Culmination Of A Vague Idea
Written by hiddendaze.



I

His bedroom was untouched, having been locked with a particularly vicious sealing charm. He’d enjoyed the five minutes spent outside, running through the counter charms, predictably based on his father’s collection of outraged phrases (no portrait keeping those words alive but Sirius had heard ‘lowest sort of scum’, ‘common chimneysweep’, and ‘malodorous whinger’ enough in his childhood that they rolled from his tongue with ease).

The door swung open and he strode in, casting a quick eye around before heading to the desk by the window and tapping the window open with his wand. Then he pulled out a cigarette and smoked, fresh air and tobacco clearing his head. At least Kreacher hadn’t been in here.

He draped one leg over the other and let the cigarette hang in his mouth as he pulled at the middle drawer with both hands. There was a trick to it - pull it just … so. It was all the secrecy he’d ever needed with a family far too refined to poke around and spy. He reached in and nearly lost his cigarette around a quiver of recognition as his hand touched slippery paper.

His dear old Muggle football magazines (he’d told James it was to piss his parents off but really, as sporting mags went, they showed more skin than the Quidditch ones).

He flicked through the top copy, grinning at his youthful predilections and occasionally nodding appreciatively at some long-legged, long-forgotten lust object. He slowed down when he saw his own handwriting alongside another nameless player: gives Lewis Talbot a run for his money. He murmured the words to himself a few times, trying to stir some memory from the sound. Suddenly it all became clear. “Bloody Hell, Lewis Talbot!”

This demanded another cigarette and with an accio and an incendio he was puffing away, vague memories of teenage infatuation prickling in his head. Bloody Hell, eh? He shoved the magazine back in the drawer and jammed it shut, wandering over to the old clothes chest at the foot of his bed. He stood over it for a moment before flicking the lid open and peering in. He could see a jumble of denim jackets and duffle coats, too many flared trousers and a few unfortunate experimentations with headwear. It was like a treasure trove. He snaked his arm into, around the mismatch of items until his hand reached the velvet lining at the bottom of the chest and something else.

It was still there, he *had* remembered right. Sirius grinned and sat on the edge of his bed, puffing smoke from one corner of his mouth, a battered spiral notebook resting in his lap. He turned it over, examining the scrawl covering the outside. James Potter is a wanker. Sirius Black wanks. The contents of the inside were no mystery - ink doodles, crap teenage observations and rants, glossy pictures of rock stars and football players. Sirius opened to a random page:

In changing rooms after R. vs G. game.

Lewis Talbot – hottest thing ever to pull on a Quidditch uniform.

Sirius chuckled at the memory of Lewis Talbot, object of fifteen year-old fascination and eager attempts to win on. The soft spot had lingered even after Lewis left school and joined the premier Quidditch league.

He turned back to the scrapbook.

James – good-looking, in a straight way.
Remus – has appeal. Nice shoulders.
Peter – will never make it, poor lad.

How did Moony get his gig with The Comet? Gets to talk to L. T. while James is kicking me out!

That was something forgotten, Moony and his job with the school paper. Blinking, Sirius could see images of the young Remus walking around with his parchments and pencils, talking to the Quidditch captains after a match, robe off and shirt-sleeves cuffed and rolled in the steamy summertime change rooms.

He’d have to remind him of that, and of Lewis, Sirius thought as he took a drag.

Remus, who was in the house with him, his dearest, living friend.

Has appeal. Nice shoulders. He’d been able to see something then, at fifteen.


II

“What are you doing here?”

“Delivering a message. Or have you forgotten how this works? Co-habitation with Dementors done funny things to your brain, Black?”

“And how is your arm today?”

Snape scowled, probably under the illusion that it was menacing. When Sirius just stood, waiting, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and thrust it on the table. “It’s for Shacklebolt.”

Sirius, with wand already out and lips primed to utter the unlocking spell, looked at the paper before flicking his wand and sending it towards the open biscuit tin above the kitchen counter. He hoped his disappointment didn’t show.

“Now where is Lupin?” Snape asked, concealing something within his robes. A new physical disfigurement to match his nose maybe.

“Something to hide, Snivelly?”

“Oh, I’ve got nothing to hide,” Snape said withdrawing a vial from his robe pocket, “but Lupin does like to keep his monthly frenzy out of the public eye, doesn’t he?”

“Unlike you, you malicious twit.”

“Just point me to Lupin, Black, and I can get out of this sorry excuse for a headquarters.”

“He’s on the third floor cleaning the bathroom.”

“A sad end for the most gifted defence student of his year.”

“We’re still alive, Snape, and I have definite plans for the future.”

“Oh Merlin. You cannot be referring to some amorous pursuit.” Snape scrunched up his nose - impressive given the size of said body part.

Sirius smirked.

“Spare us the embarrassment.”

“You never did get laid enough did you, Snape?”

“There may be a modicum of enjoyment in seeing you fall flat on your face.”

“Thanks then. Remus is upstairs. Do drop by again.”


III

Harry came to stay and then he left and Sirius felt more trapped than ever. Which for some reason led him back to his old bedroom for a smoke.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He looked around to see Remus standing beside the bed and then sitting down on it, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle.

“I’m old.”

