Archive of Our Own

In the months following Voldemort’s death, Remus exists in a perpetual state of surprise. 

The surprise of surviving at all manifests as a strange twinge in his chest that feels like being tickled, and causes him to chortle to himself at nonsensical moments, like when he’s gargling water after brushing his teeth, or putting the bins out. He stays away from magic; they’ve all used enough of it to last a lifetime, and finds a certain romanticism in abstaining. 

Once he stops waking up seven times throughout the night to give himself a sharp pinch on the off chance he’s dead, he has to find his thrills elsewhere. 

Sirius has always been a distraction, but these days, Remus finds it difficult, and rather boring, to focus on much else. His hair, grown past his shoulders and streaked with grey, the lines around his mouth that make Remus feel strangely grounded. Maybe it’s the physical proof they offer that Sirius is still here. Therefore, so is Remus. That despite everything—they lived. 

He doesn’t know where to put the other stuff. There’s little to stop Remus considering the slide of Sirius’s thumb across the rim of a chipped mug, or the glint in his eye when Harry comes round for tea to update them on all the progress being made outside the bubble of their flat. His fascination with Sirius isn’t all that surprising, really. It's been a decades-long affair, after all, the most dedication he’s shown in his thirty-eight years. What else could there possibly be to do now that he's survived, except memorise the most prominent veins on Sirius’s arms?

Most nights, he heads to bed before Sirius, leaving him dozing under a blanket in front of the telly. 

Turning off his little lamp and cocooning himself in his duvet, Remus blinks repeatedly to clear the orange splotches on the ceiling as he mechanically, and without fanfare, gets himself off. 

He doesn’t draw it out, touching himself with the sole goal of release, a means to an end. It never takes long, and he comes silently, stony-faced. It’s only after he’s shuffled to the bathroom and cleaned up that he feels it—the sinking like rocks in his stomach, his burning skin. It’s worse if he catches sight of himself in the grotty mirror, the telltale smudge of his ruddy cheeks. 

The next surprise hits Remus in the kitchen on an unremarkable Tuesday afternoon. It’s been one of those days where they do little else but take turns boiling the kettle, very few words exchanged between them. They’ve never felt the need to fill the silence unless absolutely necessary, which apparently, is now.  

“So,” Sirius announces, placing his mug beside the coaster rather than on it. “I think it’s about time we address it.”

Remus raises his eyebrows. Waits. 

Unfortunately, Sirius is just as stubborn as he is. 

“Address what?” he asks reluctantly, after a torturous stalemate. 

“This.” Sirius gestures between them. “You and me.”

Remus’s stomach churns something dreadful, and he finds himself swallowing repeatedly, pulling at a loose thread on his pyjama trousers and hoping for some large, noisy interruption. 

“C’mon, Remus. You might be able to compartmentalise two wars, the loss of half our friends and the traumatisation of the rest, and I’ve let you do it with this too, but it’s not going to just… go away.”

“Not a clue what you’re on about,” Remus tries, but his voice trails off into some high-pitched nonsense.

Of course he has a clue. 

He’s had a clue since Sirius’s seventeenth birthday, when he was claiming birthday kisses from all their nearest and dearest. The kiss hadn’t exactly been much to write home about, an intoxicated, wet collision of lips, but Remus had lain awake that night with the knowledge that something incredibly unfortunate had resulted from it. 

The dance they’ve done since then has been endlessly confusing, including the time they’d snuck off to a muggle pub, Sirius somehow ending up with a woman on his lap, her skirt riding up her thighs as they kissed. When Sirius bent to kiss her neck, he’d locked eyes with Remus over her shoulder, beyond her wild curls, and had grinned at him. Winked. Remus had burned that night. 

Now, Sirius waits, letting Remus settle into the idea, like he’s done nothing more than suggest they attempt to make something new for dinner. 

Both of them are more subdued these days, Sirius especially so. Sometimes, Remus catches glimpses of who he was before everything went to shit, the soft outline through a foggy window, but neither of them have any interest in pretending to be eighteen again. 

Remus takes the opportunity to look at him, to eye his sharp angles, the way he lounges on the chair with his legs spread. He has the strange temptation to suggest something ridiculous, like washing Sirius’s hair for him. If that isn’t telling, he doesn’t know what is. 

When Sirius catches his eye, mouth quirking around his stubble, Remus wonders how anyone could resist him. How he’s resisted him for this long is a miracle, really. 

“Right, then,” he says, clearing his throat. “We’re doing this now.”

Sirius beams. Rubs his hands together and stands up, stretching with a groan. He moves to the couch, and Remus wordlessly follows. He’s let this play out on particularly rough nights, when his need for a distraction overtook the promise he’d made to himself, to push it all down, down, down. 

