Chapter Text
You can find reason in any mess if you connect the right dots. Something his Mam used to say. Remus still isn’t sure if she meant it as a warning against looking for meaning where there was none or an encouragement to make your own meaning out of life’s messes. He’d ask, but she’s long dead. So. Not much reason to be found there.
He would, however, very much like to assign a reason to why he suddenly feels like he might have to crouch behind the bar and sob into his palm if someone so much as looks at him wrong. Some acute source of pain beyond ‘really fucking tired.’ Something a bit more tangible than ‘he’s having a rough go of things’—a phrase that’s been applicable for about thirty years now, always bobbing above the surface of true catastrophe.
He would like to know why, when a stunningly attractive man approaches the bar with a cocksure grin, his first thought is, ‘no.’ Not tonight. He doesn’t have the energy to fuel someone’s fantasy.
Come to think of it, he’s not sure what the phrase ‘looks at him wrong’ means exactly, so he can’t say for sure if what this man is doing qualifies, but it is most certainly unsettling. Probing.
”... Do you need to see a menu?” he asks, indicating the pile on the bar.
The man seems oddly put out by this. “It’s like that, is it?” His accent is posh. Painfully so. That explains some of it.
Already wearied of whatever banter he’s trying to initiate, Remus just blinks, face limp with blankness.
“Right...” He scratches his beard, looking a bit alarmed by the state of it. “I’ll er... I’ll have a Black Dog.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s... never mind.” The man shakes his head, clearly thrown by Remus’s refusal to indulge him. “Can I have an Old Fashioned?”
Remus nods and sets about muddling the sugar and bitters, intensely aware of the man’s eyes on him as he does. It’s not unusual for people to be fascinated by cocktails, but this is different: that piercing gaze fixed solely on his face. And while his features are admittedly a bit wonky, they don’t generally induce staring.
Their eyes meet as he stirs the cocktail. “What.”
“You really don’t know me.”
“Should I?” he asks, wracking his brain for handsome, grungy rock stars. He does have that sort of look about him—long black hair, ripped jeans, full tattoo sleeves.
But his response is only more puzzling, “You always know me.”
“Always?” Given that most of his customers are old Welsh men, he’d certainly remember if this English thirty-something were a regular.
“I’m serious.”
“About what?”
The man groans. “No, I—my name is Sirius Black.” He studies Remus expectantly.
“That’s a name.”
“You’re one to talk.”
Remus’s throat tightens. “What?”
“I’m friends with James?” the man—Sirius—pivots quickly, clearly throwing out a common name in the hopes that Remus will know a James. Unfortunately for him, he’s got rings on his fingers bigger than Remus’s social circle.
“Lily?” he tries again, a much stranger choice, yet he looks incredulous when Remus shakes his head. “Fuck, no wonder you look like shit.”
“Erm.” It stings more than he’d care to admit.
“Sorry—no, that was—you’re lovely. It’s just... comparatively... to other—I certainly have looked better, myself.”
Slowly, Remus stops stirring and sets the mixing glass aside. “I don’t think I’m going to serve you tonight. Would you like some water?”
Groaning, Sirius leans forward on the bar and drags his hands through his hair. “This is not going well.”
“Is there someone you can call?” Remus asks as gently as possible.
Sirius’s shoulders shake with laughter. “You, Remus. You’re the one I call.”
Their eyes lock once more. The longer he looks the more unnerving Sirius’s gaze becomes—a shock of silver weighted with knowledge and glinting with madness. It’s half ten on a Wednesday, and the pub is empty save for them.
“How do you know my name?”
“I... heard someone else say it.”
Remus gestures around pointedly.
“We met at a club. You must’ve been drunker than I thought...”
With a snort, he gestures at himself—an ungroomed beanpole with the posture and wardrobe of a man twice his age.
“I’m a wizard?” Sirius tries once more, laughing awkwardly through his silence that follows. “Right. See that’s... that was actually very clever, but you don’t have the context to get the joke, so... Listen, I know how absolutely mad this sounds, but I’m in trouble and need somewhere to lie low. I have money to help cover rent and bills... I think.”