“I’m old, too.”

Sirius scoffed. What did Remus know about being old and useless? People sought him out, and he was always out of the house and his skin looked soft, not scraped bare by rasping breaths of despair and - “I am, Sirius. You just need to look at me.”

There was something in the tone – plain, exposed, world weary – that made him look.

He was youthful, in a way. A sickly youthful, admittedly, but that wasn’t unattractive in itself as generations of pop stars had demonstrated. But the hunch of the shoulders, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes, the exhausted look in those eyes when he wasn’t pretending for anyone, including himself …

Those times were rare.

Sirius didn’t say anything, just looked, and exhaled out the window before stubbing the cigarette out and turning around with his hands on his knees.

“And you can’t teach old dogs new tricks can you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Remus said, sitting back on his elbows and grinning. “Some of us aren’t dogs for starters.”

Sirius started to grin back, torn between jumping up and slapping his hands together and savouring the feeling of spurts of warmth erupting in various parts of his belly. So he stayed just where he was and said, “You may just be right,” hands on his knees and eyes on Remus.


IV

Sirius walked into the room and Remus fell about laughing, literally. It was hands to thighs first, and then it was sinking to a squat and leaning forward, fingers sweeping at the floor.

“Wot?” Sirius said, bunging on an East End accent and doing a twirl.

“They … they cannot be your pinstripe flares from school!”

“As you see,” Sirius said, strutting around the kitchen.

“But … how?”

“Found them in my trunk.”

“No, how? How do you fit into them?”

“Oh well. Azkaban does that to a man. Keeps one lean and trim among other things.”

“Well, it’s quite a feat,” Remus said, rolling backwards onto the floor. “But you did always look good in them.”

Sirius grinned, and was surprised that he didn’t feel smug but thrilled.

“It’s a shame. Clothes are boring nowadays. I thought about giving them to Harry but …”

“No,” they said in unison and shook their heads.

“James was too short for flares anyway.” Sirius hadn’t thought about saying that but he found he didn’t need to dwell on the statement. Besides, the flares were part of an entirely different train of thought.

“Lewis Talbot, remember him?” he asked, taking a chair and watching Moony’s reaction.

“Oh yes.” Remus laughed knowingly. “Well, Lewis. Of course.”

“What happened to him?”

Remus seemed to be attempting to regain an upright position. His face was red and his hair dishevelled. “I think he might be coaching some Quidditch team up north. I haven’t heard about him for years actually.”

“I fancied him rotten for years.”

“You don’t say?”

“Hey! I know about you and locker rooms, Moony.”

Remus smiled a banal smile.

“C’mon. I know what you were doing all those times you were ‘reporting’.”

Remus looked like he was trying not to laugh again, so Sirius kept staring at him. “Well maybe a little look,” he finally said, and then rocked back against the floor, spluttering and howling.

Sirius thought, that’s it, that’s Moony, still young. And he howled, too, shaking in his seat at the sight of Remus not being old.


V

They say you can’t plan these things, and it’s true.

When Remus tripped, knocking him backwards, carpet grazed through his hair and a hand grabbed the front of his robe and he was happy, his head reverberating while Remus breathed into his neck.

“Err. Umm, hi?” Remus muttered, raising his head and looking at Sirius through a mess of fringe.

“Hi” he replied with remnant hysteria but Remus was on top of him, and his heart was on a downward trajectory to his stomach.

Remus wasn’t moving either; his head was back on Sirius’ shoulder now. It couldn’t be comfortable.

“You’re heavier than I thought you would be” Sirius said, cursing himself at the slight tell, though they’d been flirting for weeks now.

“Heavy bones. Hasn’t changed. Won’t ever.”

Sirius liked how heavy Remus was, against his hip and thighs and abdomen.

“Can’t tell how heavy you are. Some things change.”

“That’s how heavy I am,” Sirius said, rolling them over in one, smooth movement, and resting like a dead weight on Remus. Actually nearly smothering him with Remus’ nose still pressed into his shoulder.

“Still got muscles then,” Remus spluttered but without motions to move.


VI

He kisses the knobbly bit at the top of Remus’ spine, through the threadbare shirt and runs his finger along his spine, like each bump is a new musical note, a fresh sound in his life, or a fresh breath. When he reaches around to get the buttons he taps along the breastbone like he’s finding a rhythm, taking his lead from Remus, who laughs and reaches up to guide his wrist.

They are urgent and slow because they are young and they are old and this is new but it began a long time ago. They kiss with their heads on pillows, eyes bright and intent, and they shove each other, push and pull because they know they won’t break and it’s good to remember that. Sirius squeezes a shoulder as he moves against Remus, their hands gripped together in a sweaty struggle-embrace, and he thinks of nothing except how hot Remus’ skin is, how firm and salty beneath his fingers and teeth. He bites and bruises and feels Remus react, lean into him, not away. Their breaths and moans are rough because they are, and they don’t need to pretend otherwise here. But Sirius will mouth over the marks he has made, leaving pursed letters of affection on Remus’ flesh like a balm.

And afterwards he throws his arm out casually to pull him closer and presses his lips to the skin of his neck. He feels comfortable in this room, in this bed, in this house right now and so Sirius sleeps.

end.