Fic: Territory, Remus/Sirius, R
Okay, this one was supposed to be a drabble, but it got way out of hand. It isn’t quite what was asked for, sorry. Sometime I will try and write something hotter, with lots of tension and denial and all that.
For coconutswirl:
Title: Territory
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: R
Summary: Sirius is very fond of his flat, the only problem being that Remus is always there. Pre-Azkaban.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Word count: 3116-ish
Territory
Sirius loved his flat, of course he did, it was his; blessed escape from his family. It was, admittedly, rather ugly, his having decided that the best way to rebel against the gloomy, oppressive, macabre-ness of the Black ancestral home was to get himself a nice, bright, modern flat. Formica, unfortunately, wasn’t all that attractive, but it was still his place, and therefore he loved it.
The main problem with his flat was that Remus was always in it.
#
Daytimes
The four of them had decided that after seven years of living in such close proximity that maybe some time apart would be a good thing. Both James’ and Peter’s parents had bought them nice London flats when they’d left school, and both of them had thought that it would be best if Sirius were the one to house Remus.
He hadn’t been able to fathom exactly why it was his duty in particular, but he’d somehow been guilt-tripped into it, so that’s how things were. There had been suggestions that he needed someone to look after him. At least Remus was tidy and always did the shopping, and he hardly ever complained about the foil takeaway cartons containing congealed curry, or the cold coffee cups full of stale fag-ends, or even the forgotten mugs of soured red wine that could often be found in inexplicable locations about the front room.
So it could have been worse. Remus went to work when he had a job, read books and newspapers when he didn’t, and didn’t really bother Sirius that much in the day-to-day scheme of things.
#
Mornings
Sirius had always found mornings rather a struggle, all that getting-out-of-bed-when-you-didn’t-want-to, and then having to make something to eat and drink and all that bollocks, so he tried to sleep in as often as possible. When he finally reached the kitchen, especially at weekends, Remus would be sitting at the table, delicately sipping his tea and quietly (though not literally) charming the pants off whichever lady-friend Sirius had brought home the night before.
In a way it was a good thing; Remus would make breakfast for these girls and listen to their morning ramblings so Sirius didn’t have to, and often he even told them adorable (and largely untrue) stories about sweet-little-mischiefs Sirius had got up to at school. Of course it was very nice of Remus, but he didn’t see why his flatmate felt it was his responsibility to try and smooth the path of Sirius’ generally-disastrous relationships.
#
One of the more thoroughly irritating things about Remus was not that he was a werewolf, it was that he was a homosexual. He brought men back to the flat. On many mornings there were strange men sitting at the breakfast table, and Sirius had most certainly never fancied attempting any sort of entertaining small-talk with them. Luckily, it was never really expected of him, as these men tended towards an instantaneous and very-great dislike of Sirius immediately on meeting him, so it was quite normal for him to drink his coffee in the midst of mutual, silent glowering.
It was Robbie, in particular, that flared Sirius’ temper the most. Of Remus’ young men he was the most frequent visitor, in fact the only one that had ever seemed to be there on any sort of regular basis. Robbie was a blue-eyed Frenchman (all dark-brown curls and muscled shoulders) who apparently was studying some sort of Potions-type thing, with Muggles in one of their Universities, and Remus apparently found this fascinating. It bored Sirius to death.
Luckily, Robbie also had a passion for Quidditch, and his own ailing national team in particular, so he was always good for a fight so long as you suggested that Laurent Briand was more likely to hit his own head than a Bludger, or that Sylvie Calmette couldn’t find her arse with both hands, never mind the Snitch.
Every time Sirius did this, Remus would wait patiently until Robbie had gone home, then rest his hand on Sirius’ arm, fingers still warm from his mug of tea, and ask regretfully why Sirius insisted on doing that, and why he couldn’t just get along with Robert. Sirius would wince because Remus always pronounced it all Frenchly, ‘Rob-airrr’, and Sirius always thought about how ‘air’ was exactly what Robbie’s head was full of.