“What sort of trouble?” Serial killers are often handsome, aren’t they? But then, they probably at least pretend to be normal at the beginning. Given the nonsensical rambling, it’s more likely drugs. Or a gang. He really doesn’t have the energy to accidentally become involved in gang activity again.
“Nothing you’d have to worry about.”
It’s ridiculous to even consider, he knows. This man is, at the very least, mentally unstable, and at most, a dangerous criminal who’s been stalking Remus for a while now.
But he could really use help with rent.
“There are bins bigger than my flat,” he says. “Cleaner too.”
Sirius smiles, as if knowingly. “I’d expect nothing more.”
You don’t know me, he wants to scream. But he supposes one look at his dishevelled state would say enough. He’s an easy mark, not exactly stable himself.
“I know I seem pathetic, but I do have a family,” he informs Sirius. “My Da calls me every morning to check in, and it isn’t like me not to respond or to miss a shift. I have a number of health problems, so people are prone to worrying about me.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Sirius says. “Not about the health problems. Just. That there are people who care about you.”
There’s that too. The way Sirius looks at him like he’s a real person, like he matters. And though he knows it must be a ploy, he can’t help but feel that he genuinely cares, that Remus is important to him somehow.
“Do you not have anyone who cares about you?” he asks.
Sirius looks away, drumming his fingers on the bar. “Not nearby.”
Remus sighs and sets about closing down the bar, warring with himself as he does. Historically, he’s found himself in these situations due to a combination of naivety and an inability to say ‘no.’ But at thirty-five, he’s acquired more than a healthy level of distrust and would feel perfectly justified in rejecting this frankly absurd request.
The problem is he doesn’t want to. And he can’t explain why. He feels like he’s been claimed by a particularly pitiful stray dog.
He sweeps the floor and does the cash-up while Sirius waits, absentmindedly tracing a tattoo on the inside of his wrist. It’s different than the others: a lone runic symbol, darker and crisper than the intricate illustrations that make up the rest of his sleeve.
Much to Sirius’s amusement, Remus layers a corduroy jacket over his jumper and ushers them out into what he considers to be a rather chilly summer night.
“I live a bit outside the city,” he says while locking up, half-hoping that will deter him. “Do you have money for the bus fare?”
Sirius pulls an impressive assortment of coins out of his pocket. “How much?”
“60 p.” He watches him struggle to sort out the currency for a moment before plucking the correct fare from his palm.
Who are you?
They wait for the bus beneath the light of what looks to be a full moon. He should’ve guessed; he’s worked in a bar long enough to witness the effects of the moon on people’s behaviour. He feels it himself sometimes, an itch or tug beneath the skin that leaves him irritable and restless.
Perhaps that’s why he’s entertaining this. Perhaps they’re both a bit moon-drunk.
It’s a better excuse than simply being drawn to Sirius. Magnetically attracted to him in a way that is more primal than sexual. Charmed by him in the sense that it’s awakened a part of him, the long dormant child who believed in magic and faeries. It’s a thought too absurd to voice even in the privacy of his own mind, but the ache for it to be true nestles comfortably inside his ribs.
They take the bus to the outskirts of Cardiff, his mind spinning while Sirius fidgets beside him.
“I know this is mental,” he mutters, bouncing his leg and twirling his rings. “But I really do appreciate it.”
After fumbling with the half-broken lock, he escorts Sirius inside his cramped, messy studio. He doesn’t necessarily think the state of it will scare him away at this point, but he certainly doesn't expect him to grin so fondly at the sight of it.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, cutting a path to the kitchen. “I can make us...” he squints at his empty cupboards, “cheese toasties?”
“I would love a cheese toastie,” Sirius says, still grinning. It brings an unwelcome flush to Remus's cheeks.
“I should say... should’ve said before, really, but I didn’t want to assume—fuck!” Pots tumble out of the cupboard in his search for a clean pan. He seizes a pan from the back—a bit scorched but fine for toasties—and holds it up sheepishly. “I’m not... well I am... I like men, but I don’t often... erm... especially not with... strangers.”
