Meet me at the pool at eleven o'clock , the note said, the handwriting both tidy and scrawling, a hint of the many contradictions held within its writer. It took Sirius three tries to pick the slip of paper up from the floor of his locker, his fingers nerveless and the metal slippery. Finally, the slender proof of Remus was here is in his hand, and he raises it to his face, sniffing at it as if it will somehow carry a fragment of its writer's scent.
It doesn't. Remus doesn't wear cologne, especially not into the locker room before practice. Remus smells of Castille soap and rain and boy —a lovely, perfect, indelible scent, but not one easily left behind on a slip of paper. Remus is far subtler than that. Far more difficult to grasp.
Sirius isn't sure what he was thinking. In recent weeks, he turned into the hero of one of the Victorian novels they read in class, basking in the clues of his lover's presence and losing himself to the romanticism of words unsaid and doors left slightly ajar.
He's still looking at the note when someone comes up behind him and cuffs him on the shoulder.
"What's that, then?" James asks.
Sirius crumples the note in his hand and flinches inwardly at the sound of the crinkle. Then flinches at the flinch, because when did he sink to preserving scraps of notebook paper?
"Nothing," he says. "Just reminding myself of the English assignment."
"Still stuck in the Victorians?"
"Yeah."
"Bad luck, mate," James says, giving Sirius another clap on his shoulder. "But you'd better quit stalling, class won't be any shorter if you're late."
Sirius throws him a skeptical look. "That is literally not true."
James cocks his head to the side, considering. "I guess you're right, but—" he points a threatening finger at Sirius — "it will feel longer if you have to listen to Miss Watson bang on about how ungentlemanly lateness is. So."
Sirius cannot deny this fact, and so, with a sigh, he hefts his bag over his shoulder and follows James from the locker room. On the stairs, with James in front of him, he unfurls his fist and does his best to smooth out the crumpled paper. He'll stick it between the pages of his Wilde anthology later. That'll get it flat again.
The day drags. Remus is there in his English class, sat next to Oliver Richmond, and laughing as he makes a joke about Bunburying. Oliver is laughing too and Sirius wants, more than anything, to stride forward and sit beside Remus and breathe the laughter right out of his mouth. But he'd chosen his place at the back of the classroom at the beginning of the school year when he was the new kid and still angry at everyone and everything and unafraid to show it.
It's aggravating, the weight of reputation. Maybe he wants to smile and sit at the front of class and make jokes about being queer and flirt openly with his—with Remus, but it feels impossible, to go from this to that, and all at once. Reinvention isn't as easy as they make it look at the cinema.
As Sirius files past, trudging towards his seat in the back, Remus gives him a private sort of smile and some of the tension eases from his chest. He carries the class text in his hand, the note pressed between its pages. Never has an old book felt so precious. Never has it provided so much warmth.
At lunch, the dining hall is a sea of noise. Everything, everything is noisy at Hogwarts. It seems sometimes to Sirius that his world is ruled by sound. His mornings start with the brutal shrill of his alarm. Then he rows on the lake, the boat clicking and creaking beneath him, Remus shouting out calls and James and Kingsley and Frank grunting in unison as they wail on their oars. The locker room echoes with shouts, the showers rush like rain, the weight room upstairs clangs and bangs with the sounds of strength hard-won.
The teachers lecture and the hallways roar and his table in the dining hall, where James and Remus and Frank and Gideon and Fabian and Kingsley all sit and eat together, ricochets with the in-jokes that they bounce among themselves.
"What are you doing for the Chemistry project, then?" Frank asks Fabian.
"Volcano."
"Mate, you're eighteen. These are A-levels. You can't make me believe Sluggy's going to pass you for that."
Fabian only shrugs. "I can make it from papier mache and use it for my Sculpture assignment as well."
Frank curses, half admiring and half irritated. It's an idea so daft it just might work, and they all know Fabian will probably get away with it.
Remus kicks Sirius under the table, not that he had to. Sirius was already watching him, had been since they'd all sat down. Sirius grimaces and it looks like a smile, and Remus smiles and it feels like a caress. Remus raises his eyebrows. I want more hot choc. Sirius nods. Sure, I'll come with. Sirius stands up.
