Sirius woke with a start- he had been dreaming. He did not remember it now, not clearly, but of course it had been some kind of nightmare. Sirius couldn't recall the last time he'd had a truly good dream.
But waking was not so bad. Certainly, it was much better than it had been in some time. The seaside cottage where he was living- squatting- had been abandoned by its Muggle owners for now, who Sirius didn't doubt only owned it for vacations. White walls and white curtains, gauzy things that drifted in the breeze. Sirius was sure he had seen the form of this place in an advert for tropical travel before. Well, it was a far cry from Azkaban.
For only a month now Sirius had stayed here, sleeping and eating and feeding the Hippogriff, watching the sky for beleaguered owls to bring him the Prophet and letters from his godson, and letters from Dumbledore. These latter things gave him only bad news- Peter had not been found. As far as the world was concerned, Sirius was still a murderer. But better a murderer here, where there was a beach, than a murderer in a cell.
Sirius was exhausted. One month was far from enough.
A day in August, Sirius was lying on the sand, one half of his body slightly submerged in the warm waves. If he could, he would burn it out of himself, the cold that had possessed him for all those years. He didn't care about the skin damage.
A sudden pop of sound- unmistakable for Apparition- Sirius was on his feet and prepared to run in an instant, before he had even seen who it was, his heart suddenly beating hard enough to burst inside him-
"Sirius?"
Sirius stumbled, his legs struggling with this back and forth, stopping and starting again too quickly. He had thought this would be an Auror, or some journalist, or a vigilante Dark wizard catcher, who knew. But it was Moony.
Remus had no right to look surprised to see him; he was the one who had come here, after all. But Sirius was shocked too, perhaps moreso, because coming face to face with him again like that- after all this time, after how they had parted- seemed like something from a fantasy.
"Sirius," Remus said again, as though reassuring himself. He was not dressed for the climate, he was dressed for England. He folded his thin arms across his chest and Sirius' heart ached.
"Yes," Sirius said, stupidly. "Yes. How did you find me?"
"I was looking," Remus replied softly. "Through abandoned properties. Albus gave me an idea of the general area, given the length between your correspondences, and…and the birds."
Sirius had been sending letters with the local fowl, of course, when owls were not always easy to come by. Obliging, but brightly coloured. Perhaps he should have been more careful.
"No one else knows," Remus said quickly, as though through Legilimancy. "No one knows about the letters, so they couldn't guess. I've seen the papers, the Ministry has no idea."
"I have too," Sirius said, roughly. There was a tension. He wished he felt strong enough to run to Remus now and embrace him, kiss that wan cheek. But he was not as he had been, in that strange and fractured year he had spent about Hogwarts, hunting Peter. His thoughts were truly clear now. Remus looked like he would flinch, if Sirius came any closer.
"Will you come in, then?" Sirius asked, gesturing to the glass patio door, and Remus nodded. Inside he stood while Sirius fumbled with the fridge, he thought he should give him something, but there was only water and beer. The wolf looked thoroughly out of place in so Muggle a place as this- but then, so did Sirius. He had not worn a shirt today, and felt very aware of his body, much thinner now than it had been, scarred in places it hadn't been. He felt shriveled. He gave Remus a glass of water and Remus didn't really look at him- his golden eyes flickered back and forth, refusing to land on anything. But when Sirius offered he sit, he did so.
And here they found themselves, on the too-white couches, the tropical sun covering the room in honey. Here they were, face to face again.
"Why," Sirius tried, "why did you come?"
I'm happy to see you, is what he should have said. I've missed you so much.
"To apologize," Remus told him, and his eyes lifted for the first time to meet Sirius' own. There was something startling about the depth of the sadness Sirius saw there.
"Why?" Sirius asked again. Broken record. What for? Remus' lips formed a thin white line; almost incredulity, that was.
"For- for doubting you," he said. "For believing it. Because I did believe it, Sirius."
Sirius said nothing.
"I did. Not at first. Only after you left- you left me, and you didn't come back, and eventually someone had to come find me and say- say that you'd- you'd killed-"
Remus stopped for a moment, remembered his water, and took a sip.
"I believed it then. I believed it for years. And I…I'm sorry."
"You didn't come to the trial," said Sirius, as though that mattered. Remus blinked once, twice, rather quickly.
"They didn't let me. They still thought I was your accomplice. I was…I was interrogated, for some time."