It was never realistic, his imagination conjuring large, ridiculous declarations of adoration that Remus would later look back on with a sticky feeling in his stomach, or the nausea he felt waking up after a rough full moon. 

“You still fancy me, then?” Sirius asks bluntly, fingers locked behind his head. 

Remus can’t help it, he scoffs. Fancy. What are they, twelve?

“What?” Sirius adds, eyes twinkling with mirth. He’s enjoying this, then, making Remus squirm. Briefly, Remus wonders if he’s imagined it, too. 

“Don’t be a dick,” he says, instead.

“Want me to go first?” Sirius’s expression softens as he leans closer. He smells like clean sweat and terrible coffee. Remus doesn’t reply; his entire vocabulary appears to have conveniently fucked off. “I fancy you something rotten,” Sirius offers. He starts off full of bravado, but by the time he reaches rotten, his voice is low, stripped bare. “Always have.”

“Is that all it is?” Remus asks. “Fancying?”

“Now who’s being a dick?” Sirius laughs. Remus goes to argue, but Sirius cuts him off. “Obviously not, Moony, but I thought we could work up to it.”

“Oh.” Remus picks at one of his calloused knuckles. “Right.”

Sirius opts to inspect him closely, something he’s been frustratingly good at since they were kids. Grey eyes search his, gently unfolding, sidestepping anything in his way. 

It takes everything in Remus to stand it, not to turn away, not to clench his eyes and fists and teeth and let himself hide. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Sirius says. “Stop bottling it.”

Remus imagines himself as a literal bottle, cork trapped in him, being shaken up. Then, the removal of the cork, the way he’d fizz over onto the couch. 

“Come on,” Remus forces out. “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you weren’t well aware how I feel already.”

“Maybe,” Sirius shrugs, “but I’d like you to tell me.”

Remus takes a deep breath that claws at his insides on its way back up his throat. “Of course I… fancy you, Sirius.”

“Good,” Sirius replies. “That’s good.” Something about his tone, firm but gentle, pleased, makes Remus shudder. 

Sirius’s head quirks—of course he notices—and Remus looks away, burning. 

“Hm,” Sirius says, but then eases further into the couch, legs swinging up to tangle with Remus’s. “Will you read to me for a bit?”

After coating his throat with several sips of cold tea, Remus picks up one of his dog-eared paperbacks and starts at the beginning of the chapter, the shape of the words an afterthought to the heat of Sirius against him.

______________

None of it had gone how Remus thought it would. 

Still, something shifts, and he becomes distinctly aware of Sirius’s every move around their flat. 

It’s a week later, and he’s in bed, waiting for the night to turn instead of anticipating the heavy fog of sleep, when there’s a soft knock at the door. Sirius’s face, framed by sleep-mussed hair, appears in the doorway. 

“Can I join you?” He’s whispering, despite the fact it’s only the two of them, and the boyishness of it reminds Remus so acutely of nights back in their dorm that his chest clenches. It’s only when the draft reaches his knees, and Sirius is slipping in beside him, that he starts to panic. 

He hasn’t had a chance yet, to tell him. Everything has been lovely, and he’d hate to ruin it. He’s quite taken to drifting through days with the knowledge that Sirius feels the same way, without the urgency of doing something about it. It’s fun, and Remus thinks it could have been like this, had they been allowed the time for such things all those years ago. 

This, though, is more than knowing. It makes the whole ordeal so real, the brush of Sirius’s cold feet against his shins as he gets comfortable, the heat of his late night exhale washing over Remus’s face. 

What would he say? I don’t know how. I don’t know if I even want to. Why would you possibly want to, with me? 

It would all be too ridiculous, and so Remus keeps his mouth shut. 

He turns onto his back, and only then does Sirius break the silence. 

“I can hear you thinking from here,” he mutters. “What’s got you all shifty?”

“Nothing,” Remus says, feeling a bit like a caught-out child. 

The bedframe groans as Sirius turns onto his side, and then he’s gently tugging Remus so they’re face to face. 

“Moony,” Sirius says softly. 

“Padfoot,” Remus echoes. 

“If this is going to work,” Sirius starts, sounding out the words carefully, resisting his tendency to barrel ahead, “we need to be honest with each other.” 

Unfortunately, Remus knows he’s right. The problem is, he can’t quite get the words out. It feels more significant than any of their other secrets, a curdling sort of shame, yet another example of why Remus isn’t normal. As if Sirius needed another reason to change his mind, to realise that he’d be much better off—

“Remus.” His thoughts dissolve when Sirius frames his face with his hands. Cool palms pressed to his overheating cheeks, everything a contrast. “You can tell me anything. Everything. It’s just me and you.”

“Sex,” Remus blurts. Not his finest moment.

Sirius opens and closes his mouth, brow furrowing. 