#
Nights
The nights were usually fine.
Of course Sirius couldn’t have a girl back every single night, but he managed it pretty often anyway. Admittedly he didn’t ever have the same girl staying more than a few times; he tended to get sick of them fairly quickly, and the ones that had any sense would get sick of him too. He didn’t want any sort of relationship anyway: it spoiled his image. He couldn’t be a rebellious, leather-wearing, flying-motorcycle owner, with some boring, soppy girlfriend, could he? (Though, so far, the motorbike hardly got more than a foot off the ground before Sirius’ growing excitement was interrupted by sudden, crashing pain.) Every time someone asked why he didn’t have a steady girlfriend he would laugh and toss his hair, in a way that suggested he could have anyone, any time he wanted, and Remus would make his joke about him being married to the bike.
But the main point was; you’d think Remus and Robbie-boy could manage a few Imperturbable Charms, wouldn’t you?
Sirius would try desperately hard not to listen, but there were times when he couldn’t help it. He’d thought it was men who were supposed to fall asleep after sex, but it was amazing how often he was the one wide awake while some girl snored away on his pillow. Though that may have been his fault, for plying whoever-she-was with so much alcohol.
But whether there was a girl beside him or not, he could often hear those bastards going at it while he tried to sleep.
It was just all wrong. Two men… shagging was just completely, well, stupid, and the idea of that awful Robbie actually fucking Remus, being inside him, was rather- wrong, really. Hearing them both groan together; it hardly sounded like fun, especially for Remus, having that boring French git on top of him, making noises like a beached Sperm Whale. (That joke was somewhat less funny when it was 2.53am and you were alone, listening to your flatmate having sex for the third time that night.)
After one night of particularly disturbing sounds -the way the bed shook and rattled, Remus’ low moans that always ended with that sharp, whimpering cry of his- Sirius decided he should mention it.
When he asked Remus if he wouldn’t mind trying out something called an Imperturbable Charm next time he wanted to make that much noise in bed, Remus first blushed and then laughed. ‘Why the hell should we? You always sound like you’re trying to make as much noise as possible!’ Then Sirius had made his Sperm Whale comment and Remus had told him that Robbie probably did it on purpose just to piss Sirius off.
Particularly riled up, Sirius had pointed out that what he was doing himself was perfectly natural, whereas what Remus was letting another man do on him was highly unnatural and rather disturbing.
Remus had taken a huff at that, and it had needed rather a lot of grovelling over the following few days for him to be forgiven. When, at great length, he’d managed to convince Remus that everything was okay between them, and that he was really okay with all the perverted deviancy that Remus liked to indulge in, they settled on the sofa and decided that having to cast charms rather spoiled the moment, so Sirius would fix Remus’ squeaky bed and everyone would try to keep the noise down. Remus had rubbed Sirius’ back in that friendly, calming way of his and called him a ‘funny old thing’ as he was wont to do, adding ‘and god knows where you got the idea that Robbie and I did it that way round’, chuckling a little and wandering into the kitchen for another can of beer.
Sirius had found the next time Robbie stayed over even more disturbing, despite the silent bed and noises that were more intent and hushed and desperate as opposed to loud, because now he could actually picture how it was, Remus actually on top, actually on his boyfriend and-
It was expecting a bit much, he thought, for Remus to assume that he was fine with it all.
#
Full Moons
The full moons themselves weren’t much of a problem, really, it was just the same as it had always been; they would find a good location and run wild as a pack again.
It was the afterwards’ that got a bit weird. To begin with, they’d all tried to help out, but Sirius had got annoyed with Peter’s incessant fussing and twitching, and with James’ idiotically-helpful schemes to make Remus feel better, so he’d banned them from hanging around and now booted them out the minute they’d helped him get Remus into bed.