“Don’t worry, love. I’m the same.”
“People always say that, but then—"
“I’m also somewhat... married.”
Remus accidentally blasts the flames on the burner. “You’re married."
“Somewhat,” Sirius corrects. “It’s complicated.”
“Because she doesn’t know you’re gay, or...?”
“No, it’s... He’s just very far away is all.”
“Oh.” He gives up on spreading the butter on the bread and opts for greasing the pan directly. “Do you love him?”
Sirius’s grin softens. His eyes go a bit sparkly in a way Remus recognises as something quite rare, mythical even. “Yes. Most ardently.”
“Would he be upset that you’re here right now?” He knows he’s not exactly the sort of man anyone would be jealous of, but best to cover all bases.
“No,” Sirius answers easily. “He’s very understanding.”
They eat their slightly burnt cheese toasties atop the mess of dirty mugs, well-loved books, and tea-stained papers that is his kitchen table.
“There’s nowhere for you to sleep really...” Remus says, glancing at the unmade futon in the corner of the room. “Aside from...”
“That pile of jumpers on the floor looks rather cosy.” He can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “Or I can curl up at your feet like a dog.”
Shaking his head, he locates a second pillow and throws it on the futon pointedly. He probably shouldn’t feel so comforted by the idea of this strange, 'somewhat-married' man sleeping beside him. But it’s been a long time, and he misses feeling the warm weight of someone beside him.
“You can take whatever you like to sleep in. Don’t have much that’s clean...”
Sirius pulls a t-shirt off the floor and sniffs it. “This’ll do.” He then proceeds to peel off his own shirt, revealing a pale torso dark with hair and faded tattoos that line his strong chest and stretch across his belly. “Hmm,” he frowns, “I’m usually in better shape.”
As someone who oscillates between concerningly gaunt and scrawny with a pooch, Remus isn’t sure how to respond to that.
“The toilet is just there,” he says. “Don’t think I have spare toothbrush...”
“I’ll figure something out.”
While Sirius is in the toilet, he changes into something from his ‘still wearable’ pile and tucks a lighter and a switchblade into his socks, just to be safe.
He curls up on the futon, struggling to find a position that will appease his aching joints. That’s another thing he notices around the full moon: the way his pain and fatigue levels seem to wax and wane throughout the month, threatening a flare.
Sirius looks softer in the snug, ratty t-shirt and Tetris boxers, his hair thrown haphazardly into a bun. He slips in beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and Remus has the sudden urge to snuggle closer.
“Goodnight Remus.” His voice is soft too, the sharpness of his accent blunted by a slight rasp.
“‘Night,” he mumbles, letting the heaviness of his head override the twinge in his chest.
***
He wakes up in a tangle of long legs with a mouthful of hair. So it was real then. Sirius is real. Real and softly snoring into the crook of Remus’s neck.
A simple clearing of his throat does the trick. Sirius stirs, smiling dopily up at him before springing back. “Sorry.”
“S’alright,” he murmurs. “Do you have to go to work, or...?”
“Just have a few errands to run. You?”
“I don’t work until four. Should probably do a food shop... or laundry... or...” He glances around helplessly at the state of his flat. It’s exponentially more embarrassing in the daylight.
“I could go to the shops,” Sirius offers. “If you make a list.”
“Really?” Food shopping is his least favourite chore, the soup aisle his body’s favourite panic attack spot.
Sirius nods, lovely and earnest. “Least I can do.”
So he writes a list, featuring far more vegetables and far fewer ready meals than any shop of his has ever included. Sirius looks both suitably impressed and insultingly disbelieving. But if he’s going to spare Remus from the horror of Aldi, he can judge all he likes.
It’s his every intention to tidy up a bit while Sirius is gone, but a wave of fatigue leaves his muscles feeling like lead, and he goes back to sleep instead.
This time, when he wakes, Sirius is loading up his fridge, stocking his cupboards, and shoving a fat stack of notes in his face.
Remus drags a hand down his forehead and rubs his eyes. “What’s this?”
“For my half of the rent and bills.”