“I mean, you’re probably wondering why I haven’t… why we haven’t…” Remus trails off uselessly, eyes darting anywhere but at Sirius himself. “That sounds really presumptuous, actually. Pretend I didn’t say that. I’m not suggesting that you’re… desperate for it, or anything. For fuck’s sake.” 

Sirius shakes a little when he laughs, thumb pressing small circles into Remus’s jaw. He can’t tell if it feels good or hurts; all he knows is that it’s a lot. Sirius, this close, talking about sex with Sirius, sharing body heat in a bed that can barely be classed as a small double. 

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Sirius teases, but not in a cruel way. No, it’s the same tone he uses to chastise Remus whenever he gets lost in a book, forgetting entirely to eat. It’s his oh, my Moony voice that he’s spent years perfecting, and that Remus has heard in every season of their lives. It soothes him a little, despite everything. Sirius doesn’t think he’s stupid. Would never shame him for something like this. 

He tries and fails to explain to no avail, unable to squeeze a sentence out. Eventually, Sirius stops him with a particularly deep press of his thumb, just below Remus’s ear. 

“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. I think I get it, but… would it be all right if I guessed?”

Remus nods. 

“Well,” Sirius says. “With everything going on, I’m guessing that opportunities to fulfill certain… needs haven’t exactly been abundant?”

Immediately, Remus’s cheeks heat. Gaze averted, he groans. 

“This is humiliating,” he mutters. 

“Don’t be silly,” Sirius insists with a flourish of his hand. “You’ve had other things to worry about.”

Remus scoffs. “It’s not like I’d have been propositioned, anyway.”

“You’ve got to talk to people for that, Moons,” Sirius smiles cheekily, before his expression softens. “Trust me when I say that it certainly wouldn’t be a chore for anyone with eyes.”

“Christ. That’s not…” Remus gestures to his covered chest, his lanky body, mottled with scars in various stages of healing and burdened by cracking bones. The transformations are hard on him these days, the impact weighing heavier as he ages.

He lets out a weak chuckle, but Sirius doesn’t appear to find it very funny. 

“Turn onto your other side,” he says gently. Remus obliges, a little glad to no longer have to contend with facing him in such close proximity, with the way his body burns. 

At Sirius’s first touch to the back of his neck, Remus shudders. 

Everything feels so intense with him, so different to the mechanical way Remus washes himself in the shower, the way he gets himself off. Sirius touches him carefully, smoothing down the longer strands of his hair before tracing the line above his ratty t-shirt. 

He’s all stiff, arms trapped awkwardly in front of him, and Sirius hums discontentedly when he rubs Remus’s shoulder blades through the material. 

“Relax,” he soothes. “I’ll stop whenever you want me to.”

Remus tries, lets his body sink slightly into the lumpy mattress, head digging further into the pillow. 

“That’s it,” Sirius says, gently massaging up his spine. “Just this for now, all right?”

Remus murmurs his agreement before letting his eyes shut. Sirius touches him over his clothes, never below the waist, slowly tracing the knobs of his spine. 

It feels good, of course, and Remus almost drifts off a few times before jolting himself awake. 

“Goodnight, Moony,” Sirius whispers. 

“G’night,” Remus replies, body satiated and lax. 

Sirius’s touches grow lighter, and it takes Remus longer than it should to realise that he’s writing on his back. It makes him smile to decipher Moony and Padfoot, and then, his entire body stutters as he feels love you, traced over and over, until he falls asleep. 

______________

Their first kiss is objectively awful, as Sirius warned him it would be. The expectation took the pressure off, allowed them to fall about laughing, before Sirius tentatively squeezed Remus’s hips, boxing him against their kitchen counter. 

As the kettle boils, the noise scarily similar to that in Remus’s head, Remus nods, and then Sirius is kissing him again. Remus tries to focus on the touch at his hips, grounding and just verging on too much. 

This time, they kiss for so long that they have to boil the kettle again after, lips tingling. 

Once they’ve unlocked kissing, Remus wants to do it rather a lot. It feels safe, doesn’t expose him too much, and Sirius is unfairly good at it. That should make him feel strange, he knows, because Sirius has somehow found the time to develop that skill despite his stint in Azkaban, but somehow, the jealousy doesn’t come. Maybe it’s that Sirius is here, with him, that things are exactly as they should be. 

Sirius doesn’t push him either, seemingly unfazed by Remus’s bathroom breaks mid-snog, or his sudden keen interest in making them both a cuppa. Sometimes, Remus tries to imagine what it would be like to allow things to escalate.

One scenario in particular, during which Remus had been dozing on the couch and Sirius had flopped unceremoniously on top of him, had turned into an initially languorous bout of kissing that progressed to something frantic, something burning. It almost reminded Remus of his monthly transformations—the initial pressure before the pain sets in, the building, pulsing heat—but he wasn’t sure how Sirius would take Remus comparing his impact on his body to that of lycanthrophy.

