sing my heart

[anniesj]

I've been working on this one all week, and now, it is done. Fresh off the presses, I offer you pr0n. Not tiepr0n, sadly, though that's almost done, but this is pr0n nonetheless and there's angst and shit, too. And gratuitous mention of The Beatles, because this fic is written for the delightful, talented, brilliant, luminous ignited, for making incredible artwork and sharing even more incredible squeeage. *g* Stef, baby, this is all for you. I've owed you this for a while now. ;)

HUGE thanks to circe_tigana for telling me that this rambling surprise of a story (which I started Sunday night, in my new apartment, for those of you who care *g*) made her wibble. And really, what better seal of approval could I ask for? *makes the pirate queen wibble some more*

Sing My Heart
By: anniesj
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: "Some people press their memories between pages of scrapbooks; others have fancy photographs that wave and dance. Sirius has music."
SPOILERS: Takes place post-"Goblet of Fire"
PAIRING: Sirius/Remus (for I am obsessed, duh)
NOTES: For ignited, with love. :)



Sing My Heart

*****

In the summer of 1977, Sirius Black fell in love with the Beatles.

It was his first love, fresh and brilliant, a sudden rush of pleasure that fluttered through his body when he first heard The White Album on Lily's Muggle record-player. It'd pleased him so much that she bought Sirius one of his own, therefore bridging the fragile gap between best friend and girlfriend. She introduced him to all sorts of music that he'd never heard in the home of his strict wizarding family, opened up his ears and showed him a world he'd never even known existed. In return, Sirius gave her the key to James Potter's heart.

He still thinks it's a fair trade.

The windows are open today, sharp sea-salty breeze drifting into the neat and tidy little kitchen. It mingles and dances around with the faint scent of cinnamon-orange tea, becomes something pleasant and dangerously close to home. Everything around here is dangerously close. But before that thought can overtake him, the phonograph drowns it out, the dreamy sounds of "Blackbird", Paul's voice singing so sweet it could almost bring you to tears. Twilight's crowning, light and dark spiraling.

Remus is still asleep, of course; the moon was only the night before last, and he's still healing. Sirius's heart clenches at the memory of his battered friend this morning, the way he'd hid behind the door, blood and bandages. Only caught a glimpse of him, of course, before Remus quickly locked him out. Remus's bedroom is something off-limits, private, like a chapel. Sirius hates it because this is their first locked door. Before, everything used to be open.

Ah, before, before. Before Azkaban, before Voldemort, before the world opened up and swallowed them whole. Good old sun-soaked times back at Hogwarts, memories so beloved that they've gone fuzzy in his mind. It's why he brought down the records from the attic, why he felt a little thrill when he saw his name written on the cardboard and knew what the contents were. Music, of course, music would sharpen things up a bit.

Some people press their memories between pages of scrapbooks; others have fancy photographs that wave and dance. Sirius has music. When he was in Azkaban, he used to sing to himself at night, all the old songs he had with James and Lily and Remus and Peter, and it kept him sane. It kept the memories safe, if he could only take them out if he knew the right words, just like magic. He kept entire libraries of song locked up in his head, whispered out the melodies to himself in his hoarse, abused growl. Somehow, it kept him alive. If he could just sink back into that one summer with the phonograph, he could remember everything.

So he started with The Beatles, because they were the first before, and he started with The White Album because he didn't think anything else would really be proper. And as soon as "Back into the U.S.S.R." came on, Sirius was there, and he's stayed there for most of the afternoon with absolutely no plans to leave anytime soon.

If Sirius closes his eyes, he could be seventeen again. All this could melt away and he'd be back in the Gryffindor common room, lounging around on the battered furniture, listening to Lily's phonograph as it spins vinyl and secrets. And in the background, there, instead of the boil of water, it's the laughter of James. Good old Prongs, the bastard, chuckling and snorting at the two of them for being such fools. And there, he can almost feel it, there are fingers on his wrist, lazy little fingertips curling in circles over his skin, making his blood race and his ears rush, and Remus--

"Bloody hell, you lazy prat, can't you see I'm steaming over here?!"

The tea kettle is screaming. Sirius instantly jumps up to take it off the stove, and it scolds him all the while for being lost in some sort of daydream while it was left to burn. Sirius snarls something that might be an apology and tries to ignore its huffing and whining as he waits for Remus to come fetch his tea.

Sure enough, a beat later there is Remus, looking pale and haggard, a little worse for wear. His dressing robe is gray, dull, tattered; the thin linen pajama bottoms swim around his feet and make him look boyish, pathetic. There's a pinched look to his face and when he walks, he does it stiffly, favoring his right leg heavily. "Bloody teapot," he mutters under his breath. His voice is rough, scratched and abused from the wild howl of the wolf. "Molly Weasley sent it to me last Christmas while I was at Hogwarts. Personally, I think she was just trying to get rid of it."

The tea kettle sniffs a little haughtily at that and when a couple of spare droplets of boiling water splash onto Remus's hands, he has the good grace not to say anything.

Evenings are usually a pleasant affair around the little house by the sea. The simplicity of their burgeoning routine is almost charming, something seductive that's swiftly becoming familiar and comforting. Sirius hides a smile as Remus adds a generous helping of cream and an obscene amount of sugar to the teacup. Remus's incorrigible sweet tooth. Sugar and chocolate, that's his Moony.

Except he's not my Moony. Not anymore.

"How are you feeling today?" Sirius asks suddenly, a desperate attempt to get that thought out of his head.

A shudder of Remus's slender shoulders and they bend under his burden. "Better," he says shortly, "but I think I did something to my leg the other night. Can't be sure."

Sirius frowns. "Have you had it bandaged?"

"Yes, of course," Remus says irritably. "I'm not a stranger to this, you know."

"Neither am I."

Another slump. Remus leans heavily against the cupboard, his tea cup drooping on its chipped saucer. "Please, Sirius. Not now."

It's an argument they've been having for the last two months and it's an argument they'll have until Remus finally stops being so damn pigheaded and difficult and just lets Padfoot join him for the bloody moons. Tiresome, really, going through these same hoops over and over again, and Sirius can't ever understand it. The world changed and left him behind, and Sirius is dreadfully tired of trying to catch up.

But Remus is weak, ill, not in any condition to drag out old wounds. Even an insensitive git like Sirius Black can understand that, so instead, he watches Remus bleed through his bandages and keeps his peace.

"He said Rocky you met your match
And Rocky said, Doc it's only a scratch
And I'll be better
I'll be better doc as soon as I am able"

An unexpected chuckle, warm and toasty like cinnamon. "God, I'd forgotten this old song," Remus says. "The Beatles, isn't this? You always liked them."

