Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Remus' job does nothing for him beyond providing for his family.

The forge pays in vouchers and burn-scars, mostly, but there’s still the daily loaf it brings home—warm, dense, unevenly shaped—and the way his parents look at him when they eat it, smiling as if it actually tastes good. That alone makes it bearable.

He’s worked there since he was fourteen. Seven years in, and his hands are nothing but calluses, palms like sandpaper, skin like old leather. The soot’s baked into his nails no matter how many times Remus scrubs. The smell of metal clings to his clothes. His back aches like he’s fifty. Still, rest feels good. He won’t pretend otherwise.

It’d feel better if he were turning twenty-two instead of twenty-one. That extra year would have spared him from the Reaping. But here he is. Still eligible. Still holding his breath every August.

The tenth of that month is five months away. Today is his birthday, and Remus tries not to think about what’s coming.

Tonight, they're going out. Kingsley said his Covey girl is performing at the bar, and he wants everyone there—Amos, Lily, Emmeline, Remus—to watch Sybill on stage. It’s the kind of invitation that sounds like a demand, and no one bothers arguing with Kingsley when he gets like this.

Remus doesn’t know much about the Covey, only that they’re the district’s unofficial entertainment—singers, dancers, storytellers, whatever keeps people distracted from how much it sucks to live here. Most nights, they perform at the local bar called The Hub, a place Remus visits only on rare occasions, mainly because he’s a terrible dancer. Like, objectively bad. No rhythm, no ear for music, no coordination to speak of. He’s just… not built for it.

When he steps out of his room, buttoned up and brushed off, his mother eyes him with a frown.

“Fix your shirt, baby. It’s all bunched up in the back.”

Remus rolls his eyes, never bothering to tuck it in properly. Hope flicks him lightly on the shoulder.

“You’re early,” she adds. “Are you going to pick up Lily?”

“Yeah,” Remus says, walking into the kitchen. He grabs a piece of warm cornbread from the counter—her birthday offering for him—and she makes a disapproving sound because she hates when he grabs pieces instead of having a proper meal.

“I don’t want her walking to the bar alone,” Remus continues. “Might run into her parents too. I haven’t checked in on them in a while.”

Hope hums, then gestures toward the stove. "Sit down and eat properly. I made potato soup. Have it with the bread."

“No time, Ma,” Remus says, chewing already. “Where’s Dad’s cologne?”

“On the shelf by the front door,” Hope guides. “But why not use the one I gave you this morning?”

Remus speaks with his mouth full. “Saving it. Might need it later.”

“For what, your promotion?” she teases. “Remus, you’re twenty-one and handsome. Wear the cologne. You might meet someone.”

“Who?” he scoffs, but still grabs the small red box Hope gave him this morning. “Cornel from work? Or Paslee Roselock from school?”

“What’s wrong with Paslee?” Hope asks, hands on her hips. “She’s a sweet girl.”

“She’s dating Rye Wellstone,” Remus informs, spraying some cologne on the hollow of his neck. “You know, a girl from our year.”

Hope squints. “Don’t think I do.”

“Her dad’s a teacher,” Remus explains, pulling on his boots and tugging on his jacket. “Kinglsey’s sister had him back in primary.”

“Oh, Lulu! Right, right. My memory’s gone to shit.”

“Eat some beans,” Remus advises. “They’re supposed to help.”

“Watch your mouth,” his mum warns, laughing.

Remus laughs too, and Hope follows him to the hallway with another piece of bread. She stuffs it into his mouth and kisses both his cheeks, one after the other.

“Have fun tonight,” Hope says.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Outside, the light is low and golden, the way it always is when spring forgets it’s still early. It’s dry tonight, because it hasn’t rained in weeks, and the sun’s already dipping low, bleeding orange across the rooftops. 

The streets of District 9 hum quiet in the evenings—just the soft shuffle of people heading home, the distant clatter of a cart being pulled, some dog barking way off near the grain yard. 