"But you wanted to."
Remus nodded uncertainly, but Sirius- to even his own surprise- smiled. Relief.
"I'm glad."
Remus' mouth opened, closed. Sirius would like to kiss him. And Remus must really have learned how to read minds, because he flushed and looked away. Sirius found he didn't really feel any pain after this confession. In a way he had already known, of course, he had known. He would forgive Remus now- he had done so already, surely, it hardly seemed to matter.
"Can you stay?" Sirius asked him, because that seemed more important- he suddenly found he had to know what had happened in between, what these twelve years had been like for Remus, who looked so thin and so worn-through. "I can…there's eggs, some bread, we could have dinner…"
"I-"
Remus looked up at him again with wet eyes and then, as though caught on a fishing hook, his eyes flicked to Sirius' bare shoulder. There, where Sirius had forgotten them, were the clawmarks from the spring full moon, back at Hogwarts- mostly healed now, just a little red, in no danger of bleeding.
Remus stood very abruptly, leaving his water on the table. He looked as pale as snow.
"Sirius. I. I did that, didn't I."
Not a question. Sirius stood as well, one hand extended.
"It's not-" he tried to say, it's not bad, I don't really mind, it doesn't hurt it's hot in the evenings and it makes me think of you, and I don't blame you, I don't blame you for anything. None of this escaped his mouth. It seemed to be caught there, trapped in thought, a ball in his throat too big to unclench into individual sentences. Remus was leaving, back out to the beach, his strides too long and too fast.
"Remus, wait-"
"I am sorry," Remus called again, turning back to fix Sirius with a pained gaze. "I am so, so sorry."
"Don't-"
But with another pop he was gone.
Sirius stood on the beach with fistfuls of empty air and he swore until the birds left the trees, but that didn't do much for the heartache.
Sirius did not see Remus in the flesh again for almost half a year.
He sent letters. As soon as Remus had left- moments, only moments with him!- he had gone back into the cottage and penned one, surely illegible, and sent it. He had sent another within the hour, and another that night. Let Remus wake to a menagerie of beautifully coloured birds at his window, Sirius did not care.
But Remus did not return. He did write back. First to apologize, again- as though he thought the first few hadn't been good enough- and later, when Sirius asked it of him, to tell of his twelve years beyond Azkaban. Those were the good ones, the ones Sirius reread when the dreams of Dementors left him cold. Anything to see that fine penmanship again, the words as delicate on the page as they had been on the Map.
It was a very censored retelling, Sirius was sure. Remus was very polite, painfully polite. He never described anything that had hurt him, nor anything that had made him happy. Only neutral observations- work, when he could find it, travel (trying to find work), the weather of the different places he had lived, the music he listened to, the films he had seen. Sirius wanted to know all this but he also wanted to know more, impossibly more- what did Remus do on the full moons, alone, how did he manage it? Did he hurt himself, or did he run free, far up in the mountains or deep in a forest, far from anyone…? Had Remus suffered, when under suspicion for Peter's crime, how had his innocence been decided upon? Had he thought of Sirius after? Had he ever hurt himself?
Did Remus have any friends? Did he have any lovers? Did he have one now…?
Sirius resisted the urge to beg for these things in his letters; the last thing he wanted was for Remus to stop writing to him. Twelve years was an impossible amount of time, and he had said it himself, back in the Shack- if Azkaban had taught him nothing else, it was patience.
Sirius ate and ate and slept and slept, and when he wasn't doing these things he lay in the waves. He cared for the Hippogriff, and he read the words Harry and Remus had penned for him, and he wondered if, impossibly, possibly, somehow, he might be able to be alright.
The tropical paradise dulled before long; it was never the kind of retirement Sirius had imagined for himself.
So, at the first sign of trouble- pain in Harry's head, odd whispers- Sirius returned to England.
The rat had escaped, after all. He hadn't killed it. Peter was still out there- perhaps by now he had found his old master. Wheels were turning, Sirius could feel it. When the tidal wave came, he wanted to be home again, wanted to be there for the people he loved.
Was that bravery, or selfishness? Sirius supposed it didn't matter.
Sirius couldn't live in the Shack again with the Hippogriff, so he found a cave in the hills above Hogsmeade instead; from there the little houses looked like the contents of a snow globe, waiting to be shaken. Padfoot, back again. There was no sense in running away- this place was in his DNA.