"Yeah," Sirius smiles. "Always."

Now Remus notices the dusty crate sitting on the kitchen table, and he limps (fuck, but it kills Sirius to watch it) across to settle down in one of the chairs and start rifling through the records. His eyes glow a little when he sees them. "God, you've got every one of them. The Stones, the Doors, Joni Mitchell, and oh, I love this--"

"--album," Remus says, kneeling down beside Sirius and holding a Bob Dylan record, grinning happily at the sight of it. "My dad always plays it, says it's like listening to poetry. He's right, you should read the lyrics, they're--"

"Sirius?"

Startled, Sirius blinks at Remus. "Yeah?"

Remus is frowning. "I just asked ... where did you find these?"

Embarrassment flushes ripe at the back of his neck. "I maybe went up in the attic," Sirius admits. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to go snooping around, but you said there were some old things of mine in the attic and there's this old book on Quidditch I used to have and I thought maybe Harry might want it and--"

"It's perfectly fine, you know," Remus says gently. "This is your home, too."

Something warm and fragile and doggish jumps in Sirius's heart, leaps, rolls over and thrashes with glee at the sound of that. Home, this is a home, his home with Remus. Home.

But it's not. This is all just temporary, an arrangement made in haste, something that will eventually end. Sirius cannot allow himself to get attached to the salty wind, the smell of Remus's tea, even the grumpy old kettle. It will all have to end and then the war will begin, and all hell will break loose.

"There's no such thing as home anymore, Remus," Sirius says flatly. "You and I both know that."

The smile goes wistful. "Yes, you're right. Still ..." There's almost a dreamy look on Remus's face, something light and warm, the dim flicker of a forgotten candle. "It just seems like such a dreadful waste sometimes, doesn't it?"

Something tightens low in Sirius's belly. There's a heat in Remus's eyes that's brighter than any memory. He knows this look. It's the look that undoes him without fail, and time doesn't change anything.

"What are you thinking about, Moony?" Sirius says, his voice a little strangled.

"I miss you, you know."

Ah, God. Sirius swallows hard, bites his lip to keep from screaming, because he knows. Every night, whenever Sirius wakes up from nightmares of cold dementors' hands and the screams of Azkaban, his skin aches and moans for Moony, for his slender warmth and his touch. Remus was always the one who could tame him, the one who could talk him down. Or, once upon a time, could kiss Sirius into simple submission, could do it with such gentleness that it made Sirius tumble down on weak knees.

Sirius's foot twitches; his joints ache for the fall. "Do you now?"

Remus chuckles a little, smiling down at his tea. "Oh, yes. Very much, indeed."

There's too much sadness here. Too much longing, too much want, and Sirius doesn't know what to say so he just says nothing at all. He lets the music fill the silence, plaintive guitar, tender vocals. There's a tug in the strings, pointing him in the direction of the past, and Sirius tries to resist it. Too much sadness, yes. There's always sadness in regret.

"I'm glad you found these," Remus says quietly, taking another sip. "It's been a while since there was music in this house."

Sirius doesn't like that. There should always be music in Moony's house. It should be a law. Something they should have written down when they were children so they could never forget it. Moony should never have too much silence. It doesn't do him any good. "It was quiet in Azkaban," Sirius says softly. "Prefer the noise, if you know what I mean."

"I think I do."

"I used to sing to myself, you know," Sirius says, though he turns his eyes away. "In that place. All those old songs Lily jammed down our throat. Sang them over and over again ..."

Dry cracked lips singing out rock songs, rasping and ruining lyrics that deserve better praise, and he thinks even the stones hate the sound of his voice--

Remus's voice finds him, just as it always has. "Did it help? The music?"

Sirius licks his lips and tastes dust on his tongue. He shudders. "Sometimes. Depended on the song."

"Well, you always had good taste in music."

Sirius chuckles. "You're just saying that because you could never stand wizard tunes. What was it you used to say?"

"There's no magic in their music," Remus says, and it's true. There's something raw about Muggle rock, something soft and simple and yet screaming of effort, where wizard's music is too slick, too easy. The complicated things are more compelling. Always are.

"You couldn't tell James that, though," Sirius says with a sudden grin. "Christ, we used to argue about it constantly, and Lily used to smack him upside the head and make his glasses fly across the room. And the little bastard, he'll never get the picture, he's-"

"Sirius."

The words flash past him again; he suddenly catches his mistake and feels his stomach plummet. James is dead. He'll never again argue with Sirius over Muggle music, and Lily will never again get that furious look on her face that made her cheeks as red as her hair, and Sirius forgot. Tenses, you see. Of course Remus would notice.

"I'm sorry," Sirius mutters, looking down at his hands. "It's just … hard."

Remus nods. "I know."

"I forget sometimes."

"I know."

Time is a tricky bastard. It plays with the mind, all those pesky numbers that never feel as true as they supposedly are. In Azkaban, time was a mystery, something that could not be measured in numbers, but rather in estimates. Some days felt like eternity. Others, seconds flew by before Sirius could even catch them. It's still playing games with his memory. Sometimes, Sirius thinks that time is meaningless when it comes to the miserable human condition.

"Do you know," Remus says, his voice light and almost causal, "that there are some mornings when I wake up and I think I'm still at Hogwarts?" Sirius doesn't answer; Remus continues. "I wake up thinking that I've overslept and missed breakfast, and I'm going to be late for class. And it's funny, but my first thought is always, 'Don't worry about it - if you overslept, Padfoot will save you a sausage.'"

That makes Sirius grin in earnest. "And I would, you know."

Remus is grinning, too. "I know you would. You often did, remember? You'd sneak them to me in class while the professor wasn't looking. And then you'd laugh, because-"

"Your fingers would leave little grease-stains all over your notes," Sirius finishes, laughing. "God, it's a miracle we were never caught."

Remus's face sobers a little. "Except we were, weren't we?"

Sirius doesn't want to laugh at that, so he looks outside instead. The world is darkening around them, time passing them by yet again, and it makes him briefly angry. "It's not fair, you know," he says angrily. "The way time keeps fucking us."

Tiredly, Remus sips at his tea. "It's what time does," he says simply. "Not much that can be done for it, is there?"

"There should be," Sirius mutters. "Should be some way to stop it, freeze it, because it's a bloody merciless bitch and I hate it."

"Then why do this in the first place?" Remus asks, and Sirius frowns.

"Do what?"

Remus gestures at the box of albums and the phonograph. "This. All you're doing is drudging up the past, Sirius, and I'd rather you wouldn't if all it's going to do is make you maudlin."

Sirius scowls. "I wasn't trying to make myself depressed."

"Then what exactly were you trying to do?"