When younger, he’d assumed that they had the most difficult job (as well as the most exciting), running with the wolf, calming him, controlling him, but he’d been wrong. Grown up (sort of) and suddenly faced with his very-ill friend made him realise what a wonderful, amazing, patient and capable woman Madame Pomfrey truly was.
He had to clean Remus’ cuts for him, usually just by dragging him into a warm bath and having to hold him tight around the shoulders while he was too weak to keep himself above water. Then he would apply potions and charms to his skin to make his cuts heal quickly, adding a few on himself for where the wolf had got rather too excitable. Next, he had to force Remus to eat (something soft like soup or porridge) and drink, because the strong pain-killing potion he needed could not be taken on an empty stomach.
And all this while Sirius himself was falling-down tired from a night in the woods.
Hell only knew what it had been like when the wolf had only his own crazed, rabid company every full moon; Sirius could scarcely imagine what Remus’ injuries must have been like then, as they were horrific enough now, with the sleepy, shamed misery in Remus’ usually-gentle brown eyes making it all the worse.
Once Remus was cleaned-up, doped up, fed and watered, Sirius would tuck him in and promptly attempt to fall asleep on him, though it was usually more like Remus falling asleep on him, head against Sirius’ chest. Sometimes Remus was in too much pain to sleep immediately and Sirius would listen to him rambling on, or sing soothing songs to him. And sometimes he would have to throw all dignity and masculinity to the wind and just tell Remus how much they all loved him and how everything would be all right, and stroke his hair until he fell asleep.
#
Sundays
Sundays were Sirius’ favourite day of the week, without a doubt. Even Remus’ constantly being there couldn’t annoy him on a Sunday; in fact it was Remus’ company that made Sundays all the better.
Sirius tried not to have a girl staying on a Saturday night, because there was nothing that spoiled his lazy-Sunday good-mood more than a disgruntled, rejected girl with a hangover, and Robbie rarely stayed long on Sundays because he played some stupid Muggle game with his ‘Uni-mates’ on that day.
Sundays were his and Remus’ getting-along time. They would have a pot of tea and both the Muggle and Wizarding papers, and they’d lie, legs entangled, at opposite ends of the sofa, each reading their chosen newspaper and exchanging views. They would talk about Wizarding and Muggle politics, news items of particular amusement, and about both Quidditch and football. (Remus still sniggered over that time Sirius had called it ‘feety-ball’, though Sirius maintained that it made more sense because you had lots of players and they were all allowed to use both feet.) Sirius always marvelled at Remus’ paper when they finally got around to swapping over; the strange words Muggles used, their strange, bland photographs (though their photographs could, sometimes, somehow feel more real than moving wizarding ones) and their bizarre array of different sports, that one in particular where Sirius couldn’t understand why they thought it was a good thing that some big-shouldered bloke with a broken nose had fallen over while clutching the ball, three others holding onto his thickly-muscled legs and waist.
One (spoiled) Sunday, Remus had insisted they both go and watch Robbie playing that particular game with his Muggle friends. It had all been very awkward, Robbie having introduced Remus to his mates as ‘an old friend of the family’, Remus’ name being just plausibly French enough. Then they’d started playing and the whole point seemed to be ‘everyone jump on the bloke with the ball’, and if someone got to the far end without being jumped on, then they scored points and someone would kick the ball over a weird H-shaped post to celebrate.
Still, Sirius always smiled at the sports pictures in the Muggle papers, because one day Robbie’s stupid French nose would be broken in a similar and hideous way.
After they were finished with the papers, they would head down to their local and get themselves pub lunches (Sunday roast) and quite often Lily and James couldn’t make it, and if James wasn’t going then Peter usually wouldn’t bother either, so the two of them would bicker some more, sink several pints and wander home.
Once there, because very full stomachs and four pints at lunchtime were hardly conducive to wakefulness, they usually fell asleep, tangled up on the couch again. Remus would pass out almost immediately, head settled on Sirius’ shoulder, and his body slumped almost full-length across him, breathing heavy, wet breaths across Sirius’ neck, and it was always so much nicer than a full moon, because Remus wasn’t in pain, and because Sirius was sleepy in a happy and contented way.
