Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine, except what I (stubbornly) choose to read in the subtext.
4. The smell had risen from his cauldron, in which his Amortentia bubbled in its last stage, in a shimmering shade of earthy brown shot through with gold, like caramel blended deliberately into peanut butter. Sirius had froze, maps of gooseflesh canvassing pleasure routes down his spine, and for a quick moment, regretted taking James up on this illegal potions exercise. Next to him, said Potter was muttering feverishly under his breath, vaguely intelligible words about pollen and Quidditch pitches and the sharpness of drying ink. Sirius wanted to say something, a crude wisecrack about James' Lily being more likely to sting inquisitive bees rather than allow them the gift of her pollen, but the words remained lodged in his throat, stalled by the serpentine coils that wound itself through his hair, lifting the ends and kissing his neck. It was the scent of smoke, heavy and dusky and insanely attractive to Sirius, who located it immediately as that lazy afternoon in the Gryffindor Tower back in their fourth year.
That afternoon when the marauders had positioned themselves in front of the blazing fire, creatures of habit inhabiting the same territories. Peter spread-eagle on the carpet, inevitable ink stains in smudged lines down his cheek, on which he had rubbed his fist in predictable homework-induced frustration. James sitting Indian-style on the long couch that overlooked the window, pretending to be writing a long overdue letter to his parents when in truth, he was darting furtive glances at a certain redhead. Sirius himself occupying the remaining two thirds of the same couch, head against James' leg, staring up at the ceiling as his feet dangled carelessly over the top of the sofa.
And Remus.
Remus in the threadbare armchair facing him and James, reading, reading so deeply and so compulsively he made his seat look like the most regal and comfortable of thrones. Sirius had turned to study the werewolf as a log crackled in the hearth, and he had been seized by the sudden childish desire to walk over to his lover, to remove the book from his hands, to see those liquid brown eyes clear and then resettle on his own face, reading him, reading him instead. His vision had filled with smoke as he watched Remus, and he was soon unable to tell if the smoke was a product of his imagination, or if the fire was blazing too fiercely. He smelt smoke everywhere, felt it press against his cheeks even as he laid on the couch, felt it whisper against his eyelids, tempting him to look away. And Remus had looked up then, and he had caught Sirius, and Sirius did not grin, but continued to follow the edges and shadows across his lover's face. Remus had gazed back, steadily, and the intensity in his eyes had darkened into something fiercer, something Sirius recognized as intimately, possessively his.
And the smoke continued to float in the empty spaces between them, a quiet dance, visible only to searching eyes.
Now, standing over his cauldron in the deserted bathroom, Sirius wondered if the smell had truly left his skin that lazy afternoon, if it had not, like everything related to Remus, found its way under his skin, singing clear with his blood.