Christmas, or just after it; Sirius didn't have a calendar. His hollow in the mountain was reasonably comfortable now, loaded with stolen blankets and a moth-eaten couch that had been discarded by the road. Sirius sat by a fire to warm his hands, and outside the Hippogriff brayed, he heard it kick; someone approached.
"Oh- it's alright- I just came to see him…"
Remus. Sirius knew his voice, and his heart leapt just like it had on the beach in summer. For an instant he looked down at himself, juvenile, attempted to straighten his coat- but what did that matter? He was a homeless fugitive and he looked it, there was no helping that.
Buckbeak seemed to recognize Remus' intent in the way that magical animals often did, and he backed away from the entrance to the cave; Remus poked his head in, moving uncertainly, and when Sirius saw him he gave the tiniest of waves.
"Hello, Sirius," he said, and his voice sounded low and tired, perpetually hoarse as though from screaming. Or howling. "...Happy Christmas."
He had a basket with him; Sirius wished him the same and at Remus' prompting took it; it was heavy in his arms, laden (he observed) with food, what looked like a whole roast chicken, and jars of vegetable preserves, and surely cheese, too, by the look of that round…
"Harry mentioned you were staying up here," Remus said, his free hands winding together. "You…you didn't mention it in your letters, though I saw that you started using owls again."
"Yes," said Sirius, sitting; it was hard to resist the temptation in the basket, but Remus was a temptation too. The strongest of them, as always. "I didn't- worried about the letters being intercepted. I told Harry where to find me through Floo, but, ah- it's hard to get access to a proper fireplace."
"Of course," Remus agreed, and Sirius decided he couldn't stand it, this uncomfortable politeness that had come between them. It reminded him too much of bad things, of cruel old memories. Remus looked at him now with some damnable cross between horror and pity in his yellow eyes- horror and pity, yes, and also maybe fear, but a fear that was directed inwards, Sirius was certain.
"Please," Sirius said, "Please sit, and…talk to me. Moony."
He held out a hand and Remus didn't quite take it, but he did sit at Sirius' side by the fire, his long limbs folding so carefully, so close their knees almost brushed. He looked like he might cry, but was trying very hard not to.
"What should I talk about?" Remus whispered.
"Anything," Sirius replied. "Anything, love."
Hope. The thing that had been denied to him in Azkaban. It struck Sirius like a lightning bolt, just as brilliant and burning.
…because to that last endearment, Remus did not object.
Midnight. The night following the last Triwizard Task, and it had passed in a whirlwind; Sirius, called to Dumbledore's office, one Portkey and then another- too much to learn, Pettigrew had resurfaced, a boy was dead. Voldemort was risen again.
Sirius tossed aside the dishrag he had been handed, another traveling device; he was not sure where he had been sent, a house of the Order, the headmaster had told him. Sirius had taken it, leaving Hogwarts and the recovering Harry in the Hospital Wing, loathe though he was to do this- a meeting was to be held- the other members, former members, would gather. Those who lived still. Sirius was one of them. He belonged.
He was in the garden of a ramshackle little cottage, shingles missing from the roof, a garden of weeds instead of flowers. Sirius shook himself once like a dog and approached the door, but it seemed he was anticipated, for it swung open as he put his foot on the step and there, behind it, was Remus Lupin.
"Sirius," Remus said in that ghost of a voice. "You're the first. Come in."
Once past the threshold, something came over him- some phantom boldness- and he turned to embrace Remus, arms wrapping about his thin chest. There was a pause where Remus was very stiff, and then he melted, just a little, and the gesture was returned.
"It's alright, Sirius," Remus said, which was untrue, and which was not especially comforting. Remus smelled of woodsmoke and stress. Up close, Sirius could see blue veins spiderwebbing under his thin skin.
They were not alone for long. They came, fewer than before but more than Sirius had expected. The Order of the Phoenix. Everyone was older now, everyone was world-weary. Remus' little house (little as it was on the outside- no extension charms here) was soon full with wary eyes and low murmurs. Sirius was greeted with grim looks- not even curious, they were. Everyone knew what was coming next.
Surely, this felt the same as it had the first time around- only Sirius had been too young back then, and he hadn't understood. In truth, he wasn't sure if he understood even now.
