Hot Chocolate
So... Hello =D
I haven't posted anything for a good long time, because I seem to keep writing for fests and then forgetting to put it on my journal... And now I'm trying to fix it by putting it all here, because I've written enough that I'm starting to lose track. I think this is equally wonderful and terrifying.
This little fic is from RS Small Gifts, and it's very Christmas-y and generally, amusingly inappropriate for May =)
Title: Hot Chocolate
Author: mayberry_rose
Pairing: Sirius/Remus
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1500
Warnings: Language, boys kissing :)
Summary: In which Sirius hates Christmas shopping, and Remus finds that he doesn't mind.
Sirius is wearing a slouchy old rainbow beanie hat, and he’s late again. He skids round the corner, almost knocking over an elderly woman, and tries to stop in front of Remus but stumbles into him instead.
“Moony!” he gasps, righting himself, taking a deep breath and blowing his fringe out of his eyes. “Sorry. The Floo was being a twat.”
Remus arches an eyebrow, taking in Sirius’ worn jeans, stripy jumper and dark jacket. His knuckles, scoured with cold, are red as he reaches up to adjust his hat, leaning forward in the same smooth movement for a hug.
“Are you sure you weren’t just being a twat,” Remus suggests, hugging him back, “and taking forever to sort out your outfit?”
Sirius laughs softly, the sound brushing against Remus’ ear. “Sure,” he says, off-handed, half-sarcastic, “that too,” and Remus can hear the smile in his voice.
...
There’s ice on the ground. Nothing like the snow back at Hogwarts, but enough to make Remus shiver, dig his hands into his pockets, wish he hadn’t left his school scarf at home. Sirius glances over at him and slips a hand through Remus’ arm, linking them together at the elbows. “Good holidays so far?” he asks, and they chat about Remus’ parents and Sirius’ family and the presents they both still have to buy, smiling as they slip and slide along the icy London streets.
Remus (“the prat,” Sirius mutters) is as organised as always - he’s already bought almost-everything, and sniggers at Sirius’ despairing expression as he tries to find something Regulus will actually like. After the fourth shop, he catches Sirius’ wrist, his fingers slipping scorching-cold beneath the sleeve of Sirius’ coat, and takes pity on him.
...
They’ve been going to this same little cafe together almost every holiday for ages, three or four years, since way back when they were really a little too young to wander round London on their own, but Remus’ parents have always trusted him and Sirius’ parents have never cared.
‘The Tea Cosy’ is crammed between a tiny clothes store and a post office. The owner, Mrs. Lawrence, is an aging African woman who smiles at them as they enter; she winks in their direction as she serves a young couple near the door. They collapse together into their usual seat, a battered old sofa in the corner, leaking stuffing beneath a crimson throw rug. Sighing, Sirius throws down his bags and slumps over onto Remus’ shoulder.
“Hate shopping,” he says vehemently, grumbling the words into Remus’ neck. Remus reaches up to ruffle his hair, smiling, and Sirius reacts with a shake of his head that is more than a little bit Padfoot.
“Why’s that?” Remus asks, indulgent, distracting Sirius before he can come up with some sort of doubtless-inventive revenge.
“It’s shit.” Sirius says guilelessly, “and boring. And cold.”
Remus makes the mistake of half-smiling, and Sirius’ eyes narrow. “You think this is funny, don’t you? Git. Laughing at me when I’m freezing to death.” He accuses, wriggling his long fingers - chapped-red knuckles, mottled cold skin - in front of Remus’ face to prove a point.
“You’re not freezing to death.” Remus points out, “And it’s your own fault you didn’t wear gloves.”
“Shut up,” Sirius groans, hiding his face in Remus’ shoulder again, and Remus lets himself smile a little because he knows that Sirius has lost his gloves, and he has a red pair wrapped up in his bag for him as a Christmas present.
...
“What’ll it be, boys?” asks Mrs. Lawrence, her voice warm and curved with a London brogue. “Hot chocolate for me,” Remus smiles up at her, and Sirius half-raises his head from where he’s been hiding and grins, rumpled, “And me, please.”
She smiles at them as she walks away, and Sirius slumps back down into the sofa. Remus jumps, making the most embarrassing squeaking sound, when he feels long fingers walking their way around his waist.
“Sirius?” he asks slowly, and gasps when the fingers wriggle their way into the long pocket on the front of his hoodie.
