9. Of all the possible images to associate Sirius Black with, Remus always thought of locked boxes, box within box within box, a Russian-doll labyrinth of secrets. Everything about Sirius was loud and unspoken at the same time, every word permitted and forbidden, so much so Remus had always felt himself to be learning every of Sirius' secrets with guilty care. He knew things about Sirius that nobody else possibly did, not even James, whom Sirius swore he had never lied to. It was not because he was closer to Sirius, that their shared bed and their lingering kisses left imprints like milky watermarks on both of them, blurring them together whether they wanted it or not. He knew Sirius because he watched him, because he watched in silence while the world roared at his antics and his reckless jokes, because he was careful to look in those ash-grey eyes even as sunlight threaded itself lovingly through dark hair, distracting all thoughts and intentions.
Remus knew, like nobody else did, that Sirius loathed Astronomy lessons, that he feared looking up into the dark skies, into the endless possibilities of universes and constellations. He knew this was the reason for Sirius' uncontrollable energy and mischief during every class, for his stealing textbooks and then laughing as he danced through telescopes and bodies, evading and evasive. Remus knew because Sirius' eyes were always indigo in those moments, blazing and unsmiling, even as his laughter ringed slightly maniacal in the silent night.
Remus became the collector of this secret in a shared moment of unexpected levity in their fumbling second year – under a heavily overcast sky, as James chased Quaffles into the night while his two best friends waited in the stands, quiet and formal, awaiting the rain and the words that would surely come. And then suddenly, Sirius had whooped, uncontained and gleeful, his arms like wings behind his head, taking the world into himself. He had spoken of the beauty of dark nights, of stars veiled, and Remus was quiet, his skin burning with the desire for touch, and the knowledge that he couldn't. He had laughed with Sirius, but he had moved carefully away all the same, feeling as though he was attempting to balance the tide, to learn to breathe even as the crest washed him out to shore. Sirius had shouted, "To hell with inheritances!", bouncing on the balls of his feet, a blackbird in flight, defying his name and the stars overhead. And Remus, in that moment of suspended movement and whispering time, had thought the ground not so far away from their stand in the air, had thought that falling would be quick, would be easy, as long as he had that winged boy, that laughing man, with him – with him always.