"I was trying to make myself remember."

There's an edge of desperation to his voice that Sirius can't help, though God, he wishes he could, because the way Remus sighs is something difficult to watch. His face crumples, eyes battered and weathered. "Do you have trouble with your memory?" he asks, and Sirius swallows.

"Sometimes," he admits. "Azkaban, you know. They … take things."

Except that's not completely honest. They don't take things; they take everything. They strip you of everything you are forcibly and with as much pain as possible, rip it right out from under your skin, pry apart your bones and gut you until you're empty, hollow, a husk. Azkaban was a black hole that consumed Sirius's universe, tore it to shreds before his very eyes, and it's left him with nothing but shadows.

"And the music helps," Remus whispers brokenly. "Oh, Padfoot."

"It's not so bad," Sirius says plainly. "There are some things that are just too … sharp to remember. The music softens the blow a bit. Can't hate something when it's all wrapped up in Lennon, can you?"

Sirius attempts a smile. It doesn't work. Remus is still staring at him with those honey-hurt eyes, the lines on his face a little deeper, the skin a little paler. "Do you hate the memories?"

That old flush of humiliation starts creeping up his neck again. Sirius covers the top of his spine with his hand and shakes his head. "Not all the time," he says gruffly. "Just … some of them are cruel."

"Hard memories?"

Sirius shakes his head. "No. The easy ones."

Cruelty is something that Sirius can take. He's become accustomed to it over the last thirteen years. Starve him, beat him, leave him in a cave and make him eat rats out of desperation - he'll survive. Happiness, on the other hand, is something far more devastating, and even just the remembrance of it can be enough to bring the strongest man straight to his knees. A lesson learned from the Dementors, a lesson that will never be forgotten. The old saying is true: you really can kill a man with kindness.

"Those moments," Sirius sighs, "all of us sitting around the common room, arguing over petty bullshit music. They were wonderful moments. Stupid moments, maybe, yeah, but wonderful. And sometimes … it's very hard. Happiness, that is."

Sympathy is written all over Remus's face, something Remus offers but Sirius refuses to take. "I know just what you mean," Remus says. "It's funny, but do you know that I cried at James and Lily's funeral? And not because they were … it was because the minister said 'ass' instead of 'ask' at one point, and I thought of what you or James would say if you heard it, and …" His smile shakes. "Laughter, you know. Some of the most merciless music on Earth."

There's something destructive in the thought of Remus attending the Potters' funeral alone, sitting there with his entire world toppled and ruined, dressed in someone's shabby borrowed suit that would inevitably be too big for him. Someone should have been there with him, but Sirius knows. There is no one else for Remus Lupin, no one else willing to touch his scarred skin or warm his broken heart. No one left but Sirius, and they can't even have that.

Frustration floods through him, and Sirius hisses like a breath, shoves himself away from the table. "This is all bollocks," he snaps, and Remus gives him a look.

"What is?"

"This," Sirius says furiously, gesturing at the two of them. "Memory's not going to help us; it's just going to torture us, make us want things we can't have."

"And what is it you want, Sirius?"

"I want to be seventeen again," he sighs, and Remus gives him a careworn smile.

"Don't we all."

It surprises him, sometimes, the way that Remus has aged. There are lines and scars on his face now, deeply engraved, angry and permanent. Little networks of crow's feet around his red-rimmed eyes, dark circles that seem inked on, wisps and hints of silver in his sandy hair. The world has trampled Remus, beaten him and weathered him, left him with wrinkled skin and battered bones. Yellowed scraps of newspaper and withered, dried flowers, abandoned albums found in someone else's attic.

Still beautiful, of course. Nothing could ever take that away. Sirius sees his slender body, his remarkably beautiful hands, the soft pout of a mouth, the warmth in those old eyes. And he can't help it; he has to go to him. Has to steal just a little bit of fire, so Sirius puts his hand in Remus's silvering hair, feels Remus melt a little as Sirius's fingers follow the shape of Remus's skull.

"You know, this was never supposed to happen to us," Sirius says, and Remus laughs.

"No," he agrees miserably, "it most certainly wasn't."

His hair is so soft, so fine. How long has it been since Sirius touched it? Centuries. A millennium. "We were never meant to grow old, remember? Marauders forever, and all that rot. Like the Lost Boys in Never-Land, and now look at us."

Another soft chuckle that fades into a sigh when Sirius lets his fingers curve down the sensitive space behind Remus's ear. "Speak for yourself, Padfoot," Remus says. "I'm still a right looker."

"You are, you know."

Sirius says it softly, without levity, lets it float on pure affection. It's somewhat comforting to know that sincerity still comes as a surprise from him, because Remus blinks up at him, eyes wide and oh, God, so suddenly and terribly young. It's like a miracle, almost a revelation, the way that in that one moment, seventeen-year-old Remus Lupin is resurrected, brought back to life behind all these scars and worries.

Remus staring at him wide-eyed, like his entire world has just opened up, lips parting in a way that's not quite a smile, but something far better. Something Sirius has never seen before, his mouth made lush and tender from wonder, and oh, God, but if this is what happens when you tell Remus Lupin that you love him, Sirius is going to say it until he dies.

And of course, like all good things, it fades too fast and turns into something wry, self-deprecating. "Berk," Remus says, swatting at Sirius's hand. "You were right the first time. We're both ancient, decrepit old bastards."

"I meant it," Sirius insists, and when Remus pulls another face, Sirius drops down on his knees and grabs Remus's hands in his own. "Listen to me, Remus. I don't care about your scars, or your bruises, or the gray in your hair. Never have, and I never will." He lifts a hand, lets it slide down the slope of Remus's long nose. "You're still everything I ever wanted."

He says the last part softly, like a prayer, like maybe Remus will answer it if he's good enough. Instead, Remus just looks pained and turns away. "We're not children anymore."

But Sirius grabs his chin, forces his eyes around. "Do you still love me?" he demands.

There's a long, excruciating moment where Remus says nothing at all. Just stares down at Sirius, his lips parted, like he's trying to remember how to speak again. When Remus wraps a hand around Sirius's wrist, it's warm from the teacup and the fingers are callused, rough. Every pore sighs, sings, sobs. Fresher than music, more vivid and tangible. How many times has Remus done this, brushed his thumb across the knob of Sirius's wrist, spun magic out of his clever fingers? Sirius doesn't know. All he knows is that his skin remembers the way things used to be, even if his mind does not, and his heart stirs after its long slumber and begs for what it loves best, when all of a sudden ...

The music stops.

Only for a handful of seconds, and there's the crackle of the record player, the soft pant of breath, the distant sound of sea. Then the last song begins to play, hushed guitar, muted voice, a little broken from being played too much.

