Half-past ten.

He isn't supposed to leave yet, can't, not until midnight, or so he supposes. That's what they'd agreed, before the end of term, at the same time they'd made the plans about the mirrors and the Floo-powder spells, and Remus figures it probably still applies.

It's killing him, though, the wait.

The message had appeared just after eight, as he'd been washing his hands in the bathroom sink. He'd looked up to see unanticipated red letters superimposing themselves over his reflection, glowing faintly. Remus come tonight please v. urgent Sirius they'd said, and Remus had to read it three times through before he really understood.

It had been James's idea, contacting each other like that over the holidays. He'd talked about spies and secret messages that can't be seen by anyone but the intended receiver; it had all seemed very mysterious and fascinating at the time. Remus had been wary to let James cast the spell on him, not because he doubted James's ability but more because he didn't and was hoping he wasn't being tricked into letting himself get hexed, but eventually had submitted. Sirius, however, had fallen in love with the idea from the start, and was much more eager to receive the incantation. Now we'll always be able to talk to each other, he'd said, grinning manically and making Remus wonder if he was ever going to have a moment's peace, now.

He had, though, worryingly. The entire summer so far, actually, a month and a half without anything but a few letters, mainly from James recounting tales of adventure on the high seas (or, rather, the creek behind his house) and asking if he'd heard from Sirius at all. He had, but not for awhile. One letter, not even a page long, now crumpled and yellowed from countless readings and refoldings.

It had been strained, too, atypically stiff for Sirius, talking of the weather and wondering uncharacteristically if Remus was well, if he knew Sirius wasn't going to be able to visit James this summer and could he tell him that, please. Remus had spent the next three, Sirius-less weeks puzzling over this, wondering why he couldn't just tell him that himself, and came up conclusion-less. It worried him, that, and had worried James, too, when he'd written as Sirius had asked. Nothing had come of it, though, because neither had heard from him, after that.

Remus thought, more than once, of employing their little mirror-message trick, but always stopped himself. Probably, he'd say mentally, probably Sirius has a perfectly good reason for not talking to them, maybe he's busy, hasn't been able to find the time. Wouldn't appreciate the interruption, not even from one of them. He still won't admit to himself that the real reason he would always desist was his own nervous insecurity, reluctance to try and contact Sirius if he didn't actually want to talk to Remus, which was probably the case. Because, come on, if he did, then why wouldn't he have sent more than one pathetic, weather-describing letter?

And so the summer had worn on, books had been read and re-read and iced tea had been drunk, trees were sat under and not climbed in as they might've been had Sirius been his companion instead of Dickens. He'd worried but tried not to think about it too much, telling himself that he's a sixteen year old boy and not someone's old, maiden aunt, and Sirius must have a Perfectly Reasonable Explanation for his lack of communication. He hasn't been eaten by hippogriffs or tripped and fallen down one of those massive staircases in his mansion, he isn't being held ransom by his evil family with all his mail being read and censored. It's nothing, it's nothing, it's nothing—

Then, very suddenly, with the appearance of this unexpected Sirius-message, it was something.

And now he's nervous, pacing back and forth in front of the shabby little hearth in his living room exactly as he's been doing for the past two hours or so. (His parents, luckily, have been out of town for three days at his cousin's wedding reception, and therefore can't ask him nosy questions about why in the world he'd want a blazing fire in the middle of July, or what that bag of clothes he's lugging around is for.) The clock is moving very slowly, so slowly he originally had assumed there was something wrong with it, and each tick tells him a different story, brings him closer to the real one.

What does Sirius want, now? After half a summer of unexplained silence, what possibly could the reason for this sudden summoning be? Remus's mind has been providing him with a variety of explanations, each one gaudier and more outlandish than the next.

His family's been killed (God knows why, seems more like they'd be the ones doing the killing) and he's being held hostage, and this is his one chance to communicate— he's been sent off to some forced labor camp (do they have those?) after refusing to join forces with his Dark-wizard relations, and likewise with the communication-opportunity thing— or maybe it isn't even Sirius at all, it's some sort of trick and he's walking right into a trap, although lord knows why they'd want to attack Remus, of all people—

The clock strikes eleven, one chime short of the number he wants, and he swears under his breath. Curse James and his stupid ideas, like deciding that their silly Floo-spells would only work at midnight—sure, it had seemed secret and fun at the time, like something out of Sherlock Holmes, but now—

What could it be? And why Remus, not James, unless James has been summoned too? Why is Remus getting the feeling he's the only one who's been called?