By the time Remus had lightly pushed Sirius off him, sitting up to pant and feeling the blood rush to his head, they’d both been hard and wanting. Sirius’s eyes had been dark, lips wet and so inviting, and for a moment, Remus had considered the prospect of letting go.

Control, maybe, is his problem. 

So much of his life without it, and now that he has the chance to give over to something he wants, putting the soft underbelly of his desire on display seems impossible.

He catches Sirius watching him on occasion, from the other side of the couch or the kitchen doorway while he’s waiting for a pot of water to boil, and somehow Remus knows that Sirius is thinking about fucking. He gets a certain look in his eye, and now that it’s directed at Remus, he can’t help but notice. 

However, while Sirius is impulsive, he’s also smart. Remus is the injured stray he’s trying to lure inside to take care of. 

So, he watches, and Remus pretends to be unaffected. It’s a perfectly reasonable arrangement. 

The build-up is gradual. First, Sirius starts touching Remus more than usual. Cupping his lower back, squeezing his shoulder, offering him foot massages. When they kiss, his hands traverse new realms, always staying above Remus’s clothes, but learning his chest, his sides, his collarbones. If it didn’t sound so silly, Remus would think maybe Sirius was conducting research. Every time his hand glides over Remus’s abdomen, his muscles jump, his dick not far behind. His thighs are sensitive, too, which Sirius discovers one morning when he encourages Remus onto the counter and stands between his legs, massaging them deftly while distracting him with a kiss. 

Remus likes it slow, likes to linger against Sirius’s lips, wants to be impossibly closer. 

Sirius says things, too. 

Uncharacteristic sweetness pressed to his temples, or behind his ear, or into the front of his shirt.

You’re so lovely, Moony. Thank you for letting me do this. See, look how soft you are, how good. His tone shifts when he offers praise, and every whispered something makes Remus flush, makes him ache, makes him burn. 

They share Remus’s bed every night now, no longer keeping up the illusion of sleeping separately. Every morning, Remus wakes painfully hard and with Sirius pressed to his back, the hot line of him snuggled against his arse. He waits until he’s under the lukewarm spray of the shower to take care of it, and has started watching with mild curiosity the way his muscles contract at his own touch. A stroke of his inner thigh becomes a firm, bruising grip, an image flashing through his mind of Sirius behind him, kissing his neck. He didn’t know it could feel like this. Sometimes, he comes so hard that his vision whites, and he has to lean against the wall until he’s caught his breath. 

He almost feels like a teenager until he tries to actually move his body, and then the years of harsh transformations and the near constant ache of his joints promptly send him crashing back down to earth. 

He’s not a horny teenager, but a filthy middle aged man. 

The problem is, despite wanting so badly, he can’t actually figure out what it is he wants. The prospect of stripping down to nothing and letting Sirius have his way with him is appealing until Remus remembers that to do so, he’d actually have to exist in the present, in his body. Scars and all. That and his complete lack of experience tends to turn the fantasy into something closer to a nightmare. 

Sirius, though, is clever. He bides his time, pays attention, offering gentle touches and kissing Remus like he’s being paid for it, and he doesn’t complain when Remus suddenly escapes by announcing he’s going for yet another shower. 

Well, until now. 

“That’s what… shower number three?” Sirius asks nonchalantly, slathering a too-thick layer of peanut butter on what he’s taken to calling his Evening Toast. Most important meal of the day, Moons.

“So?” Remus replies. “It’s the middle of July, and I’m melting. It cools me down before bed.”

“Oh, I bet it does,” Sirius quips, mouth ticking up in one corner. 

Remus splutters, face burning as he turns away. 

Sirius bites into his toast before abandoning it on the counter to accost Remus instead, smoothing his hands from his shoulders to his wrists and back again, lingering at the top and working Remus’s weary muscles with precise, circular motions. 

“Do you trust me, Moony?” Sirius mutters into the back of his neck, followed by a chaste press of his lips. 

“‘Course,” Remus replies, his voice hoarse from all the touching. He was already worked up, having spent so much of the day ogling Sirius, and he’s painfully aware of the rather inconvenient tenting of his trousers. 

“What if you… didn’t touch yourself in the shower?” Sirius suggests.

“I—what?”

“What if…” Sirius’s hands land on Remus’s hips, pressing his thumbs up past the hem of Remus’s t-shirt, pausing to give him a chance to object before seeking bare skin. Digging his fingerprints in. Claiming. “What if you skipped the shower and got into bed instead, hm?” 

Remus shudders. 

“I won’t be able to sleep, not without…” he trails off, cheeks still burning as he risks a glance down at his crotch. “And then you’ll come to bed, and you’ll look like that, and my body will quite simply give up. I’ll die.”