"Half of what I say is meaningless
But I say it just to reach you
Julia"

Neither of them move. Time hasn't just stopped; it's gone so slow that it's going backward, and neither of them need to guess what the other one is thinking. It's impossible to think of anything else.

Sometimes, souls get tangled up in between chords and measures, trapped in guitar strings, ensnared in lyrics. For them, this song will always only be about one person. Long, lazy limbs and smart, prim hands, always immaculately beautiful, always polished and effortless and exasperating.

"This was Lily's favorite song," Sirius murmurs. "She used to play it all the time ... I remember, so clearly, how she always used to shush us all whenever it came on. God, she practically wore it out listening to it ..."

Late at night, after all the other students have gone to bed, Lily stays up in the common room with her headphones on, studying or reading, and tonight she's in her nightgown, her head tipped against James's shoulder, the volume soft so the song's just a whisper, barely more than a ghost--

Remus drops his hand and turns his face away. "We can't do this."

Heartache wrenches him out of the past and drops him hard and brutal into the present. Sirius fairly reels from the blow, head snapping back, stung. "Why not?"

"Because we're not seventeen anymore!"

Remus fairly roars the words and in one graceful, furious motion, he rises from the kitchen table, kicks the kitchen chair over and smashes the teacup to the floor. He stumbles, having forgotten his wounded leg in his rage, and leans against the wall, his face twisted in pain. "People are dead, Sirius," he moans. "James and Lily are gone, and a thousand records won't bring them back."

Sirius glares. "I know that, Remus--"

"And neither will I," Remus murmurs. He ducks his head a bit, smiles hopelessly down at his feet. "I'm not the boy you fell in love with all those years ago, Padfoot. Life hasn't ... it hasn't been easy without you." Sirius flinches. "I know what you're trying to do, Sirius, and I don't blame you. If things were different ... but they aren't. You can't resurrect the past."

On the floor, Sirius closes his eyes, bows his head and lets his hair hang in his eyes. Maybe Remus is right. Maybe he does want those thirteen years back, wants to take back time and live in better days, where there were songs about seashell eyes and Remus gave out summer-hot kisses that made Sirius's blood boil. Longing is something that can't be helped, like the angry scars slashing across Remus's troubled face.

The past can't be brought back to life. Seventeen is dead, and now they're in their thirties and they've already lived far too many lifetimes. But they're both still here. Still alive. And when Sirius looks at Remus's face, at the little crinkles by his eyes, the gray in his hair, the sorrow in his shoulders, his heart tugs and twists into a million pieces, and that must mean he's still in love, after all.

Slowly, Sirius rises and walks over to Remus. He gently places his hand on Remus's hip, feels him stiffen under his touch, tense and anxious. Sirius leans over, brushes his nose against Remus's ear. "I know I can't go back in time," he murmurs, low and earnest, "but if you'll help me, I'd like to try going forward."

And then Sirius Black kisses Remus Lupin for the first time in over thirteen years.

It's a little clumsy, a little awkward, but they're both out of practice and out of sorts so that's probably to be expected. There's a fumbling moment where Remus loses his balance and Sirius has to steady him, and Remus somehow doesn't seem quite as tall as he used to be, but the kiss is still a kiss and it is good. Gentle by necessity, as it's been too long for the both of them and just the first brush of mouth against mouth is enough to make them shudder and gasp. Electric, fuck, yes, still a live wire even all these years later, and Sirius is hungry for more.

So he deepens the kiss, grabs Remus by the jaw and forces his tongue between Remus's willing lips, takes his first taste of him and almost cries. Oh, God, Remus was wrong, he still tastes seventeen, like chocolate candies and cinnamon-orange tea, all that sugar covering up the dark, musky taste of werewolf and ancient, brutal magic. It's intoxicating, addictive. It's the most wonderful thing Sirius has ever tasted in his entire life, and he sucks every drop of Remus dry, nibbles at his lower lip.

Moaning, Remus turns his head, gasps for air, and Sirius lets his mouth explore the column of Remus's throat, the salty taste of sweat that he remembers so well. He'd almost forgotten how to kiss in Azkaban, what it meant, what it felt like. Everything got muddled in that place, distorted and destroyed, and Remus is so very, very wrong. This is a resurrection, a rebirth by fire, like Dumbledore's phoenix ascending from fire and ash.

In the background, the music dies out, and neither of them notice.

"I love you," Sirius whispers roughly against Remus's collarbone. "I love you, and you're full of shit if you think all this is just some bit of nostalgia."

"Yes," Remus says thinly, "oh, yes, I'm quite definitely full of shit."

When the laughter comes, it's a wonderful thing, something that surprises him in that it still exists in the first place, and it bubbles out of him all giddy like champagne. He spills his laughter into Remus's shoulder, feels the other man's hand wrap around his neck to hold him close. "Oh, Moony, I don't care if it's all going to go to hell in the morning," Sirius says. "I don't care, and I never did. I just want you."

Remus kisses him and the second one is far smoother than the first, swiftly adapting, hungry and rich. Their hips are flush against each other, and Sirius can feel the stirrings of arousal nudging against his thigh. He'd almost forgotten how that feels, intimate and close, a dirty little secret that only he gets to keep. His hand travels down to feel Remus through his pajamas and his cock jumps to life against his palm.

Remus makes agonized noises into Sirius's mouth that are probably meant to be swear words. "You horrible man," he groans, his hips jerking and his voice shaky. "Oh, yes, you're a very terrible man indeed ..."

Sirius nuzzles Remus's cheek with his nose, inhaling the spicy scent of shaky Moony. "Really? And why is that?"

His hand dips lower, fingers massaging Remus's balls through the fabric, and Remus makes a ragged noise and buries his face against Sirius's shoulder. "Because you're going to break my heart in the end."

Something wraps itself around Sirius's throat, makes it hard for him to breathe. "Maybe," he says roughly. "But I'm going to love you first, and it'll be better than seventeen."

And that is how Sirius manages to convince Remus Lupin to finally let him into his bedroom.

They have to take the stairs slowly, mindful of Remus's wounded leg. Sirius keeps a steady arm wrapped around his old lover's waist, stays with him for every painful step. Remus, of course, swats at Sirius at first and calls him a pansy, but acquiesces when he starts to get short of breath. Even stubborn prats have their limits.

When Remus's fingers curl around the bedroom door, he gives Sirius a quiet look. "You know that this will change everything," he says.

Sirius laughs desperately. "Let's hope."

One more fragile oh-god-I-hope-we're-both-not-crazy kiss and then Remus opens the door.