Eventually Dumbledore joined them, and he had a few grave words, and a reassurance after, privately, for Sirius on Harry's condition. So they were set loose again, disciples of the firebird. Rising again from the ashes.
(At least the metaphor was nice.)
Someone opened a bottle of wine- a toast, to determination but not to joy- and that bottle became another, became another. The house emptied in fits and starts, Sirius always heard voices in the next room, and he drank steadily until he didn't care where the bottom of his cup was anymore. This wasn't a celebration, not a reunion of old friends. Sirius couldn't help but think it felt like a funeral.
Sirius found himself at the kitchen table, and Remus was there, and so was Elphias Doge, and for a while the three of them were talking and then Doge left and then it was just Remus, who seemed to sparkle just a little in the wine-bright light.
"This is your house?" Sirius asked him, and Remus nodded. "And you…you're the only one who lives here?"
Sirius had to check. It didn't matter if this hadn't been the case for all twelve years, if it hadn't been the case, even, for most of them- but it mattered now. Remus swallowed, Sirius saw his throat move, and nodded. His hand was resting, palm down, on the table, and when Sirius reached out to cover it in his own he didn't pull away- but he did make some tiny, pained noise, like a sob swallowed, covering his eyes with his other hand.
"I don't want it to be like before," he whispered. "I don't want to go back to that."
Sirius turned his palm over, exposing his wrist. All his scars Sirius could map, all of them he knew. As though sensing his thoughts- Sirius wondered again if he had learned Legilimency in their time apart- Remus lowered his other hand, meeting Sirius' eyes again.
"I didn't," he murmured. "Try again. I couldn't…I couldn't think of who to write to."
And then he looked away, wounded, but Sirius couldn't bear that and so he leaned across the table that separated them and kissed him, kissed his cheek and then his mouth and Remus was warm against him, inexplicably warm, soft. And he kissed Sirius back.
Memory: Sirius had looked down upon him, spread-eagled in bed, waiting, younger than he was now but not unmarked, never unblemished- and then, Sirius had thought that what they had was true love.
And they were together, and they were in bed, and Sirius held him and they didn't really make it out of their clothes but that didn't matter, Sirius kissed him like he was a fountain, like Sirius was dying of dehydration because he was, he was. Remus let him, he had always let him, but it was more than that this time- Sirius thought he might really want it, for how his fingers curled in Sirius' hair, how whenever Sirius pulled back to look at him (in awe of those golden eyes and silver-white scars and pink, swollen lips) he leaned in again, unwilling to let go.
And at some point they fell asleep, entangled this way, and Sirius had old dreams of running on four legs.
Number 12, Grimmauld Place.
Sirius had sworn he would never return. But this place, too, was in his DNA, in his name, in his skin, in his face. A face blackened out by the end of a wand or cigarette, burned from the family tapestry.
He reminded himself he was doing the right thing, that he was playing his part, doing all he could for the Order. He had to fight away the creeping feeling that it wasn't enough.
Perhaps that hard-earned patience was beginning to wear out.
When the Order meetings were done Sirius took Remus to a quiet corner, away from the eyes of the portraits and the other, various cursed objects, and kissed his mouth and his throat until either they had to find a bed or Remus begged off. It wasn't really like before- Azkaban had killed some of the fire inside Sirius, the kind that had threatened to consume him, that had always burnt them both. Sirius wanted to appreciate it all this time. Every whimper and sigh, all the colours in Remus' eyes, the textures in his skin and lips…a balm, maybe, to smooth over whatever had been dried out and hardened by Azkaban.
An apology of his own, also, for how it had happened the first time.
"I want to come with you," Sirius told him, another moment of nostalgia. "Where do you go?"
The full moon. Remus sat opposite him at the kitchen table in Grimmauld Place, straightened his newspaper a little, frowned. Sirius saw his eyes flick to his shoulder, then away.
"I'll be fine," Remus said. "I'll just go home. The basement there, it's…it's prepared."
Sirius' own frown tightened. Wolfsbane was a fickle potion- one that Sirius didn't really approve of anyway- it wasn't easy to replicate, not ready yet for 'mass production', to use a Muggle term. Remus couldn't always access it, sometimes he had to manage on his own. And that would be fine, but…but…
"I want to be there," Sirius blurted, too honest. "I don't want you to get hurt."
"I don't want to hurt you," Remus replied, very quiet, still not quite meeting Sirius' eyes.