Sirius chuckles, inching closer, pressing Remus into the counter with his firm chest and his thighs and his hips. He’s unmistakably hard.

“We haven’t even done anything,” Remus exclaims, mostly to himself. “How are you—”

“If you think I’m entirely unaffected by the thought of you scurrying off to make yourself come in the shower for the third time today, you’re much less intelligent than I thought, Remus,” Sirius says, matter-of-fact. 

“Smug bastard,” Remus mutters. 

They're close enough for Remus to feel the vibration of Sirius's chuckle. When Sirius replies, however, it’s sincere. “I know you’re scared. And… well. I have a plan. But I need you to trust me.”

______________

“And remember, you can stop any time,” Sirius repeats for what must be the fifth time. There’s a furrow in his brow that Remus can’t stop looking at, but that could also be because he’s been avoiding eye contact since he found out about Sirius’s plan. 

They’re sitting across from one another on Remus’s bed. Their bed.  

“I still don’t get what you’d find appealing about this,” Remus says. The plan, apparently, isn’t for Sirius to fuck him. No penetration. No mouths.

 Instead, the plan doesn’t stray too far from Remus’s original intentions. He’s to get himself off, except this time, on the bed, with Sirius in attendance. 

Sirius glances down Remus’s body, licks his lips. 

“Everything, Moony. Everything about you is appealing.” And Sirius says it with such reverence that Remus is spiralling all over again, tempted to flee to the familiar safety of the cramped shower cubicle and the cool tiles against his back. As if to demonstrate, Sirius shuffles closer, pulling Remus in for a gentle kiss. He kisses the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then his cheek. “Everything,” he repeats. Remus lets out a small noise, his dick twitching in the confines of his trousers. 

Sirius sits back, leaning against the headboard and gesturing for Remus to come closer, so he goes. 

“Sit between my legs, that’s it,” Sirius murmurs, as Remus does. It’s not so different from how they wake up most mornings, with Sirius pressed hard against him. Now, he can feel him against his lower back.

“Now what?” Remus asks, shuddering when Sirius reaches around his body to touch his thighs, fingers tracing shapes there. 

“Well, that’s up to you,” Sirius says. “I don’t… I don’t want to push my luck.”

For some reason, this frustrates Remus. He might not be ready to get fucked in the traditional sense, but how can he possibly be expected to know what to do here without some direction?

“I don’t… I can’t—” he starts, pulse rabbiting in his throat. 

“Hey, hey, it’s all right,” Sirius says quickly. “D’you want me to get up? Is it too much?”

“No,” Remus replies, and it’s so petulant. Fists clenched, he feels like throwing a tantrum. Why is this so hard for him to voice? Why can’t he just know what he wants, and ask for it? “Can you just… talk to me or something?” Remus asks, voice strained. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, and I feel ridiculous.” 

“You want me to talk you through it?” Sirius replies, then, followed by breathless laugh, a slight groan. “Fucking hell, Remus.” Sirius’s forehead rests briefly against the back of Remus’s head. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he adds, then clears his throat. “Just take your time, all right? Feel yourself through your clothes, how hard you are.” 

Remus moves like he’s wading through water, fingers shaking against fabric. He slides his hands up his thighs until they reach Sirius’s, and gives them a squeeze. Then, he bypasses them up, up, up to his cock. He’s obscenely hard, and one light brush of his hand already has him squirming. He’s never indulged like this, never focused on the act of feeling good, too busy rushing toward temporarily snuffing out his desire. He presses the heel of his hand against the bulge, grinding down and letting out a gasp. 

“How does that feel?” Sirius asks, directly into his ear. 

“Like I’m on fire,” Remus replies, only half joking. 

Sirius hums. “It is awfully warm in here,” he says. “Maybe you should take some layers off.”

Remus rolls his eyes, but he is sweating. He pauses momentarily with his trousers pooling at his ankles before kicking them the rest of the way off and exhaling deeply, shakily. He leaves his shirt on. There’s an undeniable wet patch on his boxers, and Remus instinctively reaches to cover himself up. 

“Please don’t hide from me,” Sirius says quickly. “Shit—you’re wet. D’you know how sexy that is?”

Tentatively, Remus stretches his legs back out, puts himself on display. 

“Good,” Sirius praises, and Remus keens. His cock gives another traitorous twitch. He’s pretty sure he’s dripping. “Oh, liked that, did you?” Remus can hear Sirius’s insufferable smirk. 

“Fuck off,” he complains, but it seems futile to deny it further. 

“You know what would be really good, Moony?”

“Hm?”

“Touch yourself for me.”