Sirius doesn't know what he was expecting to find. Kiddie porn dungeon, illegal drugs, or even worse, a waterbed. Mess and disaster would have shocked him, as Remus has always bordered on fastidiousness, but the room is clean. It's also dreadfully spare, its walls white and blank, and the borrowed furniture is cheap and falling apart. There's a dusty mirror on the battered dresser, a couple of sad coat-hangers displaying rumpled suits, a tidy nightstand, the handy case of first-aid potions and bandages resting on the neat, small bed. The only sign of Remus in this room, aside from the werewolf medical paraphernalia, is the fact that every shelf in the room is decorated with old, much-loved books.

In the corner, there is a closet with a steel door and several heavy locks and chains. Sirius doesn't look at it very long.

Before Remus can change his mind, Sirius bolts through the door and into the room, staring around at its spare dimensions, tight corners and unforgiving angles. The sheets on the small bed are threadbare, coming apart at the seams and stained deep with blood. There are no photographs or paintings, no souvenirs or memorabilia. No sign of the mischievous but sad-eyed boy he remembers, just the bare essentials, and nothing more.

Remus lingers by the door, one hand nervously combing through his fine hair as he leans against the wall and stares at his feet. "It's not much," he says feebly, "just, you know, whatever came with the place. And the bed's a little small, I know, but we should both … I don't know."

It's both charming and sad, the level of nervousness Remus has about this entire thing, and Sirius walks to him, puts his hands on Remus's hips, takes a nip of a kiss. "It's fine," he says. "Remember, you're talking to the man whose last residence was a cave full of rats outside of Hogsmeade. This is a palace in comparison."

Remus still won't meet his eyes, the tip of his long nose brushing against Sirius's cheek. "I can't offer you much," he says, and every word is pained, like this admission is killing him. Knowing Moony, it probably is. "The last years ... they took their toll."

Sirius just smiles, kisses Remus's nose. "Remus, I have nothing in this world. Remember?" A kiss a little lower, on the bow of Remus's tender mouth. "Just give me you, and I'll have everything."

A strangled noise that's so raw and stripped that it rocks Sirius to the core, and then Remus is kissing him, furiously, desperately, almost wildly. Starving, this kiss, famished and all-consuming, and Sirius wonders if anyone ever thought to tell Remus Lupin that he can work miracles, that he's more essential than oxygen or water or music. Judging by the way Remus clings to him, sucking at his tongue and rasping moans into his mouth, the answer is probably no.

Sirius will have to remedy that.

But later, yes, later. Right now, there is only skin and sweat, urgent blood and famished fingers. Remus is shoving at Sirius's shirt, fingers clumsily tripping over the buttons, mouth working deliciously at the slope of his neck, right at that one mysterious patch of skin ... Sirius gasps, clutches at Remus's back as his knees threaten to give out. "Oh my God, how the hell can you remember that?" he manages.

Remus mutters a curse, pulls agitatedly at a stubborn button. "Couldn't forget it," he rumbles. "Still dream about the noises you made." Another suckling kiss, the scrape of teeth, and Sirius bucks and thrashes, cries out from the decadence of it all. Remus sighs blissfully. "Oh, yes, Padfoot, just like that."

The shirt gives way to Remus's fumblings and falls to the floor. Immediately, Remus's hands move to Sirius's flies, unfastening belt and undoing trousers, but when Remus's palm brushes against Sirius's erection, Sirius loses it. It's been too long, too fucking long since anyone touched him there, not even himself, and Remus's hand completely overwhelms him. His knees give and he flails at Remus for balance, completely forgetting about Remus's injured leg until he cries out and then both of them go tumbling to the floor in a tangled heap of limbs.

For a moment, neither of them say anything. There's just the ragged heat of breath, Sirius trapped beneath Remus, their noses mashed together. Then Remus swallows, tries to sound casual. "Sirius?"

Sirius swallows, too. "Yes?"

"I do believe my hand is caught in your trousers."

A beat, and then Sirius roars with laughter, throws back his head on the old wooden boards and howls until Remus can't take it anymore and has to start laughing, too. And Remus's laughter is wonderful, all rich and full like his beloved chocolate, sweet and rare.

"This is positively ridiculous," Remus laughs.

Sirius grins up at him. "Couldn't agree with you more," he says cheerfully. "Two old fogies like ourselves, wrestling around like kids. We're going to give ourselves heart attacks."

"Or strokes," Remus says, playing along until Sirius decides to take his advice and start stroking. Just the base of Remus's neck, that's all, but Sirius remembers the way that Remus's skin goes alive when you touch him. There's magic in Remus's blood, after all, magic that stirs and rumbles when made to rush, and Sirius used to delight in watching Remus thrash and whimper, lost in an excess of sensation.

His thumb brushes over the smooth rise of scar tissue and Remus hisses in a breath. Sirius cocks his head at him. "Do your scars still ..."

He lets his voice trail off, his fingers following the rise of the scar down beneath Remus's collar. Remus sputters, bucks his hips against Sirius's. "Oh, my, yes."

The scar slopes down Remus's back and beyond Sirius's reach. Sirius doesn't think he wants to know how it got there, and therefore doesn't. Instead, he reaches around and starts to tug at the belt of Remus's thin, frayed robe. "Got to get you out of these clothes ..."

Unfortunately, Remus disagrees. His hand closes tight and urgent around Sirius's wrist, pulling it away. Confused, Sirius watches as Remus pulls himself gingerly off the floor, wavering uncertainly around the bed, his hands toying with the ties of his robe. "You haven't seen me in a very long time," he murmurs, "and lycanthropy isn't ... it isn't kind. I don't want this to come as a shock."

Sirius blinks. "Did it come as a shock to you when you saw me?"

Something shudders in Remus's eyes. "As a matter of fact, Padfoot, it did," he says softly. His eyes drift meaningfully over Sirius's gaunt frame, his jutting ribcage, the shrunken stomach. "Remind me to force more food down your throat."

"Remind yourself to learn to cook while you're at it," Sirius scowls. "Come on, Moony. This is me. I don't care if you've got scars or boils or a tail or whatnot. I still want you."

"It's not that," Remus says. "I know you, Sirius. Please, just ... just give me a moment."

Sirius says nothing. Just watches as Remus dips his head and unfastens his belts, hands shaky and wobbly, before he finally turns his back to Sirius, drops his drawstring linen trousers to the floor, and lets the robe slide down from off his shoulders. A cascade of fabric falls to the floor, like the unveiling of a new piece of art, and there, on the canvas of Remus Lupin's pale, fine skin, is the true portrait of a werewolf.