"You won't, baby."
"I did."
"I-"
"No, Sirius," Remus interrupted, sharp teeth bared at him for less than an instant, just enough to send a little lightning down Sirius' spine. "I've seen it- I scarred you. I won't do it again."
The clawmark on Sirius' shoulder- just over two years ago, now. When the moon was high it became hot to the touch, but that was his only sign of what Mad-Eye Moody might call 'lycanthropic infection'.
"I don't care about that," Sirius said, out loud, a personal effort to speak his mind instead of letting everything gather and rot in his throat. "I like it."
Remus didn't answer him. Sirius had won this argument once- but he wasn't sure if he could manage it again.
The dog inside him ached, hung its head. Remus was a kite in a windstorm- it was difficult, finding ways to pull him down to Sirius without snapping his cord. That much, perhaps, would never change.
Remus didn't often spend the night at Grimmauld Place (Sirius couldn't really blame him), but Sirius treasured when he did. The cleanest bedroom was the one Sirius occupied, the one that had belonged to him, with a magically enlarged bed and some of the teenage revelry hidden away. Sirius had disguised the Muggle pinups. He couldn't imagine what Remus might think of those.
The moon was new, and so Remus slept very deeply, the empty sky drugging him almost like the Wolfsbane did. Sirius, though, couldn't sleep so easily. He hardly got any daylight, locked away in this house, hardly any fresh air. His animal brain didn't really know night from day anymore, they were all the same, the same colours, the same smells. Sometimes he wondered if he would go mad again, trapped here.
But Remus' presence stilled these aching kinds of thoughts. The dog in Sirius couldn't be discontented when the wolf was near, and the man was hard-pressed. How he slept now, his brow unfurrowed and his lips unpursed, he looked lovelier than anything.
Sirius drew a hand over Remus' cheekbone, and thought: I have done wrong by you.
Perhaps they had done wrong by each other; but Sirius was certain he was the guiltier party.
Out of Azkaban, he had been given a second chance. He realized this now.
Sirius bent his head and kissed Remus' warm forehead; he had better take it, then.
Remus came to Grimmauld Place alone and he was very pale and he was shaking, and Sirius let him in out of the rain and magicked the kettle to start, barking Kreacher out of the kitchen as they settled there. Sirius had a horrible fear- something terrible must have happened, some great blow, Sirius had been in here and unable to help and something had gone wrong-
"Tell me, Moony," Sirius begged; Remus' lips looked blue.
"He- I-"
"What is it?"
Remus shuddered and wiped wet hair from his forehead with trembling fingers, and he must have sensed or seen what Sirius was feeling because he hushed him, mouth barely forming the words.
"It's alright, Sirius," he murmured. "It's not- not an emergency."
"But you look-"
Sirius didn't want to say how he looked. It reminded him of the way Remus had been when getting out of the hospital, fourteen years ago.
"Albus wants," Remus said, and then the kettle began to scream and he stopped until Sirius had fixed him tea, and by the time he had something seemed to have changed a little; Remus sat up straighter, his hands clasped together.
"Albus has sent Hagrid to contend with the giants," Remus finished, in a prim and unusual voice, a customer-service kind of voice, like Sirius was a stranger. Sirius didn't understand him at first- and once he did his stomach dropped.
"And what did he ask you to do?"
Remus did not reply.
"No," Sirius continued. "No, fuck no, Moony. You don't have to."
"You-"
"No," again, harsher this time. Something in Sirius' voice seemed to startle him, Remus, he looked at him wide-eyed and so very wolfish, and Sirius took his head in his hands and lifted his chin, forcing him to, bringing him to reckoning. "You don't."
And Sirius didn't know what it meant, when Remus nodded like he believed him.
When Remus came to Grimmauld Place next it was the day of the full moon.
(He hadn't gone after the wolves. Sirius didn't know what sort of conversation had transpired to make it so, but he hadn't gone. He had a hard look about him now, at Order meetings- as though he expected someone to accuse him of something- but as of yet, no one had.)
Sirius received him in the kitchen and there he took from the paper bag he had been carrying an unmarked, dark bottle. Sirius guessed what it was in an instant and swallowed hard.
"You wanna do it here?" Sirius asked, and he sounded so eager it was almost embarrassing, and Remus blushed.
