The bottle fell with a crash, spewing a golden bile from its neck that, with the ritual dance of the firelight, was in stark contrast to the darkness that became the two men. Slicing that darkness also was the spiller's laughter–Sirius' hearty howls. It took them back to an earlier time when spilt glasses meant money wasted, not signs of a hopeless, decaying depression. Later, they could discuss this "little problem"–not too different from Remus' own–but tonight they would rejoice. Not for any particular reason; death was certainly not a thing to be celebrated. Instead, they took joy in their friendship.
Remus let his mind wander, watching his mildly inebriated friend laugh. Sirius' laugh was the pinnacle of beauty, a deep, thick molasses sound that pranced about the room whenever conjured. He'd had it his whole life, though now it was tainted by experience.
Come to think of it, Sirius himself was the pinnacle of beauty, or at least had been. As seventeen-year-olds, they'd been entranced by it. He maintained a huge, toned frame, thanks in major part to his undying love for quidditch. Drinking himself into a stupor was also a favorite pastime of his; for some reason, he expected Remus, in all his meekness, to support his drunken mass whenever he couldn't find the door handle in a brick wall. It was really quite a sight to see Remus escorting Sirius away from dorm parties. Given that the latter always drank just enough so that he managed never to be capable of walking in a straight line, Remus would buckle under Sirius' weight–all the while with Sirius laughing hysterically (so long as he was not vomiting). It was that husky laugh of his on wings. It was always his laugh that brought Remus back, that made Remus forget.
One Christmas, he'd become particularly rowdy. Remus led him to his bed, set him down, and went to his own, only to find himself, thirty seconds later, pinned to his mattress, Sirius' face two inches from his own, his stubbled chin tickling Remus', the stench of alcohol storming torrentially through his oxygen supply. So strong was the musk that he could have drowned in it, but instead, he hacked mockingly a few times. Nothing could have prepared him for what was to happen next: Sirius' lips came crashing down on his own, gnawing hungrily, pushing his tongue through Remus' pursed lips to explore the crevasses of his mouth. When he moved to kiss his neck, nip his collarbone, Remus gasped, at a complete loss for words.
Sirius began ripping at Remus' tunic sloppily. "Padfoot," Remus mumbled, and upon realizing his friend hadn't heard, he repeated it more loudly. "Padfoot, you're smashed, what are you doing?"
"You're such a prude, Moony," he groaned distantly, and thrust his pelvic bone into Remus' hips. Remus blushed and prayed he wouldn't do that again; he could feel his growing erection and hoped that Sirius could not. But to his relief, Sirius merely rolled off of him, saying simply before he passed out, "The wreaths are floating?" as though on the brink of an epiphany.
Either Sirius didn't remember in the morning or he didn't care. Whatever the case, it saved Remus a great deal of embarrassment–and explaining. He'd told Padfoot over and over again that perhaps hosting a party in his new flat (by this time, he'd put his Uncle Alphard's inheritance to good use and relieved the Potters of their burden) was not such a brilliant idea. He used that as an excuse for his awkwardness at breakfast.
But Sirius was always masterful at hiding his thoughts–and hangovers–from his friends' detection. It wasn't that Remus was not perceptive–in fact, just the opposite was the case–but that Sirius just knew Remus too well, knew which buttons to push and when, and how to conceal information tactfully.
But he never concealed it for long; Sirius just wasn't that man. He wore his heart shamelessly on his sleeve, and that was something Remus had always admired in him to some extent. In more cases than one, however, Remus was at the brunt of it. That particular incident went ignored until they were safely within the confines of the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. James was on some sort of Head Boy duty; Peter had a meeting with a mysterious old man whose identity he refused to disclose (Sirius was convinced it was his paedophilic gay lover, and didn't hesitate to announce this supposition to the group, much to Wormtail's chagrin). Sirius swore he would be able to find a hex, rather than a potion, that would, as he so adoringly put it, "Give Snivellus the shites." Remus was absentmindedly leafing through a tattered book, not really with the same fervor as that with which Sirius was searching through his own book, when Sirius interrupted him brusquely.
"You know, you're not half bad a kisser. I think with some practice–"
"What?!"
"We could work on–"
"No, what the bloody fuck are you talking about?" Remus blinked dubiously, lying through his teeth.
"Oh, don't be daft. You can't possibly have thought I'd have forgotten."
Remus stared hard into his lap, shamefully. "I don't fancy blokes, Padfoot."
Much to his surprise, Sirius broke into a thick laughter.
Just like he was laughing now.
"Hey Padfoot," he began, distantly. His eyes burned with flaming reminiscences; he hoped his friend could see.
"Who the bloody fuck does that old sod think he is?" Sirius roared obstreperously. "Locking me up here all day. If I hadn't any sense left in me, I'd think I was still in Azkaban." Remus could tell that under his brilliant grin lay a churning discontent–a truth to his off-hand comment.
He carefully took a sip of his champagne, making a mental print of the glass on his lips to savour the moment at a later time. Since Sirius had escaped prison, Remus had made a note to remember everything–every new expression in the contours of his face, each pattern of his mildly unruly hair, every angle of the sun as it lit his face in the morning. He could never know which moment–which memory–would be his last.
In double jeopardy, a person suffers twice for the same mistake. He is tried for the same crime twice, and punished with equal brutality, or lack thereof. Most governments prohibit its practice, but nature does not. In natural law, nothing is just or unjust, and so anything goes. It is Remus' worst fear to lose Sirius again, but he knows his dearest friend is getting restless. He knows they can't go back to being young lovers, so new to the world and its experiences, and everything it had in store for their affection. He knows that this is probably Sirius' only wish.
So he begs. "Padfoot, don't leave me again. Please don't leave me again."
The corners of Sirius' lips shift upward in a thoughtful, slight half-smile. He doesn't answer his friend.