There are so many. God, so fucking many. Scars everywhere, intersecting each other, climbing over Sirius's skin and spinning webs of angry tissue all the way down his back. His strong, soft ass (oh, still the same even now, Remus's lovely backside), the left cheek marred by three vicious angry slashes that arc across the top of his thigh, and then three more series of marks where the wolf tried to claw the skin out of his own leg. Even Remus's knobby, heartbreaking knees aren't spared the wreckage, and the backs of his calves have been torn to shreds and hastily put back together again.

It's all terrible, this awful display, and it's only made worse when Remus turns around and faces him.

Scars on his feet, on his too-big, narrow feet that Sirius always teased him about but secretly adored. What sort of horrible joke is that, mucking around with Moony's lovely feet? And his ankles, all wrapped around with brambles of scars, spiraling up towards his awkward knees. And up his thighs, still so strong (but skinny, have to feed him, too) and supple, and his chest ...

Claw marks everywhere, fresh bandages covering up fresh wounds. The worst of it is centered over Remus's heart. Furious angry slashes right across the breastbone, like the wolf was trying to crawl inside of Remus and rip his heart out and feast on it. Trying to take his heart, that good heart that thinks of things like feeding strays, or being polite to even wankers like Snape, or that it might be worthwhile to love a stupid git like Sirius Black.

Remus is draped across his bed in the dormitory, naked and slender and full of youth, his face a little tired but still so smooth, so beautiful, his hair falling gracefully into his eyes. Sirius runs a hand up the arcing scar across Remus's thigh; Remus sighs and twists, wrinkles up his nose and grins with ecstasy. "You stupid prat, you know how much I love--"

When Sirius looks up through sudden, stupid tears at Remus's face, all he sees is that old, ancient smile, a little crooked now because of the gash across his careworn face. "So, was it a shock?"

Sirius doesn't know what to say. He's too overwhelmed by what he's seen here, by the marks and ruins of Remus's fragile body, achingly thin and not at all what it once was. So, in a rasping voice, he says the first thing that comes to mind: "It tried to take your heart, Moony?"

Remus closes his eyes. "After you left. I was supposed to hate you, Sirius, for everything you did, for all the lives I lost, and yet ... I couldn't. I loved you too much. I ached for you every night while people I thought you killed rotted in the ground, and the wolf wanted me to pay."

No, they are certainly not children anymore.

For once in his life, Sirius is speechless. He can't take his eyes off Remus's chest, those awful gashing, gnashing marks, and the thought of the wolf while it did it ... claws scrabbling over furry skin, wet blood everywhere, Remus's blood, and the howl of the beast tearing at the human heart that burns even the wolf. All of it because Remus couldn't stop loving him.

"I'm responsible for all this, aren't I?" he asks in a small voice. "If I'd been there, if Padfoot were around when the moon came, you wouldn't have all those marks. You wouldn't limp a little when you walk, or be so thin, or--"

"Or what, Sirius?" Remus sighs, exhausted. He picks up his robe from before, worn linen with thin patches, slowly shrugs back into it, like a shroud. "You could go through it a thousand times. I've done it. But it's pointless." He heaves another sigh as he lowers himself to the bed and buries his face in his hands, fingers scrubbing at his hair. "I knew this was a bad idea. There was a reason why these doors had locks."

Reason and logic, sound concrete buildings Remus erects to keep his chaotic world in order. If one has secrets, it only makes sense that one buys a lock, because secrets are hurtful and therefore they should never be shared. Only common sense.

Except they never needed to keep secrets before. Once upon a time, they tried it, and it did not end very well. Sirius is tired of secrets, tired of holding things back, suspecting things and resenting things. He doesn't think he can take another disaster.

Sirius has to work to keep the anger out of his voice. "And why do those doors need locks, Remus?" he says. "Who are you protecting: you, or me? 'Cause let me tell you, mate, if it's the latter, then you're a complete and utter berk."

Remus draws himself up tensely, glares at Sirius through his fingers. "I won't have you blaming yourself for what you cannot help. It's not your fault, Sirius, and I knew you'd take it this way."

"So instead, you just locked me out," he snarls, and he's off the floor in an instant, pacing the floor angrily, his trousers undone and loose around his narrow hips. "Best not upset the crazy man, is that it, Remus? Have to protect him and coddle him and change his nappies when he shits himself?"

Remus blanches. "Really, Sirius, there's no need to--"

"So your great solution is to just box it all up, how neat, how clever, and shove upsetting things away in the attic where they belong, all so I won't get my delicate feelings hurt?" he snarls. "I can take it, Remus. I don't care, God, how many times do I--"

"I care."

It's a quiet murmur, a little breeze that disrupts the flow of Sirius's glass tirade. Sirius turns to look at him, Remus in profile, one long leg naked and curving towards the floor. Those exquisitely scarred feet. "You never let me answer your question, you know," Remus says in that same gentle, mild voice that always scares Sirius half to death. "About who I was trying to protect."

"Who was it?" Sirius says softly, all the anger suddenly gone straight out of him.

Remus glances at him with honey-drenched eyes. "Both of us," he breathes. "It's true that I think you're troubled. It doesn't make me love you any less. And it's true that if I thought it couldn't hurt to spare you any extra grief. But it's also true that I thought that by doing that, I could spare myself the pain of watching you suffer and knowing that there is nothing I can do."

Oh, Moony.

Slender, long hands washing over themselves, a nervous habit, tangled up with the frayed belt of his house robe. "I see you, Sirius," he says darkly. "How thin you are, how ... how your eyes look. And I've heard your nightmares, the things you cry out in the middle of the night. I know you've suffered. Suffered more than you ever deserved, and God, Padfoot, it kills me to see it because I still remember seventeen, too."

Time is a tricky bastard.

It's all too easy for Sirius to fall back into the past, to recreate the friends he knew when he was but a boy. It's all glass-sharp and electric-vivid in his head, a swirl of pretty razor blades. But remembering himself ... it's a very different story. No matter how deep into a memory he might be, Sirius never really feels like he's there. He's always ancient, drawn and distant, watching the others through forgotten eyes.

But Remus remembers how to see it, and when Sirius looks into his eyes, he remembers, too.

Padfoot loping through the clearing, a dark dash of joyous ink across the snowy white winter page, tongue lolling from the side of his mouth in an expression of sheer bliss. He passes by a tree and suddenly he's Sirius, laughing like a maniac, never once losing a drop of his canine glee.

"There was a time," Remus says softly, hurling Sirius back to the present, "when we both thought that if we loved each other enough, we might survive this world intact. But that time is over and gone now, Sirius. The world's already had its way with us, and perhaps all we can do is try not to make matters worse."

There's a long moment where no one says anything, and the silence hangs in the room, merciless and waiting for the kill before Sirius finally breaks it:

"You're an ass."