“Er... how long are you planning to stay?"
Sirius shrugs. “Let’s take it week by week?”
“This is for a week ?” He flips through it, counting at least two month’s rent.
“Will that be enough?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m an explorer,” he replies, as though that explains anything. When Remus continues to gape, he adds, “I’m also from money. Old money.”
While he could’ve guessed as much from the accent and the posture, that only begs the question, “What are you doing here, then?”
Eyes drifting, he rubs that tattoo again—the runic symbol. “I trust you.”
“You don’t know me.”
Simple fact as it is, it lands like a blow. Lips twitching, Sirius takes a long, audible breath. Given his name and striking appearance and altogether distinctive presence, Remus feels certain that this can’t be someone he’s forgotten from his past, but he feels guilty for it all the same. Or at least, he finds the sadness in his eyes difficult to bear.
He really has picked up a stray.
***
Sirius insists on going with him to the pub for every shift. He sits in the corner by the window, sipping whisky and scribbling away in a notebook. To avoid judgement, Remus tells his co-workers he’s a childhood friend who’s fallen on hard times. Absolutely none of them believe him.
He doesn’t know what to believe himself. The more he tries to produce a logical explanation, the more he spirals through increasingly illogical tunnels.
All he knows is that he’s never slept so soundly as he does wedged safely between Sirius and the wall.
On his day off, they clean the flat together. Observing that Remus is too overwhelmed to choose where to start, Sirius flings them into ‘chaos mode,’ in which their next tasks are determined by a literal roll of the dice. It isn’t the most efficient way to clean, but it is more enjoyable than Remus has ever found it before.
Whether that’s due to the novelty of ‘chaos mode’ or the bright presence of Sirius—whistling and dancing around and cracking jokes—is another matter.
“Tell me more about your husband.” They’ve collapsed on the futon, lying flat on their backs. Remus rolls his hips and watches the fuzzy spider who simply refused to be gently ushered outside crawl along the ceiling.
“What about him?” Sirius asks.
“What does he do?”
He can feel Sirius fidget beside him. “He’s a... cartographer... of sorts.”
Remus suppresses a laugh. “You’re an explorer, and he’s a cartographer?”
“Of sorts.”
“Are you a time traveller?” he jokes. It's mostly a joke.
“No.” There’s a smile in his voice. “But you’re warmer than you think.”
He’s not sure what to do with that. He should press the issue, but instead he finds himself asking, “What’s he like?”
Sirius inhales deeply and speaks through a sigh, “Kind. Clever. Gorgeous.”
“Ah.” He bats away the twinge of jealousy.
“He’s also painfully awkward and self-sabotaging,” Sirius adds.
His nervous laugh dies when he turns just in time to see the fondness in Sirius’s expression give way to something heavy and dark.
“Do you miss him?” Remus whispers.
“Desperately.”
He aches at the longing in Sirius’s voice, aches to be the answer to that longing, to be the answer to anyone’s longing.
“I don’t know what’s better or worse: that, or having no one to miss.” Sirius’s self-pity immediately pushes outward, washing over Remus. “No, it’s...” He pauses, choking on the word ‘fine.’ “It just is.”
Sirius covers his hand, his elegant fingers weaving through Remus’s. “I hope you know it isn’t because there’s something wrong with you. Or because you’re not worthy of it.”
It’d be an odd thing to say if it weren’t exactly what he was thinking, what he’s thought for ages. It’d be an impossible thing for someone who’d known you for all of five days to recognise. Wouldn’t it?
“I think,” Sirius continues, squeezing his hand, “most of the time it’s just luck.”
“Luck,” he hums. “Not fate?”
“I believe more in patterns. There are certain equations that always lead back to the same loops—or seem to, anyway; infinity is vast. But sometimes it takes much longer to reach the loop, often without a clear reason.”
Remus squints. “Are you describing soulmates? With maths?”
“No. Well...” Sirius’s thumb massages his knuckles. “Maybe.”
“Do you think your husband is your soulmate?”
A long pause. When he turns, Sirius’s eyes are on the ceiling. “I think... that in another life, I would’ve really liked just cleaning his flat with him.”