Remus likes this time. The hour before everything turns loud.

He keeps his head down, hands in his pockets, warm cornbread still in his mouth, chewing as he walks. He should’ve cleaned his boots better, should’ve worn a different shirt, too—this one clings too much when he sweats—but it’s too late now. His skin smells faintly of metal and wood cologne, which is probably better than just metal.

It’s not cold tonight, but the wind still finds its way down Remus’ collar, so he pulls his jacket tighter, steps over a puddle, and nods to a couple old men on the corner playing a slow game of cards. One of them raises a brow at him like he recognizes it’s his birthday but doesn’t say anything. That’s how it works here. No one's big on making a fuss.

The houses on this block all look the same—tin roofs, cracked fences, gardens that try their best. Lily lives just off the east side of the square, two blocks past the bakery with the broken windows and the wall someone keeps chalking poetry on, line by line. Remus reads the latest one as he passes it—we were born in the wrong century, I think, but the show’s not over until the mockingjay sings—and rolls his eyes a little, but he smiles too. District 9 has its moments.

Lily is already waiting by the corner, sitting on the edge of someone’s cracked stone steps near the fence covered in half-dead ivy and chipped white paint. Her red jacket is too light for the weather, and her cheeks are pink from the chill, but she waves when she sees Remus like the cold doesn’t matter.

“Well?” she prompts, doing a slow spin. Her red hair is braided back from her face, a little uneven in the back where she probably did it herself. “Passable?”

“Don’t let Kingsley hear you say that,” Remus replies. “He’ll have a heart attack. You’re perfect.”

Lily's grin is so wide it makes Remus smile too.

“Mum says hi,” she tells him. “She also says that you need to come for dinner sometime.”

“I will,” Remus promises. “Soon.”

He nudges her shoulder as she comes closer, and they fall into step like they’ve done since they were eleven. It's easy walking with Lily; she never rushes him. Her bag swings against her hip when she loops her arm through Remus’. His hands stay shoved in his jacket pockets, thumb rubbing over the lip of a bottlecap he forgot was in there.

“Is it Soup Day?” Lily sing-songs.

“Yeah.”

“Cornbread?”

“Of course,” Remus confirms. “Mum forced a piece of it down my throat before I could leave.”

Lily snorts. “She’s right to. You’re skinny like a twig.” She squeezes his arm. “Hope loves you so much it’s honestly revolting.”

Remus shrugs, a little proud anyway. 

“How’s she doing?” Lily asks.

“She’s alright,” Remus replies. “Did laundry. Had some fun messing with Dad. Told me to wear the cologne she gave me.”

“Did you?”

“No,” he says, then admits, “Yeah. I did.”

Lily raises an eyebrow.

“She thinks I might meet someone,” Remus mutters. “Apparently, the love of my life.”

“Maybe you will.”

Remus rolls his eyes. “She’s hoping for anyone, really. As long as they’re nice to me and don’t mind I smell like iron most days.”

Lily clicks her tongue. “You don’t smell that bad. Like… a little like nails, maybe. In a good way.”

Remus wipes a bit of soot from his wrist and chuckles.

“Thanks,” he mutters. “That’s the cologne talking.”

Lily laughs. They pass a group of kids playing with a flattened ball in the street. One of them waves at Lily, and she waves back. Remus watches her for a moment—how easy she is with people. Like she was built for this district in a way he wasn’t.

“You still share shifts with that guy who whistles through his teeth?” she asks.

“Wade? Yeah.”

“He’s the worst.”

“He’s not so bad. Gave me half his bread last week.”

“Out of guilt, probably. You’re the one always cleaning up after him.”

“Maybe.” Remus snorts. “Or maybe he likes me. Have you ever thought of that?”

Lily gives him a look. “Nobody likes you.”

“Harsh.”

She grins, and Remus snickers. The street turns louder as they move further from the houses and toward the center of district.

“You know,” Lily says after a moment, “your mum told mine I should try making dresses again—like the old sketches she’s got pinned up by the window.”

