched Remus' cock for the first time at James' over the summer with hands that actually trembled.

I can't believe I get to do this, he had whispered over and over again.

The first time he had entered Remus, Remus had felt hot tears on the back of his neck.

So it had almost always been Remus who'd been the one to offer a rebuff—to protest that there were too many essays to write, too many people around, too little time; Sirius hadn't, in those days, had much of a sense of inhibition or self-control. And Remus had been alive to the wonder of it: not only being wanted after all, but being wanted so very much.

In the attic, Remus stared into the conjured flames, the orange light flickering behind the dusty cracks and crevices of the ornate glass vase. He thought about what had come next.

The long nightmare of believing Sirius responsible for James and Lily's deaths had thrown Remus right back into his adolescent conviction that he would never be wanted. Sirius had desired him once, yes; but that had not been strong enough to stop him from betraying them all. Remus had been alone again, and he had been certain that he would remain alone. That had been his one chance: those few brief years of Sirius' hands on his skin.

It had taken longer the second time to believe Sirius really did want him. Want him still, or again. They'd both cried when they fucked for the first time after Azkaban. The first time, and many of the times after that.

Then they'd come to Grimmauld Place. Predictably, so predictably, Sirius' mood had begun to spiral rapidly downward almost at once—not just down but away, away from Remus and the world; and Remus probably shouldn't have been surprised at how quickly he accepted once more that he was not wanted.

"You are wanted," he said aloud, very quietly. The edges of his words were blunted by the dust lying thick on every surface, which absorbed sounds nearly as much as a muffling charm. He put a hand on his knee and stroked it quickly with his thumb. "You are."

It was true and it wasn't—but it was more true than not. Sirius's desire, and even his love, was buried, not gone, lodged somewhere beneath deep drifts. Drifts like snowfall or like all the dust in this attic piled in one great heap, stifling and deadening and grey: but below it all remained a bright burning light nearly covered over, barely visible, but there, still there.

The thing was that this time, he believed it. As much as his gut clenched when Sirius pulled away from him, and as easily as his brain fell back into its old habit of cutting off his impulses to reach out and touch, he did believe that Sirius still loved him. He even believed that Sirius would want him again. He wasn't sure Sirius believed that right now—but Remus did.

"Huh," he said aloud.

Well. That was something. More than something. It was, very nearly, everything.

Yet still there was inside him that great swamp of grief, and himself at the edge of it. He was peering into the murky waters; he was testing them with a single toe. Too deep to fathom. But he had a boat. Or at least a ramshackle raft on which to stay afloat.

He could do it. He had done harder things than this.

But this was still very hard.

He shivered in a sudden draft as the wind rattled against the poorly insulated windows and stuck his hands deep into the sleeves of his sweater.

It helped, what they had been doing. It helped. Remus had never thought of himself as—well, as dominant, the adjective, let alone as dominant, the noun: as interested, really, in power at all. It had shocked him how much it went to his head.

But it was so hard to know how to navigate it all. What they were doing was some strange mix of kink and care and desperation and Remus was itching to talk it out with Sirius—to not be so alone in his head with his feelings and his newly dawning understanding and hope and need—to know for certain what Sirius was going through when he bowed his head and did what Remus told him, or that one time late at night when he had whispered Daddy. That word from Sirius' mouth in this house—but Remus was painfully aware that right now nothing was more likely to make Sirius run like hell than being asked to articulate his feelings.

Not talking about it meant that Remus had to navigate via his own intuition and his own knowledge of Sirius, something he thought he could probably manage but that did at times feel sharply lonely. Remus could read in Sirius' hooded eyes and curled-up knees the shape of his inner landscape—the staggering vulnerability, the brittle fear. The impossible trust. Remus, though, was made of words, and without them he couldn't quite bridge that distance between himself and Sirius, no matter how certain he was of what Sirius needed him to do. No matter how much he hit or bathed or stroked him, no matter how much he loved that dizzying towering rush of competence and control.

But all of those things allowed Remus to place his hands on Sirius in ways Sirius could manage. So.

Remus shifted. His legs were getting stiff from sitting on the floor. Yet thinking about dominating Sirius had sent heat blooming through him. Absurd to still want sex, after all these thoughts of distance and depression. But he did. His body was alive with restlessness, little jabs that would become irritation soon enough if Remus didn't tend to himself.

He wondered if…he let his mind flutter towards a memory from last spring, Sirius behind him with the head of his cock nudging at Remus' hole, Sirius no doubt impatient to thrust inside but drawing it out a little longer in the way Remus liked. Remus felt heat in his arsehole and shifted till he was lying flat on his back, feet on the floor and knees raised, staring up at the beams of the attic's sloped ceiling.

He'd thought imagining getting just absolutely railed by Sirius…he'd thought that was what he wanted. His cock twitched. But something held back his hand as he moved it down between his legs. Maybe he ought to—

All right, he thought. All right. We can do this.

He imagined Sirius, laid out naked on their bed, hands bound above his head. He imagined himself crouching over Sirius, cock out.

He could…fuck. What—

A hand around Sirius' throat. Easy. Remus' fingers, slotted there, pressed against the column of his windpipe. Then, squeezing. Sirius' breath sucking in, a gasp, a raspy rattle.

Remus shifted on the attic floor, a strange icy heat swamping through him. He pushed against his crotch with the palm of his hand.

He could—

Cutting off all Sirius' air, one second, two, three. Letting go. Dizziness swimming in Sirius' eyes as he gulped wildly.

The heat in Remus' cock was so sharp it was nearly painful. He rubbed his hand along the front of his straining trousers. His mouth was quite dry.

In his head, he pictured: Sirius' open mouth, a wide O gasping for air. Remus' cock. Logical, really. His cock, sliding between Sirius' lips. Sliding in, and in. And in.

A tiny gag. A pause. Sirius' eyes watering. Then another last slow push. Remus settling.

All the way in.

Tears leaking from Sirius' eyes. The breath coming in shallowly through his nose.

Remus imagined putting his hand on Sirius' throat again, and feeling himself inside.

Then, would he…?

Rubbing harder at his stiff clothed cock, Remus pictured sliding halfway out, then in again. Then out. Then in.

Fucking Sirius' throat.

Small, whimpering gags.

He came in his pants, all at once. On the attic floor, he lay there gasping, one hand pressing down on his spurting cock and the other flung over his face. Damp spread across his crotch. It would be unpleasant when his come cooled and he had to make his way downstairs again. He writhed on the floor, biting his lip hard against the cries that threatened to break loose.

All right, he thought, barely finished with his orgasm. All right. It's all right.

Remus, he thought to himself, Remus. It's okay.