His lips part as he processes the implication. No. He couldn’t mean...
A puff of breath tickles his ear. “Get some rest, love.”
He rolls his head to his shoulder, facing Sirius. Rough lips just barely graze his forehead. His breath hitches, and he nuzzles against Sirius’s arm.
***
Sirius stays for nearly a full moon cycle, which is both a long stretch of time and no time at all. It’s enough for Remus to get used to his presence, to feel safer with him than he has with anyone in recent memory.
Even if he is merely a visitor from another dimension.
He feels mad for even thinking it. He clearly read far too much sci-fi in his youth.
Supernatural or not, there is a magical quality to waking up to a clean flat, stocked cupboards, and the ease of feeling genuinely well-rested. It’d be a small thing to someone else, but not to him.
“Do you want to... I dunno... do something?” he asks.
Sirius chuckles. “I would love to do something. What do you have in mind?”
His mind goes shamefully blank; it’s been so long since he’s had the energy to leave his flat outside of work that he’s forgotten what sorts of things people typically do.
“We could go on a walk,” Sirius suggests. “Experience nature.”
Remus snorts. “What about me says ‘belongs in nature’ to you?”
There’s that look again—that twitch of the lips suggesting Sirius knows something he doesn’t. Whatever it is, he suppresses it, asking instead, “Did you never go as a kid? With your Da?”
“We went on one disastrous camping trip when I was five that left me traumatised.” In truth, they simply got a bit lost on the way to the campsite, and he skinned his knee, but it did give him nightmares for a few weeks. “And then I was in and out of hospital for most of my teens. Lupus. It’s mostly under control now, but I still get flares.”
“Would a nature walk cause a flare?”
“Exercise and fresh air are, allegedly, good for me.” He pulls a face. “Sun exposure not so much.”
“I can work with that.”
They take the train to a nearby forest and choose a trail that primarily stays within the trees. For all that he seems like a posh city boy, Sirius comes alive out here, practically skipping through the forest.
Remus shakes his head as he delights in the discovery of an impressively large stick, wielding it like a wizard’s staff. “You’re like a dog,”
“Had to live up to my name.”
“Me too,” he says wryly.
Without missing a beat, Sirius laughs. Remus is almost certain he’s never told him his surname, nor could he have seen it on any mail since he’s been neglecting his P.O. Box for weeks. He decides not to question it.
Much to his annoyance, it does feel good—being active, breathing in the clean forest air, watching Sirius get unreasonably covered in mud. They follow the trail to a small clearing overlooking Cardiff.
“Look at that view, Moons.”
“Moons?”
Sirius looks back at him, blinking, as if he’d expected someone else. “Short for Moony. Because Remus is a moon. Sorry, my brain did a few leaps there.”
“Moony,” he repeats. It sounds like the sort of name he’d have been given at a posh English boarding school.
“Moony.” It’s awfully silky on Sirius’s lips, less playful and more intimate.
“Only you could make such a ridiculous nickname sound nice.”
His smile is soft. Eyes sparkly. A shiver runs down the back of Remus’s head.
They lay out a blanket and set up a little picnic of meats, cheeses, bread, and wine. It’s by far the most romantic date he’s ever been on, save for the fact that it’s with another man’s husband. Another man who may or may not be another version of him. The most difficult part of this to believe is that any version of him could deserve Sirius.
“You’ve got a... erm...” He gestures awkwardly at the twig in Sirius’s hair. Sirius leans towards him, letting him pluck it free.
“That was for decorative purposes, actually.”
“My apologies.” He tucks the twig back into his hair and takes a swig of the wine. “Is the mud in your beard also for decorative purposes?
“I don’t have—” Sirius pulls a clump of mud from his beard, frowning.
Remus laughs and passes him the bottle. “How did you even manage that?”
“With great skill, Moony. Great skill.”
One moment he’s staring at Sirius’s lips.
The next, he blinks, and the sky is darker, streaked with orange.
“What..."
Sirius is staring into the now empty bottle of wine, his shoulders slumped.