Remus glances at her. “You should.”

“I don’t know. Feels stupid. Like—what’s the point?”

“You’re good at it,” Remus offers. “You like wearing dresses, too.”

Lily adjusts her jacket sleeves. “Yeah. Well. Doesn’t matter if you’re good at something when it’s not useful.”

“It is,” Remus counters.

“Sewing frills isn’t gonna keep anyone alive,” Lily presses, and Remus can’t really argue.

“At least it’s something you want to do,” he says anyway. “As long as it brings you joy, don’t drop it.”

Lily hums, watching the orange circle of the sun sink deeper into the horizon.

They don’t rush. The bar won’t fill up for another half an hour at least, and Kingsley told them to get there early, but not too early. It gives them time to walk slow. Talk about nothing. Avoid the quiet topic that always looms too close—the Reaping, August, time running out.

Remus isn’t thinking about any of that. Not yet.

Instead, he’s focused on how the light falls on Lily’s face. How his fingers still smell faintly of smoke and corn. How his shirt isn’t tucked in as well as his mum would like, and how, in that moment, he doesn’t really care.

Lily swings their joined arms a little as they walk. She’s always been like this—casual and touchy without thinking about it. Remus never minds. It’s grounding, in a way.

“So,” Lily drawls, tugging him across the road just as a delivery truck grumbles by, “are you ready to fall under the charm of Kingsley’s girl?”

“He’s been trying to introduce her for ages,” Remus murmurs, glancing at her sideways. “What’s she like?” 

Lily lets out a delighted hmm. 

“She’s a little odd,” she admits, “but sweet. Says things like they’re riddles, but she plays like she means it. You’ll see.”

“Does she dance?”

“Doesn’t every Covey dance?”

Remus hums, which is the safest answer he can manage.

“I’m just a terrible dancer myself,” he muses. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“You don’t have to dance,” Lily says. “You just have to sit there and not scowl.”

“Not scowling is a tall order.”

Lily huffs out a laugh. “It’s your birthday. Just pretend to enjoy yourself. The bar’s got candles and music and people who don’t hate their lives for about ten minutes. I think you’ll like it. And if you don’t, well, Amos said he’d let you punch him in the face just once, no questions asked.”

“He did not.”

“He absolutely did,” Lily insists. “He says it builds trust.”

They keep walking. Street by street, the corners get busier. More lights, more voices, more of the faint guitar hum that drifts through the alleys. They cross through the square, where an Auror stands near the fountain, arms crossed. They both look away.

Remus doesn’t say what he’s thinking, which is I kind of hope the show’s terrible. Loud and off-key and messy. He doesn’t know why. Maybe because he’s tired. Maybe because his mum’s words are still rattling around in his chest—wear the cologne, you might meet someone—and he doesn’t like how much they stuck.

He keeps his eyes forward, but there’s something buzzing in his chest now, small and unsure. He doesn’t really know what to expect—just that it’s been a long time since he let himself want anything. Remus is not sure he even wants to try.

“I’m kind of excited to meet Sybill,” Lily tells him. “It’s not every day someone actually likes Kingsley enough to stick around.”

Remus chuckles. “She must be brave.”

“Or reckless.”

“Or both.” 

Lily walks a little ahead, like she always does when she’s excited.

“He’s obsessed with her,” she rumbles. “She could spit into a tin can, and he’d say it’s the best thing he’s ever heard.”

Remus huffs. “Romance is not dead.”

“Your mum should be delighted.”

By the time they reach the bar, it’s already buzzing with sound—low music, the crackle of old speakers, voices raised in laughter, golden light spilling onto the street like a warm invitation. Everything smells like alcohol and old wood, sweat and someone’s too-sweet perfume. A loose line of people waits outside, but Kingsley’s tall enough to spot from almost anywhere, and he’s leaning against the wall near the door, waving them over before they even have to look.

“You’re late,” he declares, which is a lie, but it’s how he greets everyone.