And, more importantly, what's he going to find, beyond the fire-grate he's ready to fly into?

Eleven-forty-five, now, and the chair he's forced himself into is still as lumpy and uncomfortable as ever, springs jabbing into him every way he shifts. Would be useful for helping him not fall asleep, he thinks, if only he had any sort of wish or ability to do that in the first place, right now. It's impossible to even think about closing his eyes. He wishes it weren't, he could've slept for the past hour instead of driving himself insane with inane, internal babbling.

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes and he'll be at Sirius's, facing the unknown, finding out there's nothing wrong and Sirius just couldn't be arsed to talk to them for the past month, busy as he was with… whatever interesting, non-dangerous hobby he's clearly taken up. Fifteen minutes and he'll finally get to feel the relief he craves, liberation from this stupid worry, fifteen minutes and he gets to see Sirius again. (It's been awhile and Remus hasn't really had anyone to talk to, no-one jinxing his hair into ringlets or switching the covers on his books, stealing food off his plate when he isn't looking, that's why he figures he's so—eager isn't the word, too pathetic, excited, maybe—to get there and see him, apart from making sure he's alright.)

He should've sent the message later, Remus thinks irritably, and suppresses the urge to elbow the goddamn chair back when a large spring gives a particularly vicious dig into his right shoulderblade. It would've saved a lot of agony on his part, all this bloody waiting and pacing and chewing his fingernails to shreds, making himself sit in stupid, ancient chairs that clearly want nothing more than to wage war with rusty springs on his poor, unsuspecting body. Eleven-thirty would've been good, would've given him just enough time to throw some clothes in his bag and not had a load of extra time in which to pack a toothbrush and paperback and washcloth and other stupid things that make it seem like he put time and effort into it, that make him look girly— The clock interrupts him, suddenly, bearing a message of the hour.

Midnight.

It's unsuspecting in its chiming, doesn't know in its blessed inanimacy that Remus has been waiting patiently and very expectantly for it to do that, to strike twelve and start him on his way. It keeps chiming, three, four, five times, reminding Remus of Poe and Doyle, and he wonders if a clock is striking in Sirius's house too, if somewhere far away Sirius is moving closer to the flames in heated expectation. To tell the truth, he's really no idea.

Remus steps over to the still-blazing fire with his pack in hand, and suddenly is very, very nervous. Eight, nine, ten, the clock sounds unmusically, the noise quiet but still managing to reverberate loudly through his head.

Floo-powder is sand-like and silty in his hand, sparkling green on the rug where it slips between his fingers. He hopes Sirius set the incantation right and he isn't about to fly into the Blacks' drawing room and most likely be hexed into next week, or just meet up with some Dark security force that'll probably just rip him to shreds. It's beginning to seem like a dangerous business, this whole visiting-Sirius thing. Maybe he should just forget it?

His breath catches in his throat. Eleven, twelve—

"Number twelve, Grimmauld Place," he says into the flames before he can stop himself, and throws his handful of glittergreen forward, half of it sticking to his sweaty palm. The rush of the fire is nothing compared to the beating of his heart, the contracting of his lungs as all of the air is squeezed out of them, although if by the flames or by his own unconscious doing he can't be sure.

He coughs and tries to keep his lips squeezed together but ends up with a mouthful of ashes anyway, like he usually does. The wind makes it difficult to think, spinning forces his eyes closed and nausea up his throat but he can't make it matter, because he's going to see Sirius now, Sirius-Sirius-Sirius, and that fact suddenly seems very, very important.

It's sort of like being in the middle of a very hot, ashy tornado, one that continually knocks his elbows and knees against bricks and things and pushes stuffy, searing heat into his lungs. It's awful and remotely terrifying.

He's just remembering all the other times he's thought about how much he hates traveling this way and wondering how he could've forgotten when he's suddenly thrown violently forward, sprawling out on a thick, richly-colored carpet.

Remus looks up to see Sirius sitting, and has just enough time to note that he doesn't look abused (or really like he's in very much trouble at all) before he's coughing ash onto the carpet. He gets to his hands and knees and wheezes an apology, something that isn't really acknowledged by its planned receiver.

