8. The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them, wanting to gather them up like ash, chase them through the air where they would have left a powdery trail, a ghostly path back home. But Sirius and him were already home, they had come back to each other, black now bleeding into grey, like still water deep with murky deposits of unspeakable hurt and anger.
"Sirius," he started, struggling to force laughter into his tone, reaching forward for a man whose outline had started to blur, even as his center pulsed with darkness, fierce and silent, and most terrifying of all, expressionless.
"Sirius, don't be silly," he chuckled, his fingers grasping at empty air, his mirth hollow and echoing, "She doesn't like me that way."
Sirius merely leaned against the doorframe, his jaw clenched, his grey eyes challenging, steel spheres of light that blazed like falling stars, defiant even in descent. Remus felt his throat tighten, his heart racing with a fear he did not wish to name, for the process of speaking would give it form, pack its aimless molecules together till it takes shape, till reality bends to its will.
And he did not wish to learn the second language of loss again, not now.
He moved forward until he was directly in front of Sirius, until he could place both hands on Sirius' face, brushing careful fingers over lips, through hair wet from the shower, across the dipping contours of cheekbones.
"Don't sulk," he whispered, thumb tracing slow circles in unshaved stubble, delighting in the sharp pain that met his touch, the essence of the man he loved, the man who could break into a million pieces in his arms.
"I'm not," Sirius muttered, scowling now, even though he did not pull away, his arms reaching around Remus' waist instead, drawing the werewolf closer till they were aligned, hip to hip, heart to pounding heart. "You are," teasing and laughter that burnished ocher eyes with gold, soft and secretive, a sight only he would ever see, a sight that set glee loose in his stomach, light and selfish.
"She likes you, you know. She trips whenever you are in the room."
He knew he was being cruel now, but the cold sharpness of his casual words thrilled him, pleasure sweeter and heavier than the chocolate he had licked off Remus' fingers a week ago, their own celebration, a quiet room away, of Harry's birthday.
"She trips even when I am not in the room, my love."
Word for word, and measure for measure, sticky brown eyes that held his own steadily, ready to meet him at his own game, ready for anything he wanted.
I know, I know, I know.
"She is a good girl, you –" he mutters hoarsely like choking, like over-compensation for his unkindness, like pleas for Remus to turn those burning eyes away, eyes that read him to his core, that saw the broken, screaming man that cowered there. Remus kissed him then, hard, tongue and teeth and heat, to incinerate those uncertain words before they could escape, before Sirius' brokenness tore his own being apart, wolfish-gold particles that he imagined would never dissipate, would cling to this hurting man that he loved until death came for them both.
For he had known fear in his time, but it would have no place in this house now, this home of love returned, of darkness he would only too willingly take into his own blood if it meant eternity with Sirius – for he would no longer be afraid.