Remus gasps, mostly because before he’s even processed the words, his hand is a step ahead, circling the outline of his dick and rubbing himself through his boxers. Pleasure sparks through him, a delicious buzz that momentarily relieves the pressure. He’s unbelievably turned on, thinks he might be close to coming just from this. His toes curl, thighs flexing, and then Sirius’s hands are resting tentatively on his bare thighs. Not moving, just there. A pleasant, grounding weight.

“How does it feel?” Sirius emphasises his words with a light squeeze, and Remus groans. 

“Good,” he manages. “Really good.”

And it does, but the more he touches himself through the fabric, the more desperate he becomes. The kind of hip-bucking, muscle-jumping desperation that has him panting. 

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters, trying and failing to wrap a hand around himself properly. It’s not enough, but he can’t bring himself to lose the boxers. Not without Sirius suggesting it first. After yet another frustrated noise, he gets his wish. 

“You can take them off,” Sirius says casually. Then, when Remus doesn’t move. “Only if you feel comfortable.”

“Do… do you want me to?” Remus asks. He’s glad he can’t see Sirius’s reaction. 

Another low chuckle, hot breath against his ear. 

“You still don’t think I want this, Moony? Can’t you feel how much I want it?” He shifts forward slightly, the jut of his dick pressing further into Remus’s back. He hums. “Maybe you just want to be told what to do, is that it?” Remus huffs in response, but it sounds dangerously close to a moan. “I want to see your cock, Remus. Take it out for me.”

It’s exactly what Remus needs to hear. 

He tugs his boxers down his hips just enough to free himself. The cool air is a welcome reprieve, but still, he feels ridiculous. So hard he’s throbbing, the head tacky with precome.

“Mm, it’s pretty. Knew it would be,” Sirius whispers, massaging Remus’s thighs with his thumbs. “Pretty cocks like this deserve to be touched, don’t you think? You’ve been so patient, Moons—go on.”

Remus wraps his hand around himself and immediately has to squeeze the base to prevent shooting off. He gnaws on his lower lip; the room spins. His orgasm teeters just out of reach, static in his ears. 

“Don’t hold back,” Sirius says. “Touch yourself properly.”

Teeth gritted, Remus moves his hand slowly. Up to the head of his cock, where he’s afraid to linger, and down to the base. Desperately trying to maintain control. This is nothing like wanking in the shower. This is nothing like anything Remus has ever experienced before. He’s still dripping, getting himself sticky and offering just the right amount of friction. His legs are shaking, too, and there’s no way Sirius can’t feel it.

He’s making noises, dreadfully humiliating whimpers released with his exhales that make him want to disappear. After a particularly enthusiastic jerk of his body, he accidentally leans further into Sirius, whose hips thrust against him—just once. 

“Shit, sorry,” he says. He sounds… out of breath. “This is… I’m so turned on.”

Remus whines, unable to offer a proper reply, and Sirius swears under his breath. “You’re turning me on, Moons. Your noises, your pretty cock, seeing the way you touch yourself…” he trails off, and Remus tightens his grip, dick throbbing. He’s so close to the point of no return, to the rush of energy that confirms he’s going to come no matter what.

“Sirius—” he pants, panicked. “I don’t—”

“I know, it feels so good, doesn’t it? You’re such a good boy, Remus, so fucking perfect—”

If Sirius keeps talking, Remus doesn’t hear it. His hips buck once, twice, and then he’s spilling, dick twitching, making a mess of them both and the sheets. It lasts for what feels like forever, wave after wave of pleasure. The aftershocks are just as satisfying as the release itself, and Remus’s muscles slowly relax into the bed, into Sirius. 

They’re quiet for a while. 

Sirius strokes Remus’s hair, presses kisses to wherever he can reach, gentle reminders that he’s not going anywhere, and waits. 

“Is… does it always feel like that?” Remus asks. He sounds like he’s coming down with something, voice croaky and unreliable. 

Sirius laughs. “You tell me, Moons.” 

“I think I just saw Jesus,” Remus says, sighing.

“That was just me. It’s the hair, I think.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“I don’t think you want me to.”

After a half-hearted attempt at jabbing Sirius with his elbows, Remus gives up, succumbing his weight into the other man and letting him wrap his arms around him. His hands link together on Remus’s stomach, rising and falling with his breath.  

“This is disgusting,” Remus complains, examining his sticky hands. 

Instead of replying, Sirius takes his earlobe between his teeth. 

Something about it, Sirius’s teeth on him, the wash of his breath, goes right to his cock. He looks down at it in horror at the realisation that he doesn’t necessarily feel… finished. 

Face burning once more, he tries to ignore it. However, with Sirius so close, so hot against him, still hard and wanting and breathing all over him—it’s no use. 

“What’s wrong?” Sirius murmurs. “Want to get up?”

Remus starts nodding, then shakes his head. It’s all so much. He still doesn’t know how to voice it, how to explain that he can feel the familiar pangs of arousal starting up in the base of his dick again, that he can’t focus with Sirius still pressed hard and hot to his back. 