“And you’re overdressed,” Remus fires back.

Kingsley’s shirt is open at the collar and only buttoned halfway. His sleeves are rolled. He looks so nervous.

Lily slips past him with a hug. “Where’s your girl?”

“Inside, getting ready. Don’t worry, you’ll love her.”

“I better. I came all this way.”

Inside, it’s warm and hazy, smelling of wood polish, fruit liquor, and something slightly burned. The lights are low, golden, strung up in mismatched lines overhead. At the far end is a tiny stage, still empty, with a mic stand and a stool.

Amos is the first person they spot. He’s at the bar, already half a drink in, his cheeks pink as if he pre-gamed—probably with his own brew, the one he sells illegally.

“Birthday boy!” he calls, holding up his glass. “Look at you. You wore actual boots.”

“They were by the door,” Remus sing-songs back, climbing up onto a barstool. Lily follows, sitting on Amos’ other side.

“Come let me poison you,” Amos rushes giddily.

“I was promised a drink,” Lily reminds. “Not homicide.”

Remus takes the offered glass from Amos and leans against the bar. “What even is this?”

“Peach,” Amos responds. “Mostly.”

Remus sniffs it. “Mostly?”

“I think there was… a mishap,” Amos adds with a shrug. “It’s fine.”

Remus drinks anyway. It burns a little, then settles. Lily laughs at the face he makes and steals a sip from Amos’ glass as well.

“Happy birthday, Rem,” Emmeline says, appearing out of nowhere. She’s holding a stack of napkins in one hand, a bracelet of buttons wrapped around her wrist that dangle slightly when she tosses a small, paper-wrapped something at Remus. “Found it in the back of Dad’s shop. Looks like it still works.”

Remus unwraps it—it’s a pocketknife, old and slightly rusted, but the hinge still swings open. He runs a thumb over the edge, grinning.

“Thanks, Em.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she says, plopping into a seat. “Might fall apart on your second use.”

“Sounds like my back,” Remus mutters.

“Sounds like the goddamn forge,” Kingsley jabs, arriving with two drinks in hand and passing one to Lily. He claps a heavy hand on Remus’ shoulder. “Happy birthday, man. Told you to take the day off.”

Remus takes the drink from him. “If I took days off every time you said, we’d both be unemployed.”

“That’s the dream.” Kingsley grins. “One day, we’ll ditch the forge and open a bar with Amos’ poison.”

Amos raises his glass, too proud of his bootlegging. “You joke, but I have three new flavors. One of them’s green.”

Lily groans. “God, not the green one.”

“I’m saving it for later,” Amos declares.

They talk like that for a while—about nothing, about everything. Amos keeps slipping in little comments about the Reaping and gets told off by Lily every time. Kingsley tells a half-made-up story about someone at the forge starting a fire last week—might’ve been him—and Emmeline complains about some kid trying to steal laces from the counter while she was restocking ribbons at her father’s shop. Lily says she stitched her thumb to someone’s skirt again.

“Again?” Kingsley asks.

“She was fidgeting,” Lily says defensively. “And I was distracted.”

“By what?” Emmeline teases.

Lily shrugs. “Dunno. A moth. The future. Who knows.”

“Yeah,” Amos says, pouring another splash into his glass without looking, “speaking of the future—whatever happened to that girl? Neeme? You two were all over each other two weeks ago.”

Lily narrows her eyes at him. “Why are you like this?”

“Oh come on,” Amos grins, leaning in. “We were all rooting for her. Cute. Loud. Bit obsessed with pickling. Seemed like your type.”

“She gave me a jar of pickled eggs after our third date,” Lily says flatly.

Amos looks impressed. “Romantic.”

“She labeled them ‘for your fertility.’”

Emmeline spits her drink back into her glass. “She did not.”

“She did. In cursive.”

“Well,” Kingsley says diplomatically, “maybe she just wanted to be thorough.”

“She also told my mum she was ready to be a village wife.”