“What were we talking about?”
“I erm...” Sirius clears his throat. “I said we should probably head back.”
“Oh... Yeah it got dark all of a sudden.” He pulls his sleeves over his hands, struggling to get his bearings. “Everything alright?”
Sirius sniffs. “Think I’m just feeling the wine a bit.”
That must be what’s happening with him too. He does feel a bit tipsy, though he doesn’t remember drinking that much. For a moment, he worries that Sirius has brought him out to the woods to poison him.
They pack up and head back, Remus stumbling a bit at the faster pace. Sirius is probably just afraid of getting caught in the forest after dark, he tells himself. His heart pounds through the silence.
At least his fears of being murdered are proven unwarranted as they reach the train station. But Sirius is still uncharacteristically quiet and solemn. Did he say something wrong? Did he try to kiss him and mentally block the whole mortifying experience? If his brain was capable of that, he’d likely have far fewer humiliating memories.
Back at the flat, Remus nervously nibbles on the remaining meat and cheese while Sirius gets ready for bed, once more donning the t-shirt he’s stretched out. He looks unbearably vulnerable.
“Sirius? Did I... Can I...?”
Sirius surges forward hugs him, strong and soft.
“Oh.” He melts into the touch, exhaling into his hair. There’s something so natural about the way they fit together, like sinking into a familiar bed. He never wants to let go.
“Goodnight, Remus.” That’s when he understands; Sirius means ‘goodbye.’
He falls asleep with his nose pressed to Sirius’s and isn’t surprised when he wakes up to nothing but a scrap of notebook paper.
Dear Remus,
I hope we’ll meet again. If we do, I’ll have no memory of any of this. Please don’t hold it against me. A part of me will always remember.
Yours,
Sirius
Below the words is a doodle of a dog sleeping on a crescent moon. Remus’s first tear lands on the dog’s nose.
***
He prepares to never see Sirius again. Makes his peace with it. (Or tries to convince himself he has.) At most, he allows himself to fantasise about meeting him years later, offering him a shy smile while he squints with vague recognition.
There is no part of him that expects Sirius to stumble through the doors of the pub a mere three days later.
He looks exactly the same and yet completely different. His gait is alien and uncertain, his mannerisms even more so.
“Hi. Er...” His eyes skim over Remus, drifting straight to the menu, then dropping to the crumpled version of it in his hands. “This might be an odd question, but do you know if I’ve been in here in the last month or so?” His voice is different too, smooth edges worn to something blunt and gravelly.
“You...” It takes him a moment to register the question. “You have, yeah.”
“Right... Did I speak to you at all? Or did I—sorry I know this is—I’ve got some fairly large gaps in my memory, and I’m just trying to piece together a few... things.”
Throat too tight to speak, Remus gestures for him to take a seat at the bar. “Drink?” he squeaks.
“Oh. Er... pint of Guinness?”
This as much as anything tells him that this is not the same man he shared a bed with. He pours the pint, focusing on the rippling of the beer as he speaks.
“You came in a few weeks ago. Acted like I should know who you were.” Sirius looks mortified. “And then you asked if you could stay with me.”
Eyes wide, Sirius drags a hand down his beard. “I’m so sorry. I don’t understand why I’d—I live in London for fuck’s sake.”
“I let you.”
“What?”
Remus sets the pint in front of him, not quite meeting his gaze. “You were with me that whole time.”
Sirius is gaping at him now, utterly horrified.
“Don’t worry; nothing happened. I mean it wasn’t... You told me you were married.”
“I... married?”
“Or that you had a partner?” Sirius shakes his head, and Remus tamps down the swell of relief. “You also gave me money. A lot of money. But I didn’t—I can give it all back.”
“No, please, keep it.” He takes a long gulp of his Guinness and sets it down with a morose thud. “I’m so sorry about this. I don’t have the best track record mentally, but I’ve never...”
“You were lovely, really.”
He snorts. “That’s a first.”
“You were.” He resists the urge to reach over and take his hand. “I’m Remus, by the way.”
“Sirius. Though I s’pose you already know that?”