"I fancy more chips," he says to the table at large.
"I'll come with," Remus says. "I need more hot choc."
James pinches Remus in the stomach. "How you stay so skinny when you don't even work out with the team is beyond me." James is dutifully eating his whole wheat pasta with chicken and a side of broccoli, because our bodies are our instruments, lads, and we had better take care of them.
"Who says I don't work out?" Remus asks. "Shouting at you lot is very draining."
Everyone roars with laughter. Remus walks towards the counter, Sirius on his heels.
"As if you don't work out," Sirius teases him. "I'm surprised James doesn't realise. Anyone who's seen you in the locker room should know."
Remus smirks. "I don't think most of the lads are looking the way you look."
Sirius raises his chin with exaggerated punctiliousness. "I should hope not."
Remus' hand, swinging at his side, brushes against Sirius'. Everything is warm.
Practice that afternoon is barely survivable. At least Remus doesn't kit up in a unisuit like the rest of them. Sirius might have a stroke if he did that. He crouches behind Sirius as he pulls his 2k and mutters encouragements in between every stroke. Sometimes, if there's no one else near, he calls him baby in a whisper. His legs drive with extra power on those strokes. It's a wonder that no one has caught on to them yet.
When Sirius finishes the piece — it's not his best time but it's not too shabby, and anyway, he hadn't been pulling at one hundred percent — Remus puts both hands on his shoulders and shakes.
"Well done, Padfoot," he says, thumbs pressing into the space above his collarbones.
"Like lightning," James agrees, walking over to tussle Sirius' hair. It's funny , Sirius thinks, the lines between things .
He showers in the locker room and by the time he's done, Remus has disappeared. He hadn't needed a shower, hadn't sweated at practice. The privileges of a coxswain. James, wrapped in a towel, asks Sirius what he wants to do that night.
"It's finally Friday! Lily said some of the girls from St. Helga's might go into town tonight. Fancy it?"
Sirius shrugs. "Maybe. I'm dead tired."
James laughs at him and throws an arm over his shoulders. "We'll find a way to get you nice and lively. Peter's just restocked."
Later, Sirius will find a reason to abscond by eleven. For now, he laughs and nods along.
Sirius has only visited the pool twice since arriving at Hogwarts. Once for the mandatory swim test at the beginning of the year — he'd had to do it with the year nines, the only sixth former who was new and thus yet to fulfill the requirement.
The second time had been several weeks ago. He met Remus after his physio appointment with the school trainer. Since twisting his knee, Remus had only been able to run in the water. The swim team had been practicing then, and the sounds of the couch shouting and the swimmers splashing and cheering one another on had echoed around the cavernous room.
Remus had been climbing out of the water when Sirius approached. He was talking gravely with the trainer and didn't see Sirius at first. When he did notice, his face split into a wide grin.
"What are you doing here, Black?" he had asked, pleasantly surprised.
"Just stopping by," Sirius had said. And then, with a put-on heartiness: "Must appreciate the amazing facilities that Hogwarts offers us."
"Oh, I see, you're angling for the tour-guide job. Bit swot of you, that, isn't it?"
Sirius had snorted and might have shoved Remus backwards into the water, and himself too, clothes and all, had he not remembered himself just in time.
Now, weeks later — although in the language of feeling, it might have been decades — there's no need for restraint.
The pool is empty, lit eerily blue by the path lights filtering in through the windows and reflecting off of the chlorinated water. Walking in through the changing rooms, Sirius can hear the hum of the generator and the whir of the water purifier, still at work even in the dead of night.
He can also hear someone moving around in the water. He stops at the doorway, mesmerised by the steady, rhythmic patter of feet kicking their way across the pool.
Remus is beautiful in the water. Well, he's beautiful all the time, but he's really breathtaking in the water. He's back-stroking his way down the length of the pool, away from Sirius. His curly hair, rendered darker by the water, floating in a halo around his pale face. His long, lean torso, sometimes revealed and sometimes hidden beneath the surface, captures Sirius' eyes. He doesn't notice immediately how Remus has raised his head, previously relaxed back and floating, to look up at him.
