Chapter Text
‘Come now, Moony, sit yourself down. You know what day it is.’ Sirius bounces on the balls of his feet as he gestures towards the table.
‘Hallowe’en,’ says Remus. ‘It’s Hallowe’en. Do we need a Muggle-Repelling Charm on the front door, or have you bought sweets?’
Sirius huffs out a sigh. Remus is always so difficult about this. ‘It’s our anniversary.’
‘It is not our anniversary,’ says Remus, rubbing the back of his neck distractedly.
The denials are familiar enough; all part of Remus’ contention that romance, and sentiment, and the desire for commemoration are all exclusively Sirius’ domain. It’s mostly tongue-in-cheek, a milder echo of the days Remus spent pretending that he didn’t feel, or need, or want love as much as Sirius did.
They both play their parts still, with Sirius as the romantic and Remus the pragmatist. That’s true, so far as it goes, but it isn’t the whole truth.
‘It is so our anniversary and it’s a special one,’ insists Sirius, undeterred. ‘Ten years, Moony. A decade.’
It’s quite extraordinary, really, ten whole years since Hallowe’en 1981 and the chaos that surrounded it, when they turned the world upside down and inside out as autumn turned into winter and everything changed.
Remus' expression softens a little. 'Ten years is something special, I agree. But, at the risk of repeating myself - although I have, in fact, repeated this every year for the past ten years - Hallowe’en isn’t our anniversary. We weren't together at Hallowe’en.'
Sirius waves a dismissive hand. 'Details,' he says. 'And as I've pointed out every year for the past ten years, you haven’t got an alternative so button it.'
Remus just sighs and rolls his eyes, which is tantamount to admitting that Sirius is right before moving on to the next stage of his (utterly predictable) objections.
'Even if it were our anniversary, normal people celebrate their anniversaries with meals out or a shag. They don't indulge in bizarre truth-telling rituals you've designed specifically to torment me.'
Sirius takes a step towards him, taking Remus' hands in his own, and Remus isn't nearly as cross as he makes out because he lets him. ‘You know why we do this. It's appropriate.'
'It's absurd,' mutters Remus, looking away. 'And there's plenty of other things would be appropriate considering what... what happened back then but I don't see you asking for them.'
'Something else you're feeling nostalgic for?' asks Sirius. ‘Would you rather tie me up, maybe slap me about a bit?'
'Merlin's balls,' says Remus, snatching his hands back and turning away.
'Is it less fun if I consent first?' says Sirius. 'I don't mind struggling a bit if that makes it more exciting for you.'
Remus wheels around, looking back at Sirius. 'How do you get worse every year?'
'Practice,' says Sirius. He offers Remus a small, conciliatory smile, because much as the wind-up games are all part of it – their tradition, their history, who they are – he’s no desire to cause Remus any real upset. He lowers his voice to remind Remus, ‘You know why it’s important.’
‘I don’t like remembering what I did to you,’ says Remus quietly. ‘Or how I nearly lost you.’
Sirius shakes his head. ‘You saved me,’ he says firmly. ‘And now I’m happy. I’m with you.’
'Fine,' says Remus, admitting defeat at last. 'Let's get this over with.'
Sirius smiles as they sit either side of the table and refrains from gloating, even though Remus’ acquiescence is as predictable as his objections. Instead, he opens the bottle and pours them both a small measure of clear liquid. Remus picks his glass up and looks at it.
'Where did you get this from anyway?'
'Nicked it from work,' says Sirius, grinning because it’s a cheery sort of provocation.
'Sirius, you are a Consultant Healer,' Remus admonishes him, right on cue.
'And yet my boyfriend treats me like an idiot.'
Remus rolls his eyes again. They're getting quite the work-out. 'Sometimes I think the more responsible you have to be at work the more ridiculous you become at home, just to even things out.'
Sirius ignores the barb, because it’s not a bad theory. 'Drink up.'
They both empty their glasses. Remus, once committed, doesn't hold back. He always asks first, and the first questions are always the same.
'Do you trust me?' says Remus.
'Completely,' says Sirius, looking him directly in the eye. 'Do you love me?'
Remus smiles back, the first genuine expression he's worn all evening. 'More than anything.'
It still pleases Sirius to hear it, even after all these years. He’s had quite a mixed history with truth potions.