"You came," Sirius says instead, in a voice that unites awe, joy and trepidation quite marvelously, and annoys Remus a bit.

"Yes, of course I came, and just what do you mean by—Sirius?"
"I didn't know if you'd come," Sirius says quietly, and holds his gaze for a moment. Remus narrows his eyes because it isn't right, here, this isn't how it's supposed to go, and can Sirius please explain—

"What's wrong? What's been wrong?"

Sirius isn't looking at him, staring down at his folded hands, and Remus is struck suddenly by how goddamn beautiful he is, something cut from ivory and grey-diamond and ebony and somehow electrified into life, maybe with passion. It's just because he hasn't seen him in awhile, Remus thinks, of course he's going to be happy and maybe he forgot a bit of what Sirius looked like, that's the only reason he's staring all involuntarily like this—

"Wrong? Nothing's wrong, I just—"

Remus clambers to his feet and brushes off the front of his shirt, which he can see even in just the firelight is smeared with dull, greyish ash-stains. Stylish, that.

"Oh, come off it, Sirius, you don't speak to us for weeks and weeks and then suddenly… I mean… Why didn't you write?"

Sirius continues staring at his hands, as if they're turning a particularly fascinating color and he doesn't want to miss a second of it.

"I… I couldn't, Remus, I didn't know what to say, things have changed, see, since we last—I dunno if you'll understand—"

Remus doubts this, he understands a lot of things, and unless this is some sort of pureblood-family-woe kind of issue, he has some amount of faith in his ability to help.

"What? What is it?"

Sometime in-between the question and answer Sirius has stood and begun a slow forward-walk, and the movement is like something breaking out in song, Remus thinks absently. No-one should be able to move like that, it renders art completely obsolete.

"I…I dunno, just this…thing…"
"Well, why am I here?" Remus demands, wondering at the way Sirius's eyes flick about, how his fingers somehow manage to twitch elegantly and then fold into each other. "Why'd you call for me? Why me and not James? What's so bloody urgent that you skived off writing all summer but now suddenly need me here?"

Sirius swallows, and Remus tries not to stare but can't help it. It must be the firelight, he decides, making everything look all funny and poetic, turning things beautiful where they're too familiar, too known to be by daylight.

"I decided—thought maybe I had to—I can answer all those questions, Remus." His voice is sure but his eyes uncertain and flickering with glowing orangefire, focused somewhere between Remus's eyes and mouth. He's close, now, too close, and suddenly Remus can see the spaces between his eyelashes, separate glossy shine of every hair-strand, the tiniest nick on his jaw where he must've cut himself shaving, recently.

It shouldn't make Remus's heart skip like that but it does, and he tells himself it really is just because they haven't seen each other in awhile, they're friends, he missed Sirius. Of course, that doesn't explain certain other things that may or may not be occurring a bit further down on his person because of those silly eyes, but—

"Tell me why I'm here," Remus says, because he can't help a damn thing unless Sirius explains this to him, why him and not James, why he had to spend four goddamn weeks without hearing a single word from this clever, unnaturally beautiful best-friend boy, why he's standing in Sirius's room for seemingly no reason at all…
"Okay," Sirius begins with his voice all anxious and stumbling, "Okay, I'll—I'll—"

And then suddenly he's kissing him, and Remus should be a lot more surprised than he is. His heart is pounding very, very hard, though, in spite of him catching on reasonably fast, because Sirius is kissing him, those elegant fingers brushing Remus's collars, portrait-perfect lips moving impossibly hot against his. He's kissing him, kissing away the confusion and haze and worry and making everything suddenly very clear, like water after the silt has settled. Sirius is kissing him and he understands, a lot of things make sense, now, and he wonders if he'll actually be able to talk once that mouth strays from his.

It's perfectly clear, now, everything, even though it makes his head spin and his heart race and his breath catch in his throat much worse than stupid fire-travel ever has, and in a much better way. His mind is running very quickly off in several different directions but he ignores it for once and just kisses back, wonders vaguely if it's possible that he might've just knocked his head a bit too hard on the top of the fireplace and is suffering hallucinatory side-effects. It doesn't worry him as much as it should, though, and neither does the fact that if this is a hallucination, he's enjoying it far more than he should.

Somehow, assuming that this isn't all in his head, he thinks he may be able to help Sirius out after all.