Remus would sleep a little restlessly those afternoons, wriggling against Sirius, and his left hand would find it’s way to the hem of Sirius’ shirt, gently working the material between forefinger and thumb. Sirius always let him do this (even when the soft pads of his fingers preferred to be under his shirt and stroking at the skin above Sirius’ hip) because he still felt rather guilty about how much they’d all teased Remus about his comfort-blanket in first year, because although it was perfectly normal for kids to tease each other about such things, an eleven year-old werewolf should be allowed any comfort he wanted, however soppy and girly it may be. And besides, he felt a bit strange himself, because it felt rather soothing to have Remus lying on him and using his skin for a comfort-blanket.
Eventually Remus would wake and bugger off to have a bath (that’s girly homosexuals for you), and Sirius would be able to get some sleep himself, though he usually had strange dreams about Remus, having spent all day with him, and with his skin and clothing and the sofa still smelling of pub-smoke and beer and Remus. Then Remus would potter around in his dressing gown and make them sandwiches for tea and they’d finish their evening by watching the Muggle television.
#
One Sunday, whilst dozing together on the sofa, Remus didn’t seem to want to go to sleep, and spent the time asking Sirius a lot of stupid, unrelated questions, his thumb still swiping its gentle trail over Sirius’ hip. First he asked why Sirius didn’t have girls staying over much anymore, and Sirius pointed out how annoying they were and how much effort it all was. Next, he asked why Sirius didn’t like Robbie, and Sirius replied that he was a poncy French arsehole. Remus got a bit annoyed about that, but rather less annoyed than he usually did, and he pointed out that Robbie was a lovely bloke and he thought Sirius should really be perfectly able to get along with him. Then he asked if Sirius was sure he didn’t mind that Remus always fell asleep on him every Sunday. Sirius said that he was quite sure and he rather liked it, and Remus sighed happily, breath hot on Sirius’ neck.
Then Remus twisted a little and pressed his lips to Sirius’.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ had been the first thing Sirius yelped, but Remus told him to shut up and tried it again anyway, lips soft and wet against the corner of his mouth. ‘You can’t just do that!’ he attempted to add, but Remus’ tongue slid into his mouth and Remus began to kiss in earnest. ‘Nn-‘ was all else he could say before he gave in.
So Remus kissed him, and somehow it didn’t matter because it was just like having Remus asleep on him, only better, and suddenly he realised how wonderful it would be if he could elicit that desperate, sharp cry from Remus, the one he usually only got to hear if he lay very quiet under his sheets when Remus had Robbie staying, and that was a shocking and frightening thought to be having.
‘You do realise,’ Remus said then, still kissing, ‘that I never fall asleep on you, and that I’m hard the entire time I lie here, because I want to- oh, and I have to go and have a bath so I can-‘ He stopped talking, presumably, because Sirius had (involuntarily) groaned rather loudly into Remus’ mouth, because he was listening to Remus talk about sex, and Remus never talked about sex, and suddenly here he was, lying on Sirius, kissing him, and saying that he-
Sirius didn’t have a clue where all these thoughts were coming from, why, all of a sudden, he knew that this felt good, and why that suddenly Remus talking about sex, Remus talking about sex with him, was the best thing ever, and why he was, very suddenly indeed, very hard himself.
He pulled his friend tighter and kissed harder and Remus whimpered (and hell, that was good) and Sirius realised he had to ask; ‘you know what you were saying that time, about you and Robbie?’
‘Shut up,’ mumbled Remus, kissing down Sirius’ neck.
‘But. But is it always- that way round?’
Remus pulled back slightly, surprised. ‘Mostly, er-‘
Sirius thought about it - Remus being on top of him, inside him, thrusting, soft fingers touching Sirius’ skin, making those little whimpery-yelping noises, how his face must look as he did so-
‘Er, Sirius-‘
‘Well, okay then,’ Sirius said, and dragged a rather stunned-looking Remus towards his bedroom.