"You made it," Remus says, a smile in his voice. "I thought maybe you'd gotten lost."
"Fuck off," Sirius says. He knows Remus has seen him staring, and he knows Remus thinks he's silly for it. Well, Remus can think what he likes. Sirius will never stop believing that his—that Remus is the most mesmerising thing in the world.
"You getting in, or are you just going to stand there and gawk?" Remus asks.
In answer, Sirius pulls his tee-shirt up and over his head and pushes his sweats down around his ankles. He removes one foot and then the other, kicking the grey fabric away. He tosses his tee-shirt after it. They land in a perfect pile. Remus whistles appreciatively. Sirius might've told him to fuck off again, but he's still looking at him and is distracted by the way his throat contracts with the sound. Remus' Adam's apple bobs. Sirius loses his words.
Sirius is in his swimming costume. He'd considered leaving it behind but had lost the nerve at the last moment. He really didn't want to be expelled from yet another school, especially not for something trivial like nudity. That's the reason he'd given himself, anyway.
Remus is also wearing shorts, so it was probably the right choice. "Well?" he asks. "You'll get cold if you just keep standing there."
Sirius runs to the edge of the pool on flat feet, careful not to slip. He jumps into the water, making as big a splash as he can manage. Underwater, the world is muted. He stays there for a while, his eyes squeezed tightly shut against the sting of the chlorine. When he returns to the surface and opens his eyes again, it is to find Remus much closer than he had been before. Indeed, he almost bonks the other boy in the nose as he rises up out of the water.
Sirius springs backwards in alarm. Remus reaches out a hand, grabbing his wrist and keeping him close.
"Hi," says Remus.
"Hi," says Sirius.
Then he can't contain it any longer, and he pulls Remus close against him, reveling in the cool slippery sensation of skin on skin. Their kiss starts hungry but finds its way towards gentle, pliant, both of them reaching for an energy less ecstatic and more contented.
Good , thinks Sirius, who hadn't been lying when he told James he was tired. Good.
When they break apart, they stay close. Sirius watches the water beading on Remus' eyelashes and wants to sob. Remus keeps his hand cupped around Sirius' cheek, warming both.
"I missed you today," Sirius finally finds the voice to say.
"We saw each other in English, and at break, and at both practices," Remus reminds him. And then, "I missed you, too."
Remus is leaning in closer, closer again. In the faint blue light of the pool, his freckles look almost silver. His wet hair is curling into a ludicrous sort of cowlick. His lips are purple in the dim and the cold.
And Sirius feels it rising up in his chest: I love you .
He ducks out from between Remus' arms and submerges himself again in the water. Again, the world is muted, the only sound the bubbles rippling from his own nose. And Remus, a watery world away, saying something to him.
Hands on his shoulders trying to pull him back up, but he's stronger than Remus and more stubborn, too, and he doesn't budge. His eyes are squeezed shut again, against the chlorine, yes, but more so against the exquisite ache of simultaneous knowing and unknowing.
He feels the water moving around him and knows that it's because Remus has joined him. He still doesn't open his eyes. He'll have to return to the surface soon, anyway, because try as he might, he's never managed to sprout gills.
Then there's a finger smoothing along his left eyebrow, brushing against his eyelashes, and he can't not open his eyes.
Remus is in front of him, one arm moving lazily to keep himself afloat and the other occupied tracing Sirius' face — his cheekbone, now.
"Remus," Sirius begins to say, but it comes out like a big bubble. Then Sirius is choking and he rises quickly to the surface so he can replenish the air in his lungs. The texture of the world comes as a surprise to him, somehow, the air stark and oddly loud. The generator , he reminds himself. He'd forgotten.
Remus reemerges the split of a second later and shakes his head like a dog to get the water out of his ears. He's smiling but he's uncertain, worried for Sirius.
"You alright?" he asks when the coughing subsides. Sirius watches the water as it falls in ripples down the pale column of his neck and is again consumed.
"Fine," Sirius says. "More than. Just thinking. And a bit surprised."
Remus laughs. "What by? Do I look that terrible?" He runs his fingers through his hair, making it stand up in a mohawk.
"It wasn't you. I surprised myself."