“Oh,” Kingsley says. “That’s… a lot.”

“So no, Amos,” Lily continues, sipping her drink, “it did not work out.”

Remus catches Emmeline giving him a subtle once-over, then wrinkling her nose in that fake-jealous way she does when she’s being half-serious.

“You smell good,” she observes. “Is that new?”

He lifts an eyebrow and leans a little closer, tilting his neck dramatically. “Go on, really take it in.”

Emmeline snorts. “Shut up.”

In his head, Remus hears it—ha, told you—directly in his mother’s voice, like she’s standing right behind him with that smug little smile. 

Kingsley fidgets. His hand is on his thigh, tapping out a rhythm that doesn’t match the music. His foot is bouncing, too, and he hasn’t touched his drink.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Remus asks him.

Kingsley glances up like he forgot anyone else was here. “What?”

“You’re vibrating.”

“Oh.” He presses both hands flat against his knees, then wipes them on his pants. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just—Sybill. She gets nervous.”

Remus nods, but Kingsley keeps talking.

“She always says she’s gonna throw up right before she performs. Every time. Like clockwork. But then she’s fine. She gets up there and she’s fine. I just—don’t want her to feel alone.”

Emmeline softens a little. “You’re sweet when you’re anxious.”

“I’m not anxious,” he lies.

“You’re flushed.”

“I’m warm.”

“You’re glowing,” Lily adds, propping her chin on her hand. “That’s cute. He’s glowing.”

“Piss off,” Kingsley mutters, keeping his eyes on the stage like, if he looks long enough, Sybill will appear faster and everything will settle. He taps a finger against the table. “I just don’t want you guys to be assholes. Sybill worries about the night, and I told her we’d all be here to support her. So be nice.”

Lily scoffs. “You say that like we’re mean.”

“We are mean,” Emmeline replies. “You especially.”

“Look who’s talking,” Lily says sweetly.

Remus listens to them bicker like they always do, lets the conversation blur around the edges. He thinks maybe this is the first time all day he’s actually felt twenty-one.

“Here,” Amos calls, raising his glass. “To this night, to the birthday boy, and to being one year closer to not getting reaped.”

They clink their glasses and drink.

One more year, and Remus will be twenty-two. Twenty-two, young, and free from the looming threat of being sentenced to death.

The lights at the bar turn lower. The air’s gotten stiller, heavier in that pre-performance way—everyone waiting for something without quite knowing what. Even Amos has stopped refilling everyone’s drinks, leaning forward on his elbow.

Kingsley perks up. 

“That’s the cue,” he says. “They’re starting.”

The lights drop fully.

Someone shuffles near the bar. Glass clinks somewhere to the left. Amos mutters something under his breath about the sound system, but no one really hears him. The place shifts as one—tables and chairs, friends and drinks, everything flattened into the same shade of anticipation.

The sound slices clean through the room, low and velvet-rich, brushing against Remus’ spine in a way that feels almost physical. No music yet. Just the voice, pulling the air taut.

The bar hushes. 

I walk like the floor was shaped for my feet,
I talk like the silence was made for my beat.
The world tips its hat when I step through the door,
And I never take nothing I didn’t come for.

The voice is sharp and soft at the same time. Smoky. Playful, like it knows something you don’t. Like it’s about to change the whole night. It’s not loud, not sweet either. It drags a little, lingers on the consonants like they taste good.

Amos pays all his attention to the scene. Emmeline stops chewing the edge of her straw. The entire room seems to lean forward, caught.

The Covey step out in pieces, one by one.

A girl in orange—barefoot, a scarf knotted at her waist like a belt—sits behind a dulcimer. A boy sets down a hand drum and rolls his sleeves to the elbow, bracelets jangling. There’s a girl with a tambourine looped through her belt, a flower tucked behind one ear.  Their clothes don’t match, but they go together anyway. Patterns layered over patterns, loose skirts and linen shirts with wide collars, bangles and earrings and rings on every finger. 