For coconutswirl:
Title: Territory
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: R
Summary: Sirius is very fond of his flat, the only problem being that Remus is always there. Pre-Azkaban.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Word count: 3116-ish
Territory
Sirius loved his flat, of course he did, it was his; blessed escape from his family. It was, admittedly, rather ugly, his having decided that the best way to rebel against the gloomy, oppressive, macabre-ness of the Black ancestral home was to get himself a nice, bright, modern flat. Formica, unfortunately, wasn’t all that attractive, but it was still his place, and therefore he loved it.
The main problem with his flat was that Remus was always in it.
#
Daytimes
The four of them had decided that after seven years of living in such close proximity that maybe some time apart would be a good thing. Both James’ and Peter’s parents had bought them nice London flats when they’d left school, and both of them had thought that it would be best if Sirius were the one to house Remus.
He hadn’t been able to fathom exactly why it was his duty in particular, but he’d somehow been guilt-tripped into it, so that’s how things were. There had been suggestions that he needed someone to look after him. At least Remus was tidy and always did the shopping, and he hardly ever complained about the foil takeaway cartons containing congealed curry, or the cold coffee cups full of stale fag-ends, or even the forgotten mugs of soured red wine that could often be found in inexplicable locations about the front room.
So it could have been worse. Remus went to work when he had a job, read books and newspapers when he didn’t, and didn’t really bother Sirius that much in the day-to-day scheme of things.
#
Mornings
Sirius had always found mornings rather a struggle, all that getting-out-of-bed-when-you-didn’t-want-to, and then having to make something to eat and drink and all that bollocks, so he tried to sleep in as often as possible. When he finally reached the kitchen, especially at weekends, Remus would be sitting at the table, delicately sipping his tea and quietly (though not literally) charming the pants off whichever lady-friend Sirius had brought home the night before.
In a way it was a good thing; Remus would make breakfast for these girls and listen to their morning ramblings so Sirius didn’t have to, and often he even told them adorable (and largely untrue) stories about sweet-little-mischiefs Sirius had got up to at school. Of course it was very nice of Remus, but he didn’t see why his flatmate felt it was his responsibility to try and smooth the path of Sirius’ generally-disastrous relationships.
#
One of the more thoroughly irritating things about Remus was not that he was a werewolf, it was that he was a homosexual. He brought men back to the flat. On many mornings there were strange men sitting at the breakfast table, and Sirius had most certainly never fancied attempting any sort of entertaining small-talk with them. Luckily, it was never really expected of him, as these men tended towards an instantaneous and very-great dislike of Sirius immediately on meeting him, so it was quite normal for him to drink his coffee in the midst of mutual, silent glowering.
It was Robbie, in particular, that flared Sirius’ temper the most. Of Remus’ young men he was the most frequent visitor, in fact the only one that had ever seemed to be there on any sort of regular basis. Robbie was a blue-eyed Frenchman (all dark-brown curls and muscled shoulders) who apparently was studying some sort of Potions-type thing, with Muggles in one of their Universities, and Remus apparently found this fascinating. It bored Sirius to death.
Luckily, Robbie also had a passion for Quidditch, and his own ailing national team in particular, so he was always good for a fight so long as you suggested that Laurent Briand was more likely to hit his own head than a Bludger, or that Sylvie Calmette couldn’t find her arse with both hands, never mind the Snitch.
Every time Sirius did this, Remus would wait patiently until Robbie had gone home, then rest his hand on Sirius’ arm, fingers still warm from his mug of tea, and ask regretfully why Sirius insisted on doing that, and why he couldn’t just get along with Robert. Sirius would wince because Remus always pronounced it all Frenchly, ‘Rob-airrr’, and Sirius always thought about how ‘air’ was exactly what Robbie’s head was full of.
#
Nights
The nights were usually fine.