Remus nods. “You told me you were an explorer?”
“A what ?” He rubs his eyes. “I’m a tattoo artist. Or I was. Before I missed nearly a month of appointments.”
Hunched over his pint, the poor man looks completely distraught. Remus wants to hold him and murmur reassurances into his hair.
But he is, for all intents and purposes, a stranger. All he can do is offer a weak “I’m sorry” from across the bar.
Sirius grunts and traces the rim of his glass. It’s then that Remus notices that the rune on the inside of his wrist has vanished.
“What else did I do?”
“Nothing much, really. Helped me clean my flat. Sat in that corner and wrote or sketched in a notebook—I’m not sure. We went on a nature walk.”
“I hate nature.”
“Huh. Well, I thought I did too...”
Their eyes meet, and Sirius’s gaze, though so very different, remains as intense as ever—weighted with distress but glinting with curiosity. He drains what he can of his pint and sets a tenner on the bar. “Thanks for looking after me. Keep the change.”
He turns to leave, and Remus’s stomach twists into a knot and tugs. He’s not prepared to never see Sirius again, even if this version isn’t quite the same as the one he fell in love with.
“Sirius!” His heart flips and his head swims and it’s a coin toss whether words or sick come out of his mouth, but he has to say it anyway. “Do you... erm... would you like to get a drink sometime? Or coffee? Or...”
“Yeah, alright.” Sirius shrugs, eyes following his hands on their journey into his pockets. “Least I can do.”
The sting hits the back of his throat and behind his eyes. It was silly, really. He’s no one to this Sirius, hardly someone a man like him would look twice at, let alone someone important. “No, please don’t feel obligated, I—”
“No, I—I didn’t mean...” He looks back up at Remus, lovely and earnest. “I’d love to.”
“Really?”
And then Sirius grins, and it’s him. Well it isn’t, but it’s the same intoxicating smile, the same sparkle in those silver eyes. “I lost my job, missed my godson’s birthday, and all my houseplants are dead. If anything good can come from this psychotic break, it might as well be a date with a particularly gorgeous bartender.”
Remus flushes violently.
***
Earlier.
One moment, Remus is staring at his lips. The next, he blinks, and his posture stiffens as he takes in his surroundings.
“Is this a romantic picnic?” He doesn’t sound angry. He never sounds angry, just tired. Wearied to his soul.
“Don’t.”
“I’m sorry.” He means it. He always does.
“Are they here then?”
Remus nods. The pallor and scruffiness of this body paired with his solemn expression makes him appear aged well beyond his years. “Will be soon. Reckon you’ve got ‘til morning.”
“Alright,” Sirius sighs. “Thanks Moons.”
“Of course.”
Before he can leave, Sirius grabs his wrist, thumb pressed to the rune he knows is there. “Can you stay for a bit? I just... I need...”
“He’ll be confused.”
“He’s already confused. Here.” He hands Remus the bottle of wine. “We'd never met. He hadn’t the slightest who I was.”
His eyes widen. They’re a warm, ordinary brown in this world, but they look so much richer with this Remus behind them. Of all the things he’s experienced, nothing was quite so jarring as seeing those eyes void of recognition. “Fuck. That’s a first.”
“Mmm.”
Remus takes a long swig of wine and passes him the bottle. “Looks like you still charmed your way in.”
“Always do.” He’s not sure if it’s the words or the wine that leave his tongue dry. “I’m not ready to leave this one.”
“No? Thought you’d be bored here.”
“Me too, honestly.” He’s grown restless in far more eventful worlds. “But I dunno... it was quite peaceful, really.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going soft already. Craving domestic bliss.” The break in his voice shatters the joke.
I’m craving you, he wants to say. The life we might’ve had, if I hadn’t gone and ruined things. Instead, he opens his arm and murmurs, “Come here.”
“Sirius...”
“Please.”
Never one to refuse him anything, Remus snuggles close, smiling at the softness of this body. “You feel nice.”
Sirius plants a kiss in his sandy mop of hair and passes the wine bottle back to him. “Love you too, Moons.”