He opens his mouth to try to put any of this into words, but instead, lets out a resoundingly pathetic noise that makes him clench his teeth. 

“Hey, hey,” Sirius soothes, fingers dancing down Remus’s ribs, squeezing his hip bones, and then returning to their spot on his thighs. His hands are so warm, and big, and Remus has the sudden impulse to be at their mercy. To offer himself up the same way Padfoot does to Moony on a full moon, rolling over and waiting to be sniffed, to be recognised as part of the pack and, in a way, claimed. 

Sirius doesn’t touch any higher than his thighs, offering another soothing massage that shouldn’t impact Remus as much as it does. 

His desire sneaks up on him, and all of a sudden, he’s hard again. Still covered in his own drying come. The shame clots under his knees, behind his neck, at the base of his spine. 

“Oh, I see,” Sirius says, and Remus wriggles away from him a little. Sirius, however, tightens his grip, then pauses. 

“Remus, hold on. Will you just look at me, please?”

Reluctantly, he turns his head, eyes Sirius warily over his shoulder. 

“Is it too much? Be honest. We can go and get comfy on the sofa. Or, I can… give you some space. Whatever you need.”

“No,” Remus says, before he can think about it further. The last thing he wants is Sirius out of reach. If anything, he wants him closer, wants him tucked in the space between his bones. Still, he doesn’t know what form that takes. Not right now. It’s not as easy as saying fuck me, as letting himself be opened and breached and taken. At the end of the day, Remus is still a wild animal. 

He looks at Sirius’s hands. And maybe, just maybe. 

“Would… would you touch me? If I asked you to?” he says, sounding small and unsure and probably desperate. 

Sirius’s eyes widen slightly, and then he grins.

“I was touching you,” he replies. 

“You know what I mean,” Remus insists. “Touch me.”

“Touch your cock, you mean?” 

Remus swallows. His throat is dry, and his dick is back to throbbing. Just from this. He nods, but Sirius only hums, tilts his head. 

“I’m going to need you to say it, Moony.”

“I hate you.”

Another grin. “I know. Now, did you have something to say?”

“I want it. Want you to touch my… my cock.” 

“How much do you want it?” 

Remus groans, flopping back against Sirius once more, tired of negotiating. 

“Please,” he adds. “Need it. Need you.”

Then Sirius is the one groaning, his hands spanning Remus’s torso, his thighs, back to his chest, arms, shoulders, and down again. Like he can’t quite decide where to go first. 

Remus pushes into his touch, forces the slide of Sirius’s clothed dick against him, causing him to pause. 

“Don’t—I’m trying to be respectful.”

“You can… you know. Want you to feel good, too,” Remus clumsily voices, unsure on the proper way to ask his best friend to get off against him. 

“Really?” Sirius says, giving a tentative thrust of his hips against Remus’s back. “Don’t think it’ll take much, to be honest.”

“Sirius,” Remus utters, because the thought of him doing that, using Remus’s body to get off, makes him harder. And he needs friction, lets his own hand grasp his leaking cock, lets it squeeze, fingers playing with the head in a way he hasn’t ever done. A moan spills from him, and Sirius swats his hand away. 

“Ah, ah,” he chastises. “That’s mine, right now.”

Another moan. Because yes, it is. It’s so obvious now, and Remus doesn’t know how he didn’t see it before. His desire, his want, his every thought—Sirius can have all of it. He’s the only one that can. 

“It is, isn’t it? My pretty cock?” He trails a finger, just one, along the shaft. It pulses under his touch, and Remus whines. Sirius’s responding laugh is dark, pleased. 

“That’s what I thought,” he says, lips brushing Remus’s ear, then takes him into his hand properly. His touch is so different to his own, so much softer, fingers shorter and thicker. 

Sirius touches him as if he deserves to be touched, not just as a means to an end. He swipes the head with his thumb, eagerly collects enough precome to assist the glide of his hand. It feels ridiculously good, of course, but it was always going to.

It’s not the hand on his cock that drives Remus insane, in the end, but the well-timed thrust of Sirius’s hips, the grind of Sirius’s cock against his back. Like this, it almost feels like he’s fucking him open, and that. 

Remus realises then, that sooner or later, he’ll ask for it. It might be a painstaking process, and he might back out of the first couple of attempts from the sheer fear of being put on display. But at some point, in some way, Sirius will carve space for himself inside Remus, will have his hips flush against him, as close as they can possibly get, and Remus will want it. Will probably do all manner of embarrassing begging and whining and pleading until Sirius moves, until he grinds deep and spills inside, so that even when he pulls out, Remus can still feel him there. 