Of course Sirius couldn’t have a girl back every single night, but he managed it pretty often anyway. Admittedly he didn’t ever have the same girl staying more than a few times; he tended to get sick of them fairly quickly, and the ones that had any sense would get sick of him too. He didn’t want any sort of relationship anyway: it spoiled his image. He couldn’t be a rebellious, leather-wearing, flying-motorcycle owner, with some boring, soppy girlfriend, could he? (Though, so far, the motorbike hardly got more than a foot off the ground before Sirius’ growing excitement was interrupted by sudden, crashing pain.) Every time someone asked why he didn’t have a steady girlfriend he would laugh and toss his hair, in a way that suggested he could have anyone, any time he wanted, and Remus would make his joke about him being married to the bike.
But the main point was; you’d think Remus and Robbie-boy could manage a few Imperturbable Charms, wouldn’t you?
Sirius would try desperately hard not to listen, but there were times when he couldn’t help it. He’d thought it was men who were supposed to fall asleep after sex, but it was amazing how often he was the one wide awake while some girl snored away on his pillow. Though that may have been his fault, for plying whoever-she-was with so much alcohol.
But whether there was a girl beside him or not, he could often hear those bastards going at it while he tried to sleep.
It was just all wrong. Two men… shagging was just completely, well, stupid, and the idea of that awful Robbie actually fucking Remus, being inside him, was rather- wrong, really. Hearing them both groan together; it hardly sounded like fun, especially for Remus, having that boring French git on top of him, making noises like a beached Sperm Whale. (That joke was somewhat less funny when it was 2.53am and you were alone, listening to your flatmate having sex for the third time that night.)
After one night of particularly disturbing sounds -the way the bed shook and rattled, Remus’ low moans that always ended with that sharp, whimpering cry of his- Sirius decided he should mention it.
When he asked Remus if he wouldn’t mind trying out something called an Imperturbable Charm next time he wanted to make that much noise in bed, Remus first blushed and then laughed. ‘Why the hell should we? You always sound like you’re trying to make as much noise as possible!’ Then Sirius had made his Sperm Whale comment and Remus had told him that Robbie probably did it on purpose just to piss Sirius off.
Particularly riled up, Sirius had pointed out that what he was doing himself was perfectly natural, whereas what Remus was letting another man do on him was highly unnatural and rather disturbing.
Remus had taken a huff at that, and it had needed rather a lot of grovelling over the following few days for him to be forgiven. When, at great length, he’d managed to convince Remus that everything was okay between them, and that he was really okay with all the perverted deviancy that Remus liked to indulge in, they settled on the sofa and decided that having to cast charms rather spoiled the moment, so Sirius would fix Remus’ squeaky bed and everyone would try to keep the noise down. Remus had rubbed Sirius’ back in that friendly, calming way of his and called him a ‘funny old thing’ as he was wont to do, adding ‘and god knows where you got the idea that Robbie and I did it that way round’, chuckling a little and wandering into the kitchen for another can of beer.
Sirius had found the next time Robbie stayed over even more disturbing, despite the silent bed and noises that were more intent and hushed and desperate as opposed to loud, because now he could actually picture how it was, Remus actually on top, actually on his boyfriend and-
It was expecting a bit much, he thought, for Remus to assume that he was fine with it all.
#
Full Moons
The full moons themselves weren’t much of a problem, really, it was just the same as it had always been; they would find a good location and run wild as a pack again.
It was the afterwards’ that got a bit weird. To begin with, they’d all tried to help out, but Sirius had got annoyed with Peter’s incessant fussing and twitching, and with James’ idiotically-helpful schemes to make Remus feel better, so he’d banned them from hanging around and now booted them out the minute they’d helped him get Remus into bed.
When younger, he’d assumed that they had the most difficult job (as well as the most exciting), running with the wolf, calming him, controlling him, but he’d been wrong. Grown up (sort of) and suddenly faced with his very-ill friend made him realise what a wonderful, amazing, patient and capable woman Madame Pomfrey truly was.