He nods with mock solemnity. "Hmm, I can see how that would be a shock to your system. A whole entire thought."
Sirius is supposed to laugh now, laugh and tell him to shut up and then do the work of shutting him up by attacking his lips with kisses. It's part of the dance they've worked out in these weeks and months of slow-cooked intimacy. But he doesn't — can't — not right now.
Habits are good. They're the script on those days when improvisation feels too mighty a task. Habits shared with someone are wonderful. They are reminders of knowing and of being known.
But habits can also conceal.
Remus looks concerned again. "Sirius?" he asks. "You know I'm kidding, right? You know I think you're brilliant."
"I know," Sirius says. He reaches out a palm and presses it slowly to Remus' cheek, more tentative than he ever has been before.
"Remus, I—" but he can't say it.
He feels Remus smile beneath his hand, the lifting of his finely-carved cheekbone. Remus glows from within , he thinks. Not light, but something else. Warmth. He glows from within, and I, I am a dark cloud beside him .
"I have an idea," Remus says, interrupting his thoughts.
"Oh?"
"A game I used to play with my cousins."
"I'm listening," Sirius says.
"We go underwater, right, and you open your eyes and say something."
"Underwater?"
"Yeah, because then the other person has to try and guess what you're saying. When you come back to the surface, you say what you think you heard. S'like telephone."
Sirius is game but he's also surprised by the turn this has taken; the sudden spark of mischief he sees in Remus' eye.
Remus sees his hesitation and takes him by the hand. "C'mon, I'll go first."
He ducks beneath the surface and pulls Sirius with him. They sit on the bottom of the pool, facing one another, and Remus is limned in the aqua light of the pool's inset LEDs. He grins and a stream of bubbles rush up past his eyes and through his drifting hair.
He squeezes Sirius' hand as he speaks, and it sounds like a whale call. He moves his mouth in exaggerated gestures, first wide, then long and narrow, then a perfect 'o'. When he's done, he returns to the surface and Sirius follows.
"So?" Remus asks, breathless, eager. "What did I say?"
"I have no idea,' Sirius says, and hopes it sounds lighthearted.
"No idea at all?"
Sirius hesitates. He knows what he thinks he heard, thinks he recognises the cadence of those syllables even if he couldn't make out the consonants.
Remus looks a bit disappointed, and Sirius would do anything to wash that expression from his face. "I'll go next," he says. He dips below the surface before he can change his mind.
When Remus is facing him again, he reaches out both hands and intertwines them with his. It's odd, trying to sit at the bottom of a pool. The body's buoyancy wants to lift him back up to the surface. Their clasped hands help them to resist it.
When he's certain Remus is watching him, he says, slowly, clearly: "I love you."
His face splits into a delirious smile, because the sounds that come out of his mouth, the shapes of the bubbles, are the same as those that came from Remus moments before. Remus is smiling too, whether because he heard and understood or just because when Sirus smiles like that, the whole world wants to smile back.
Back on the surface, Sirius rubs the water from his eyes. Hands, strong and slender, wrap around his wrists and pull his hands away from his face. Then Remus is kissing him again, and it feels like worship.
After a time, Sirius breaks the kiss and leans back so he can see Remus more clearly.
"I love you," he says again.
"I love you," Remus replies, and he is so calm and so certain.
"But," he continues, because he needs to say everything, and Remus goes rigid. "But, I don't think I know how to. I don't think I'm good enough at it."
Voiced out loud, the enormity of this fear is overwhelming.
"Oh, Sirius," Remus says, and he steps closer and cups Sirius' face in his hands. "You are more than good enough at it. You love so well."
"But—" and Sirius is thinking 'but I don't hold your hand at lunch with our friends, and I don't sit beside you during English, and I won't introduce you to my mother over Spring recess. But I fall into moods and forget to be kind. But I'm me '.
And Remus says, "You are more than enough."
"I'll get better," Sirius says. "I'll get ready and I'll be better for you. I'll change."
"You are already more than enough."
Remus tugs him back beneath the water, says it again. "You are more than enough." Sirius hears the syllables and watches the bubbles form. And there it is: tangible in the water, the billowing, expanding reality of acceptance.