Startled, Remus whips his head up to gawk at Sirius, who stubbornly juts out his chin. "So, what, you want to spare us the pain of being human?" he says. "Rubbish. Only way you'll do that is if you kill us, and honestly, Remus, being without you is doing a fine enough job as it is. You can't throw away love just because it might hurt sometimes. Just part of what love is, and you were the poncy bastard who told me that."

Remus opens his mouth to say something and Sirius talks right over him. "And you're stupid if you think that just because we're older and wiser, we won't ever be happy together. So we're not seventeen anymore. So we can't ever have that time in our lives back. So bloody what? We're alive, Moony, right here and right now, and that's--"

Irrelevant, because Remus is kissing him.

No, not kissing him, silencing him in every way, so that the world around them and its unstoppable misery just flutters away into the distance and all that is left is intimacy. Both hands wrapped around Sirius's face, forceful palms holding him steady until all thought flies out of his mind and all he can do is helplessly grab Remus by the waist and kiss him back. The layers of the universe peel back and shatter, like a glass onion, and Sirius can't help but laugh a little into the kiss.

When Remus pulls away again, he's smiling a little, and Sirius feels dazed and enormously confused. "You were angry," he says, and Remus nods.

"I was," he says. "But then I remembered that even though you're not seventeen anymore, you're still Sirius Black, and chaos is to be expected." Then his voice lowers a bit, and he lifts his hand, runs it through Sirius's messy black curls. "And I'd forgotten the way you look when you're passionate."

A slow, wicked smile works its way across Sirius's mouth. "Then let me remind you."

So Sirius kisses him again and memory explodes around them.

Kissing in the Great Hall after everyone has left from dinner, Remus's hands scratchy and sumptuous against Sirius's scruffy almost-beard, kissing urgently and hungrily, both of them starved for affection. It's been so long for them, after all, almost three days, and now that they've the chance, they have to make the best of it. Hard cocks grinding through robes and trousers, Sirius's hands guiding Remus's hips closer and closer, delicious friction, his skin so alive--

--that it feels like it's gasping, choking for air under Remus's smothering hands as they scour every inch of exposed flesh. Ragged fingernails scratch long at his back and Sirius whimpers, all good dog in an instant, and he'd forgotten how Remus could do that, could make him go belly-up at whim. "Oh, Jesus, Remus ..."

Sirius reaches out for him but Remus steps back, his hands moving towards the belt of his robe. He meets Sirius's gaze and holds it as he undoes the sash with steady fingers, and then the robe is on the floor and Remus is his.

It's a tumbling fall onto the small bed, Sirius somehow managing to slide out of his trousers in the process, and then it's nothing but pale skin, moving and humming under Sirius's touch, and oh, God, he'd forgotten how good Remus tastes. Every little section of him has its own special spice, its own secret scent. It's sense memory, this is, like everything good and wonderful in Sirius Black's life has been locked under Remus's scarred skin and now he has the key.

Adoringly, Sirius nuzzles at Remus's elbow, shoves his nose up against the crook of his arm and takes a good whiff. Remus laughs, swats at his head. "Stop it, that tickles."

"Not stopping," Sirius grins, snuffling down the side of Remus's stomach. "Smell so good, Moony, what is that? Woodsy, yeah, kind of like burnt leaves ..."

Burnt leaves and cloves, and the afterglow of spent chocolate, tidal marshes rustled by the moon. A thousand inexplicable scents, and part of him yearns to switch to Padfoot, just for the better nose. He has to commit this all to memory, after all. Has to relearn the taste of Remus's belly button, the silly, loopy laughter that Remus emits when Sirius blows air on his stomach, has to remember every scar so he'll never forget to touch them and make them sing. Everything is important. Nothing is inconsequential.

When Sirius's mouth starts moving lower, into more secret places, Remus stops laughing and starts making other, darker sounds that make Sirius's skin prickle up and pay attention. The wolf is there, lurking underneath Remus's warm skin and kind eyes, stirring in his blood. When Sirius takes his hand and circles it around the base of Remus's cock, the growl that Remus gives out is dark and tinged with moon-lust. Rumbles straight to his own erection, painfully neglected and throbbing from sensory overload. Sirius shivers, has to catch his breath.

He looks up to see Remus's head thrown back on the pillow, jaw working furiously with control, neck arched and graceful and indescribably erotic. "Sirius," he gasps, in that old Moony-way that made Sirius actually find his name beautiful, "oh, love, your hands ..."

His hands are trembling, that's what they're doing. Sirius swallows, leans up and kisses the raw scratches over Remus's unbreakable heart, touches his lips to the corner of Remus's mouth, and then moves back down and takes his cock in his mouth.

Remus's hands working anxiously at Sirius's shoulders, frantic and shaking as Sirius swirls his tongue around the swollen shaft, traces every throbbing vein, adds just enough teeth to make Remus sob. The first taste of come, not orgasm, not yet, just a hint of salty-sweet that makes Sirius wonder how he ever lived without this before.

Doesn't know how he lived without this for thirteen years, stuck in that dank hole, with nobody's hands but his own and not enough passion left in his body to even want it. And he doesn't know how he did that, live without the want, because he wants this so bad he could almost cry. The silky feel of Remus's thigh against his cheek, the arcing rock of his hips, the myriad of noises that sometimes almost sounds like crooning. Oh, Moony, the music we make together ...

"Oh, fuck, fuck, Sirius, oh yes, there, love you so much, ah, God, forgot that, yes, there, ahhh -- stop, stop, fuck, wait!"

Instantly, Sirius pulls back, frowning up at Remus. His face is bright with sweat, eyes glassy and glazed, lips all red and just-been-kissed. He's breathing heavily. "You all right there, Moony?" Sirius frowns, his heart racing.

"Fine," Remus gasps. "Just not, you know..." He grins a little sheepishly. "Not seventeen anymore."

The urgency of his own arousal is deafening; he can hear his blood pulsing in his ears, and his cock ... Sirius nods a bit, grins back. "Neither am I."

With great effort, Remus swallows. "Want to be inside you, Sirius," he says. "It's been too ... too long."

Just the thought of it, Remus inside him, fuck, it shakes something hot in Sirius and he almost loses it then and there. "Right then," he says roughly. "Then we'd best do that very soon."

A low growl falls from Remus's throat; Remus shoves at Sirius's shoulders, rolls him over on the bed, eyes shockingly bright in the rising dim. Greedily, Remus swoops his mouth down and ravishes Sirius's lips with a positively ravenous kiss. Their cocks rub together, satin-smooth and slickly seductive, and Sirius moans, rocks his hips, fingers digging deep into Remus's spine. "Do it," he gasps hoarsely. "Now, do it now, Moony, or I swear there'll be nothing left of me."