He had to clean Remus’ cuts for him, usually just by dragging him into a warm bath and having to hold him tight around the shoulders while he was too weak to keep himself above water. Then he would apply potions and charms to his skin to make his cuts heal quickly, adding a few on himself for where the wolf had got rather too excitable. Next, he had to force Remus to eat (something soft like soup or porridge) and drink, because the strong pain-killing potion he needed could not be taken on an empty stomach.
And all this while Sirius himself was falling-down tired from a night in the woods.
Hell only knew what it had been like when the wolf had only his own crazed, rabid company every full moon; Sirius could scarcely imagine what Remus’ injuries must have been like then, as they were horrific enough now, with the sleepy, shamed misery in Remus’ usually-gentle brown eyes making it all the worse.
Once Remus was cleaned-up, doped up, fed and watered, Sirius would tuck him in and promptly attempt to fall asleep on him, though it was usually more like Remus falling asleep on him, head against Sirius’ chest. Sometimes Remus was in too much pain to sleep immediately and Sirius would listen to him rambling on, or sing soothing songs to him. And sometimes he would have to throw all dignity and masculinity to the wind and just tell Remus how much they all loved him and how everything would be all right, and stroke his hair until he fell asleep.
#
Sundays
Sundays were Sirius’ favourite day of the week, without a doubt. Even Remus’ constantly being there couldn’t annoy him on a Sunday; in fact it was Remus’ company that made Sundays all the better.
Sirius tried not to have a girl staying on a Saturday night, because there was nothing that spoiled his lazy-Sunday good-mood more than a disgruntled, rejected girl with a hangover, and Robbie rarely stayed long on Sundays because he played some stupid Muggle game with his ‘Uni-mates’ on that day.
Sundays were his and Remus’ getting-along time. They would have a pot of tea and both the Muggle and Wizarding papers, and they’d lie, legs entangled, at opposite ends of the sofa, each reading their chosen newspaper and exchanging views. They would talk about Wizarding and Muggle politics, news items of particular amusement, and about both Quidditch and football. (Remus still sniggered over that time Sirius had called it ‘feety-ball’, though Sirius maintained that it made more sense because you had lots of players and they were all allowed to use both feet.) Sirius always marvelled at Remus’ paper when they finally got around to swapping over; the strange words Muggles used, their strange, bland photographs (though their photographs could, sometimes, somehow feel more real than moving wizarding ones) and their bizarre array of different sports, that one in particular where Sirius couldn’t understand why they thought it was a good thing that some big-shouldered bloke with a broken nose had fallen over while clutching the ball, three others holding onto his thickly-muscled legs and waist.
One (spoiled) Sunday, Remus had insisted they both go and watch Robbie playing that particular game with his Muggle friends. It had all been very awkward, Robbie having introduced Remus to his mates as ‘an old friend of the family’, Remus’ name being just plausibly French enough. Then they’d started playing and the whole point seemed to be ‘everyone jump on the bloke with the ball’, and if someone got to the far end without being jumped on, then they scored points and someone would kick the ball over a weird H-shaped post to celebrate.
Still, Sirius always smiled at the sports pictures in the Muggle papers, because one day Robbie’s stupid French nose would be broken in a similar and hideous way.
After they were finished with the papers, they would head down to their local and get themselves pub lunches (Sunday roast) and quite often Lily and James couldn’t make it, and if James wasn’t going then Peter usually wouldn’t bother either, so the two of them would bicker some more, sink several pints and wander home.
Once there, because very full stomachs and four pints at lunchtime were hardly conducive to wakefulness, they usually fell asleep, tangled up on the couch again. Remus would pass out almost immediately, head settled on Sirius’ shoulder, and his body slumped almost full-length across him, breathing heavy, wet breaths across Sirius’ neck, and it was always so much nicer than a full moon, because Remus wasn’t in pain, and because Sirius was sleepy in a happy and contented way.