"Baby steps, Padfoot," he murmured, and Sirius grinned at him. He didn't comment on it- no sense in jinxing a good thing- but that was the first time that name had left Remus' mouth in a long, long time.
And that night, after the sun had set, Remus sat by the fire in only a blanket and Sirius joined him as a dog, Remus too paranoid to allow him to watch in his human form in case something should go wrong. Sirius nuzzled his ear and under his chin, tail wagging shamelessly, and Remus had already drunk the foul-smelling potion and when it happened it seemed to happen very suddenly.
It was over quickly, too. It was just like Sirius remembered, just as thrilling- only throughout Remus did not snarl, his eyes did not turn wild. The madness did not come.
The wolf stood on shaky legs and looked at him, ears pulled back as though embarrassed, and Sirius decided that was good enough- caution to the wind- and became a man again.
"Remus," he murmured, folding his legs to sit where Remus had, holding out his hands. "Moony."
Remus padded over to him, dipping his head, and Sirius stroked his ears and the ruff of his neck, running his palms down that smooth silver fur.
"There you are. There you are, Moony. You should see yourself, we should get to a mirror. You're so beautiful like this, you've always been, so beautiful…"
Remus huffed, wordless (of course), but then- to Sirius' great delight- he lifted his head and blinked his golden eyes and licked Sirius once under the chin.
But before long his blinks became slow, heavy-lidded, his legs shook for holding themselves up, the secondary effects of Wolfsbane. Sirius became Padfoot again, and his vision blurred but his nose became much stronger, and he could smell the sickly sweet scent upon him again.
So the wolf and the dog lay together by the embers, their figures coiled into one, and they slept.
At Christmas the house was full, and as such almost cheery; the presence of the children brought everyone together. Mr. Weasley was recovering well from his attack at the Ministry, and Mrs Weasley ensured there were rich foods aplenty to nurture him to health (and everyone else to an extra inch on the waistline). Despite all their troubles- Harry, in particular, had been possessed by a black mood since his dream- Sirius didn't think he had ever seen Grimmauld Place so lively.
On the day itself everyone gathered for Christmas dinner and when that was done there were crackers and wine, perhaps too much wine. Sirius hoisted Mundungus Fletcher from the china cabinet somewhat half-heartedly and rejoined the party- looking, of course, for one person, the one person who always drew his eye.
Remus was in a corner where his tattered clothes blended with the wallpaper, but Sirius, of course, saw him anyway. He was speaking with Sirius' younger cousin, Tonks, and she laughed rather boisterously at something he had said, which left Remus looking surprised.
…Sirius felt a vague twinge in his gut, one he did not welcome; they seemed to suit, the misfits, heads bent together.
But it was a twinge, nothing more.
Sirius crossed the room to join them and Remus opened the circle and looked at him, that nervous warmth in his yellow eyes, and Sirius was welcomed there.
Harry's head disappeared from the fireplace and Sirius chortled in spite of himself, feeling very young again. He had forgotten how James used to tousle his hair when the girls passed them by the lake, forgotten how it had felt to lie there with the sun warming him, and not a care in the world. As abruptly and strongly as his mirth, a sudden sadness struck him, and Remus who knelt at his side must have sensed it because he put a hand on Sirius' shoulder. Sirius smiled at him, or tried to, watery, and the hand transformed into an embrace, inside of which Sirius felt very weak.
"It's alright, Sirius," Remus murmured to him. "It'll be alright."
And Sirius, this time, believed him.
They made love. Sirius had no thoughts for anything but the present, Remus' arms around his neck and Remus' mouth on his and Remus' eyes that glowed faintly in the dark. Werewolf. Sirius adored it him, adored his totality, in his heart of hearts he knew it well: Sirius' love had always been 'because', not 'in spite of'.
Sirius kissed the scars on his throat and Remus almost cried, shivering from it, and there was nothing better than this, this total consumption, silver and black wound together into each other's beings. Sirius wanted nothing more. He had been a fool to ever feel shame from it.
(Yes, a fool, he knew it quite suddenly- all those years ago, he had been wrong to want to hide.)
"I love you, Padfoot," Remus whimpered, a truth that seemed to tear at him, emerging fractured from a place hidden very deep inside. "Oh my God, I-"
"I love you too," Sirius told him, and he meant it, he had always meant it but now, somehow, he meant it more. He wanted to shout it from the rooftops, wanted to write it in the stars. He wanted everyone to look at him to know, this man is Remus Lupin's, he's a dog and he's the wolf's dog. Damn what they think. Damn what he had thought before, damn his shame and his reluctance and all the ways he'd pulled back and all the cruel things he'd done, damn those things to the past where they could never emerge from again.