Gasping, Remus clenches his teeth, his face drawn tight with control. He manages to stammer out a spell that Sirius had almost forgotten, a soft incantation that causes a sudden rush of warmth to slide through his body and something slackens damp and deep within him. Remus's long, smooth fingers slip between Sirius's thighs and when one digit slides wetly inside him, the orbit of the world tilts and the universe shivers. Another finger joins the first and opens him further, and Sirius feels a strange, whispering sensation crawling through his insides, murmuring words he's never heard before but now feels with excruciating intensity.

"Remus," Sirius breathes, his eyes wide and a little awestruck. "Remus, something's …"

And then Remus is inside him and a thousand memories shake loose.

They fall dreamily, descending like autumn leaves and then erupt into furious color with every cry and thrust. As their bodies collide, so do past and present, a million memories tumbling forth and filling up Sirius's chest. His breath hitches, his eyes go wide while Remus presses his forehead to Sirius's brow and fucks him. Everything is pouring out of him, an entire lifetime scorching the back of his brain, and he desperately clings to Remus, wraps his legs around his waist, spreads his hands across Remus's back.

And fuck, oh, it's so good, it's so much better than he ever remembers it. It's like the summer after seventh year when Remus finally forgave him and let him into his bed, like that one night in Scotland when the rains fell heavy and Sirius bit Remus's earlobe, like a drunken night-out with the boys that ends up with them clumsily grabbing each other outside in the alley.  It's like all these things and nothing at all, new and old, then and now, crashing and coalescing until Sirius is overwhelmed by every sensation Remus Lupin has ever given him, and the world goes white with music.

A million songs, volume up louder than life itself, and the world is wonderful, the world is glorious, the world is theirs on these slippery vinyl sleeves while the phonograph sings their sweat-sleepy bodies off into dreams, tangled together in rich, redolent harmony.

Color returns to the world in a slow, sleek crawl. The faded blue of bed sheets, the cloudy gray curtains, brown-silver hair plastered to sweaty brow and green-gray-gold eyes that stare at him, awestruck and ecstatic. "Sirius?" he gulps. "You all right there?"

For a moment, Sirius can't speak. Not because he can't remember how, but because he has too many words swimming around in his head. Every silly little post-coital promise, every stanza of misquoted poetry, every single lyric to every single bloody song. All of it swims and slurs around in Sirius's mind as he stares dumbly at Remus, and then he manages to grab a phrase out of the mess.

"Love you, Moony."

Remus's eyes close, and he heaves a sigh. Drained, he melts into Sirius's embrace, sticky and sated, pressing his cheek into the crook of Sirius's neck. His mouth moves but Sirius doesn't hear any words, lulled by the crackling static of sleep, and it doesn't matter because they've said everything before, anyway.

Funny, how some things never change.

Smiling, Sirius brushes a thumb across the damp nape of Remus's neck and instantly falls asleep.

*****

Sirius is accustomed to waking into silence. Harsh, cruel noiseless nothing, empty rooms and dark corners, only the sound of his own nightmare-frenzied breath. It's a sharp and inconsiderate way to wake up to the world, everything all awkward angles and empty. Instantaneous loneliness is something he knows too well.

But this morning, Sirius wakes to music.

"Pools of sorrow waves of joy
Are drifting thorough my open mind
Possessing and caressing me
Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world"

Dreamy, meandering guitar wafts lazily through the room, wrapping him up tight like the warm sheets and even warmer skin. Skin. Legs tangled around his, knobby knee clenched rather uncomfortably between his calves, the musky smell of morning sweat and recent sex pressed up against his nose. He hears the turn of a page, crisp and delicate. Remus.

Sirius doesn't dare open his eyes, not yet, because this could just be a dream and if so, then he certainly doesn't want to interrupt it. Not when it's this clear, this vivid. He can count Remus's heartbeat under his cheek, strong and steady like a metronome, and there are fingers in his hair, combing through snagged curls and tangled locks until it's smooth and silky. Long, gentle fingers, Moony-hands, in his hair, and oh, no, if this is a dream, he's never going to wake up.

"I know you're awake, Padfoot, so stop drooling on my shoulder."

There's a smile behind the words that's far too genuine to be a fantasy, and when Sirius opens his eyes, he sees Remus smiling down at him, his eyes brighter than the sunlight streaming in through the open windows. He puts down his book, but doesn't stop stroking Sirius's hair. "Good morning," he says pleasantly. "You slept very well."

Sirius beams. "Yes, I did," he agrees, and kisses Remus good morning. He tastes like oranges, all citrus-clean and sugar-sour. There's a sudden churn in Sirius's belly that begs for breakfast, and Remus laughs against his mouth.

"Hungry, Padfoot?" he grins as he pulls away, and Sirius contentedly burrows back into Remus's shoulder, squeezes the sharp knee between his legs.

"Not hungry enough to get out of bed," he says. "Give us a little while, and I'll cook."

There's a groaning noise that's more affectionate than annoyed. "I don't think my kitchen would survive your culinary technique."

"Tosser," Sirius says fondly, and sighs when Remus's fingers scratch a little behind his ear.

"Limitless undying love which
shines around me like a million suns
It calls me on and on across the universe"

The phonograph sits on the edge of the nightstand, just within arm's reach, and Sirius notices for the first time that the bed is littered with albums. One of the inserts rests across Remus's lap, and Sirius flicks at the edges with his fingers. "Love this song," Sirius sighs, and Remus nods.

"This was my favorite album. I know you were always partial to White, but I liked this one best."

"What made you decide to bring the record player up?"

The shrug of a shoulder, muscles moving under Sirius's cheek. "Thought it might be nice," he says. "Like I said, things get awfully quiet around here."

Sirius grins. "And I thought you said these records were silly."

A scoff, and Remus skritches his fingers at the scruff of Sirius's neck, making him twitch and hum. "I never said any such thing," he says indignantly. "I happen to love all these old records. Haven't listened to them in years, and after all, love, you're the one who taught me that some things are worth remembering."

Lightly, Remus's finger skates down the slope of Sirius's cheek as the song gently fades into quiet. A kiss falls on the top of his head, and Sirius smiles. Hands move and caress in tune with guitar and voice, and the past melts away as the song fades out. When Remus bends his head and parts his lips, Sirius can only think about the next kiss, and the kiss after that, and the kiss after that, and it's enough to fill the silence.

Grinning, he closes his eyes and waits for the next song to begin.

*****

THE END

*****

Lyrics from "Rocky Raccoon", "Julia", and "Across the Universe", respectively. All written by The Beatles. Used without permission because I am teh dev01.