Remus would sleep a little restlessly those afternoons, wriggling against Sirius, and his left hand would find it’s way to the hem of Sirius’ shirt, gently working the material between forefinger and thumb. Sirius always let him do this (even when the soft pads of his fingers preferred to be under his shirt and stroking at the skin above Sirius’ hip) because he still felt rather guilty about how much they’d all teased Remus about his comfort-blanket in first year, because although it was perfectly normal for kids to tease each other about such things, an eleven year-old werewolf should be allowed any comfort he wanted, however soppy and girly it may be. And besides, he felt a bit strange himself, because it felt rather soothing to have Remus lying on him and using his skin for a comfort-blanket.
Eventually Remus would wake and bugger off to have a bath (that’s girly homosexuals for you), and Sirius would be able to get some sleep himself, though he usually had strange dreams about Remus, having spent all day with him, and with his skin and clothing and the sofa still smelling of pub-smoke and beer and Remus. Then Remus would potter around in his dressing gown and make them sandwiches for tea and they’d finish their evening by watching the Muggle television.
#
One Sunday, whilst dozing together on the sofa, Remus didn’t seem to want to go to sleep, and spent the time asking Sirius a lot of stupid, unrelated questions, his thumb still swiping its gentle trail over Sirius’ hip. First he asked why Sirius didn’t have girls staying over much anymore, and Sirius pointed out how annoying they were and how much effort it all was. Next, he asked why Sirius didn’t like Robbie, and Sirius replied that he was a poncy French arsehole. Remus got a bit annoyed about that, but rather less annoyed than he usually did, and he pointed out that Robbie was a lovely bloke and he thought Sirius should really be perfectly able to get along with him. Then he asked if Sirius was sure he didn’t mind that Remus always fell asleep on him every Sunday. Sirius said that he was quite sure and he rather liked it, and Remus sighed happily, breath hot on Sirius’ neck.
Then Remus twisted a little and pressed his lips to Sirius’.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ had been the first thing Sirius yelped, but Remus told him to shut up and tried it again anyway, lips soft and wet against the corner of his mouth. ‘You can’t just do that!’ he attempted to add, but Remus’ tongue slid into his mouth and Remus began to kiss in earnest. ‘Nn-‘ was all else he could say before he gave in.
So Remus kissed him, and somehow it didn’t matter because it was just like having Remus asleep on him, only better, and suddenly he realised how wonderful it would be if he could elicit that desperate, sharp cry from Remus, the one he usually only got to hear if he lay very quiet under his sheets when Remus had Robbie staying, and that was a shocking and frightening thought to be having.
‘You do realise,’ Remus said then, still kissing, ‘that I never fall asleep on you, and that I’m hard the entire time I lie here, because I want to- oh, and I have to go and have a bath so I can-‘ He stopped talking, presumably, because Sirius had (involuntarily) groaned rather loudly into Remus’ mouth, because he was listening to Remus talk about sex, and Remus never talked about sex, and suddenly here he was, lying on Sirius, kissing him, and saying that he-
Sirius didn’t have a clue where all these thoughts were coming from, why, all of a sudden, he knew that this felt good, and why that suddenly Remus talking about sex, Remus talking about sex with him, was the best thing ever, and why he was, very suddenly indeed, very hard himself.
He pulled his friend tighter and kissed harder and Remus whimpered (and hell, that was good) and Sirius realised he had to ask; ‘you know what you were saying that time, about you and Robbie?’
‘Shut up,’ mumbled Remus, kissing down Sirius’ neck.
‘But. But is it always- that way round?’
Remus pulled back slightly, surprised. ‘Mostly, er-‘
Sirius thought about it - Remus being on top of him, inside him, thrusting, soft fingers touching Sirius’ skin, making those little whimpery-yelping noises, how his face must look as he did so-
‘Er, Sirius-‘
‘Well, okay then,’ Sirius said, and dragged a rather stunned-looking Remus towards his bedroom.