When it was over Sirius was breathless and Remus was already nearly asleep, and Sirius stroked his head as he had the night Remus had taken Wolfsbane and Remus curled into him and Sirius saw him smile, just slightly, dazed and tired and pretty. Sirius felt as though all the clouds had lifted and he pulled Remus close, kissing his forehead until he really was asleep, and then just so he could feel him.
Damn the rules, too, said a soft voice in Sirius' head; you've thought of doing it before.
He had, at James' and Lily's wedding, he remembered, the cattails and the purple sunset and the champagne flutes, and Remus' sad, sad face. Why hadn't he done it then? Why had he pulled back? What, really, had he been afraid of? Sirius could think of nothing so very terrible about it now.
His only fear might have been that it was too late- twelve years in Azkaban, more in hiding, all this time apart- but even this he did not feel. Just now, Remus had said he loved him. So it certainly wasn't too late.
I'll marry you, if you let me, he thought, sending the message into Remus' dreams. Just you wait and see.
Remus left Sirius the next day with a kiss on his cheek. When the door closed behind him a certain warmth remained in Sirius' chest- something that was usually cut off by the click of the lock, by the knowledge that it was just him here now, and wheezy Kreacher patrolling the corridors. This was optimism, he supposed.
(A high thought- Remus could move here- or Sirius with him, into that little cottage. Neither of them would have to be alone.)
With nothing else to occupy his time, Sirius set about searching the house for a ring. Something decent, and certainly uncursed. Nothing that had belonged to his mother. There would have to be something- loathe though some part of him was to use anything from this house in a matter of love, another part was amused by the blasphemy of it; using an heirloom to marry a werewolf. A male werewolf. His mother would scream her throat raw to see such a creature inducted into the House of Black.
But then, Sirius did not want to be 'Black'. They had severed him from the family, and he from them. He still remembered getting that disownment letter back at Hogwarts.
No, not 'Black', not anymore. The name had given him enough trouble already.
Sirius Lupin.
(The flowers that grew along the roads in springtime.)
…he found he rather liked the sound of that.
As he shuffled through attic drawers, Kreacher made himself heard, muttering from a dusty corner; clearly drawn by the rummaging, desperate to keep anything he could safe from the bin.
"Master Sirius looking through his great-grandmother's old things…Master Sirius disrespecting the lady's property…"
"Nonsense, Kreacher," Sirius told him, surprisingly jovial. "Though you won't like what I intend to do with it. Now back downstairs with you, mind the fire."
Even this could not dampen his spirits.
Sirius did find a ring- not cursed, and not silver either. A simple band of Goblin gold, upon which had been etched a spiraling pattern, more Celtic than Anglo-Saxon. He tested it thoroughly, using all the charms and potions of revelation, and was confident it was nothing more than a ring. Perhaps some vain ancestor of his had used it to decorate unimportant fingers; that much did not matter now. It was to be put to a much better purpose.
In a way he knew he should make an effort to be more romantic- who would want to be proposed to in Grimmauld Place- but he didn't have much choice. And besides, he already felt that too much time had been wasted. In Azkaban, certainly, and even before, when Sirius had rotted away inside himself, when he should have declared it from the moment the Sorting Hat left Remus' head, you, yes you, I love you and I will marry you and our souls come in nearly the same shape…
The next time Remus came to see him, then. The next time, he would ask.
And does anyone really know it, when they wake unto the last day?
When Sirius' heard Remus' voice next, it was to the sound of it calling his name, in a tone that sounded something like panic.
Sirius descended the stairs to the landing in his slippers, the ring he had taken to carrying with him warm in his housecoat pocket. Remus was brilliant and beautiful and wide-eyed, looking up at him from the entryway; but he was not alone. The door was open and people were slipping in, the cracks of their Apparition sounding from the pavement outside. The Order was coming, and all its many faces were drawn.
"We've been assembled, Sirius," Remus said, just as Sirius asked: "What is it? What's happened?"
"Voldemort's in the Department of Mysteries," Remus told him. "...and so is Harry Potter."
So Sirius magicked on his proper robes, and joined them.