As much as he’d like to voice any of this, he’s rendered utterly useless, forced instead to focus on the heat of Sirius’s hand, the pressure of another man’s dick against him, the hot panting breaths on his skin, and the pretty words Sirius mumbles.  

“My sweet boy, that’s it. I’ve never seen anything so pretty.”

And then, when Remus responds by fucking up into his hand, “I know, sweetheart. I know it feels good. I’ve got you.”

Over and over, words upon words upon touch upon breath upon heat upon everything. Because this, Remus is sure, is everything. 

It’s more than sex, more than survival, more than a reward for not being dead. 

It’s him and Sirius. Together. Their bodies, sure, but also their minds. Their souls, if Remus were to believe in that sort of thing. It’s Moony and Padfoot on every full moon, and Remus and Sirius sprawled out on a dusty dorm carpet, eagerly devouring a new record for the first time on Christmas morning. 

And that’s why he says it. Because apparently, at his core, Remus is a sentimental, weepy bastard. 

“I love you,” he whispers. Then, once he’s said it, he can’t stop. It flows from him like water, like moonlight, like music. “Fuck, Sirius, I love you. Love you, love you. L-love—” 

Sirius gasps, jerking sharp and insistent against him before he lets out a surprised moan. Remus tries to memorise the sounds, the shape his orgasm takes, before he realises he’ll have the opportunity to do so whenever he likes. Sirius rides it out with lazy rolls of his hips, and while his cock is still in his trousers, Remus can almost feel the heat of his come against his skin. Maybe it’s disgusting, but Remus wishes it was on his skin. That he could feel it dripping, cooling. He feels he’s owed it, somehow. 

He’s so focused on Sirius’s pleasure that when the other man’s hand tightens around him with renewed vigour, Remus makes a strangled noise. 

Sirius jerks him off with determination, with the eager flick of his wrist.

“It’s your turn now, Moony. Made me come in my pants like a teenager, didn’t you?” He chuckles. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you? Not a clue how insane you make me. My perfect boy. Will you come again for me, hm? Let me feel it this time? Can’t believe I get to be the one to do this with you. Fuck. I’m so fucking lucky.” Sirius never has been able to shut up, is capable of charming basically anyone he comes across, and Remus is decidedly not immune. 

He clings to Sirius’s forearm, then his wrist, before Sirius clasps their hands together, all while his other hand works Remus’s cock. It’s this, that does it. 

Their entwined fingers, clammy palms pressed tight. 

Somehow, he comes harder than the first time, every muscle in his body shaking as he throws his head back, gasping for breath, lungs burning, fresh come spurting over their hands. 

Sirius continues to whisper through it, soothing words that lull him back to baseline. Good boy, Moony. I love you. I’m here. You were so beautiful. 

Sirius has always been thoughtful, Remus knows, but he’d entirely underestimated just how sweet he can be. It’s in the way he kisses his hair, in the way he keeps hold of his dick as it softens, stroking it until Remus quivers and whines, and then simply holding it still and soft. As if he wants it regardless. As if he wants every part of Remus, regardless. 

______________

Not everything changes. They still take turns boiling the kettle, and watch telly in the dark until their vision goes funny. They’re still learning how to live, still trying on survival like an oversized coat. The full moons continue to wreak havoc on his body, Sirius sometimes having to heave them both back to the flat on the mornings that Remus can barely move. 

There’s always been love there, it just takes a different shape, now. Sometimes, when they’re feeling brave, they share stories with Harry about his parents. Privately, they let themselves grieve all over again.   

Remus learns Sirius’s body as Sirius learns his, but also acquaints himself with the idea of learning his own. What he finds is surprising, in that it’s really not all that horrifying. 

It’s a comforting realisation, that what happens to his body on a monthly basis doesn’t make it inherently bad. Or evil. Or undeserving of other, more pleasant feelings that don’t attempt to rip it to shreds. He manages to voice it one morning while Sirius is tracing lines over his scars. 

“Not that scary really, is it?” he slurs, still half-asleep.

“What isn’t?” Sirius grumbles back. 

He gestures to himself. 

“‘S just a body.” 

Sirius hums, pausing to press an insistent line over one of Remus’s more prominent scars. “Just a body,” he agrees. Then, he kisses his forehead. “And a bloody good one, at that.”

Remus makes a noncommittal noise, shrugging the compliment off. He’s still getting used to it, the way Sirius sees him, the way he soothes the burn. 

Sirius doesn’t tend to let these things go, though. 

“You could have three heads and twelve limbs, Moony. It’s only good because it’s yours.”

And with that, Sirius is closing his eyes, ready to doze off again, like he hasn’t just said something earth shattering. Like he doesn't keep finding new ways to surprise Remus. Remus releases an unhinged splutter before pulling the other man closer. 

Nothing else to do now but to let himself drift off, to wait for the tension to leak steadily from his limbs, to give himself over.