Seven: Wondering
August, 1979
Sirius slips into Remus’s cottage early in the morning, using the key that Remus didn’t really give him but didn’t take away, either. He knows Remus will still be in bed; it’s two days after the full moon so Remus will still be a little sore and burrowing in his pillows. When Sirius nudges the crack in Remus’s bedroom door wide enough to slip inside, that is exactly what he’s doing, nose in his pillow and knees drawn up to his chest, wearing only drawstring pyjama bottoms. Sirius sets the plastic bag he’s carrying down on the floor, and steps up to the side of the bed at Remus’s back.
Smiling faintly, Sirius toes off his shoes, removes his jacket, his t-shirt, and his trousers, and kneels on the bed, staring down at Remus. His shoulders are patterned with scars. Sirius wants to touch them, but he doesn’t. Remus crinkles his nose and burrows further into the pillow. His hand twitches. Sirius lies down, careful not to bump Remus or move the bed too much, and pulls the sheet up to his waist.
He wakes again four hours later, the sun nearly blinding him when he opens his eyes. He has to blink several times before he can see, and then Remus swims into view before him, propped up on one arm and staring.
“’Lo, Moony.”
“What are you doing here, Padfoot?”
“Brought you breakfast.” He waves vaguely at the bag still sitting on the floor, slightly slumped over.
“In bed?”
Sirius shrugs. “Wasn’t the plan. Looked cosy.” Sirius reaches out and slides his fingers into Remus’s brown hair, mussed with sleep. He smoothes it down; his hand cradles the curve of Remus’s skull.
“What are you doing, Sirius?” Remus sounds relaxed and comfortable, which Sirius takes as encouragement.
“Sometimes I like touching you. Just… It’s not…serious, but… do you mind?” His fingertips brush slightly against Remus’s scalp.
Remus reaches up and pulls Sirius’s hand away. It closes into a loose fist, but Remus goes on holding it, uncurling the fingers one at a time, turning it over to look at the back, turning it over again to run his thumb across the lines in the palm. “All right.”
Neither is certain of what they’ve agreed to. Sirius pulls his hand out of Remus’s and brushes his fingers across Remus’s lips. Remus closes his eyes and lets out a heavy breath, which Sirius catches with a curl of his hand.
“Why?” Remus begins. “You never-”
“Really?” Sirius asks, genuinely surprised. “I feel like I’m always touching you.”
Remus shakes his head. “Hardly ever. Not nearly as much as you do James or Peter. Or Lily even.”
Sirius looks a bit shocked. “Oh. Maybe I just…”
Remus smirks. “Imagined it?”
“Did you want me to be touching you?”
He flops onto his back and extends one arm out towards Sirius, who traces the curve of his wrist bone over and over again with the tip of his index finger. “I hadn’t… ever thought about it, really. I noticed you touched them but never me, and I wondered why, is all. And then, I suppose, I wondered why I wondered, and if wondering meant it bothered me.” He rolls over, towards Sirius. “I couldn’t decide whether it meant you liked me less than the others, or it meant I was special.”
“’Course you’re special, Moony.”
Remus grins, taking in Sirius’s indignant expression, and tackles him. There is a tangle of limbs, a short tussle with the bedspread, and several tortured shouts before they are once again distinguishable as two separate boys and not a many-limbed monster. They lie sideways across the bed, arms hanging over the edge, touching hips and shoulders, feet still a little tangled. “All right?” Sirius asks.
“Yeah. All right.”