Author's note: I've read so much amazing fanfiction where Lupin is Welsh that I've conpletely adopted it as canon now. I hope I haven't gone too far by having him speak Welsh sometimes in the throes of passion.
The lines on his face show up more strongly in the light of the morning. He's too young for them to be there, or at least for them to be that deep, and I know they're a testament to the unthinkably hard life he's had, but I think they're beautiful.
Sleepy kisses, followed by less sleepy sex and then a companionable breakfast. Nothing's perfect - he still tries to hide the worst and most recent of his scars and wounds from me as we dress, the floor is still cold on my bare feet as I walk about his room, the house still has a weird vibe, what with the presence of that crazy elf and the simmering problem of Sirius's escalating frustration. Not perfect, but somehow wonderful beyond my wildest dreams. Because it's him. Just this man, this gentle, witty, brave man with his doubts and self-hatred pushed aside for a while as we give ourselves over to making love for just a little longer.
Blimey. I've never used the expression "make love" before. What's wrong with the word shag, I've always thought. And, being honest, he's an absolutely fantastic shag. But there's no getting around it, making love is what this is.
Over breakfast, I ask him. It feels a bit weird, but you shouldn't mumble things in Welsh into someone's mouth and chest while you make love to them - there it is again - if you don't want them to ask what you're on about.
"Oi Remus, what's pridverk?"
He slides egg on toast elegantly onto my plate.
"Prydferth." It sounds completely different when he says it. Softer, kinder. "I wasn't aware I'd said it."
"Yeah, you do quite often." Shit. My eye falls on the kitchen clock and I'm due at the Ministry in seven minutes. I cram egg and toast into my mouth. "So? What's it mean?" Egg yolk drips down my chin, and he looks at me with his dopey look of unspeakable fondness that I pretend not to see but which I absolutely bloody love. He smiles and leans across the table and runs those long fingers of his gently along my collarbone. He's a master of the surprising touch, this one. Rarely in the place you'd expect and always in exactly the place you needed.
"It means beautiful."