“M’fingers are still cold.” Sirius mumbles, as if that explained everything, and Remus rolls his eyes and accepts it as one of the many and various occupational hazards of being a Marauder, right up there with dodging curses from Lily and springing James from detention and keeping very quiet about a certain embarrassing crush on a certain male best friend. “The things I do,” he mumbles, and Sirius has the nerve to make a vaguely acquiescent noise, just as he puts his other hand in Remus’ pocket too.
“Sirius.” Remus says, trying for firm, but he catches a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror beside the door and his breath catches a bit in his throat. Sirius has his head resting on Remus’ shoulder, his arms around him in what looks like a gentle hug, and he’s looking at Remus... Merlin. The way his Dad looks at his Mum sometimes, the way Frank Longbottom looks at Alice - the way James looks at Lily.
“Two hot chocolates, boys,” Mrs. Lawrence announces, bustling over with two cracked, steaming mugs, “Here you go!”
“Thanks,” Remus smiles, trying to disguise the way he jumps, the way he’d forgotten that anyone but Sirius was here. Sirius grins up at her but doesn’t move, his hands still firmly in Remus’ pocket, only lowering his head to blow on the hot chocolate on the table in front of them. His hair tickles Remus’ chin, and Mrs. Lawrence winks at him just before she leaves.
...
Sirius keeps holding on, even when Remus leans forward to pick up his drink. He leans back carefully, realising that Sirius has moved so that Remus is almost cuddled back against his chest, and tries not to be a little annoyed at himself for tensing up.
“Relax,” he hears, Sirius’ voice pressing the words against the skin behind his ear, and Remus shivers and tries. He sips the chocolate, rich, warm but not searing against his tongue, and sighs when it slips down his throat, content. When he tips his head back, impulsive, just so it’s resting on Sirius’ shoulder, Sirius’ long fingers drum a tune on Remus’ stomach.
“Stop it,” Remus whispers, squirming away, “That tickles.”
Sirius hums deep in his throat, and his fingers still, but he holds Remus tighter. “I’m still thirsty,” he sighs, that tinge of drama in his voice that Remus recognises, “So... very... thirsty. And with that lovely drink so close to me, and my poor hands too cold to -”
“You’re such a git,” Remus says, but it comes out softer than he means it to, and when he turns a little to bring his cup up to Sirius’ mouth, the urge to make him drink the bloody thing by himself drains away.
Remus holds the mug against the skin of Sirius’ lower lip, not quite able to look away from his friend’s brown eyes, his heart beating a strange, startling-rapid tattoo against his chest. He tips it up and Sirius drinks, never taking his eyes off Remus.
After a moment his tongue darts out to chase a drop of chocolate that slips down his chin, and Remus turns away too quickly, setting the mug down on the table so sharply that the chocolate slops over the sides, leaning back and stupidly, instinctively, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie - only to find that Sirius’ hands are already there.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, closing his eyes, feeling a hot blush creep us his neck and onto his cheeks, and he’s just making his mind up to tug his hands back when a finger traces over his wrist. Remus freezes, breathing unsteadily, as more and more fingers slip along his wrists and palms and then up to lace together with his own, until he’s holding hands with Sirius, right there in the cafe in the pocket of his hoodie, and blushing like an idiot.
“Hey,” Sirius breathes, and Remus almost-jumps and turns his head to face him. “You’ve got hot chocolate-” Sirius says, “Right - there.” He nods at the corner of Remus’ mouth, and then, smiling, slips his own hand and Remus’ hand, still intertwined, out of Remus’ pocket. Carefully, he lifts them up and wipes across Remus’ mouth, touching his lips, making him shiver.
Remus’ heart is thumping, and his eyes flutter briefly shut when Sirius doesn’t let go of his hand - when he lowers it to press a kiss against Remus’ knuckles, and then turns their joined hands to kiss the inside of Remus’ wrist. And then - inexorably - he looks up, catching Remus’ eye, and leans up to kiss him on the mouth.
“Hey,” Sirius mumbles as their lips press together, as his now-warm fingers tighten to squeeze Remus’ hands, as his stupid messy hair tickles Remus’ cheek. Remus laughs into the kiss, delighted, and when Sirius asks why he whispers, “Shhh,” and he doesn’t tell Sirius that he tastes like hot chocolate.