Remus turns toward them almost without meaning to. His eyes catch on the figure backlit against the far wall, framed by the dull amber of stage bulbs that haven’t quite warmed up yet. Long skirts brush the ankles with every step, boots tapping against the floor in time, wrists jangling with bracelets that glint with every movement. A purple blouse slips slightly off one shoulder, tied at the waist as though it’s never been buttoned all the way in its life.

Remus leans in toward Kingsley without looking away. “That’s Sybill?”

Kingsley shakes his head. “Nope. Sybill’s on the cello.”

“Then—” Remus starts, and Kingsley just gives him a tiny smile without turning his head.

“That’s Sirius.”

“Oh,” Remus breathes. 

It doesn’t answer anything, really. Not who Sirius is or what the hell he’s doing to Remus’ chest. But Kingsley says it like it’s explanation enough.

The curl in my hair won’t fall in a line,
It’s wild like the wind, and it suits me just fine.
The truth is a coin, and I flip it each night—
Heads for the laughter, tails for the fight.

The lights shift, and Remus sees elbow-length dark hair, tousled and shining. Eyes rimmed in kohl, a glint of sharpness at the corner of a mouth that doesn’t smile so much as smirk. The kind of smirk no one ever could say no to. 

Behind Sirius, the rest of the Covey settle in. Another barefoot girl, kneeling with a banjo in her lap. A boy with an oboe, shaking his earrings with every small movement. And Sybill—yeah, that must be her—poised over a cello, hair loose down her back like a ribbon.

There’s still no spotlight, just the voice curling like smoke above the crowd, dragging goosebumps out of his skin without permission. The music behind it is spare, all rhythm and build. A match being struck and held just beneath your throat.

Emmeline leans into Remus, whispering, “He‘s gorgeous.”

He is, almost stupidly so. His body rolls through the rhythm; Sirius is swaying at first, just his hips and shoulders, then turning slow, dragging a hand down the curve of his own arm. Remus can’t look away. There’s something feral about it, like a fox nosing through your garden, wrecking it a little, but still beautiful in the moonlight.

Remus doesn’t know this boy, but he suddenly wants to. He wants to know if that curl at the back of his neck is soft. If his hands move like that when he’s not on stage. If he’s ever still.

I don’t stay for supper, I don’t claim a bed,
I’ve learned that the safest goodbyes go unsaid.
The more that you chase, the less you will find—
You can’t catch a star, and I am that kind.

The Covey move like a single thing. A heartbeat. Sybill’s cello sobs in the low notes while the tambourine clicks bright through the chorus. Sirius twirls once, letting the edge of his blouse flare. It passes over the room like a twitch of wind, the kind that makes all the trees shiver.

I’ve gambled with strangers, I’ve danced on thin ice,
I know what it costs, and I’ve paid every price.
I take what I need, but I’m pure like a dove—
I’ve never mistaken a hunger for love.

The lights on stage flicker again, catching on silver rings and the glint of earrings. Whoever Sirius is, he’s in no hurry. He shifts, easy and slow; bracelets slide down his arms.

Someone in the crowd whistles. Sirius makes eye contact with them, then looks away just to make them chase it. Remus chases along with them.

Kingsley lets out a breath. “He’s always like this,” he says. “Worse, sometimes.”

Remus can’t answer. He doesn’t trust his voice not to crack like a teenager’s.

Sirius is laughing now, doing it with his shoulders, the bend of his waist, the gleam of sweat at his collarbone. He spins again, light on his bare feet, jewels clinking.

My coat knows the wind and my boots know the stone,
I’ve dined with the liars and drank all alone.
If it didn’t break me, it just made me wise—
I’ve seen too much fury in too many eyes.

Sirius flicks another look toward the crowd, eyes scanning slow and careless. They land somewhere near Remus—just for a beat—and Remus lets it curl up like heat inside his stomach. 

I’ve made peace with leaving before I am known—
Not all things worth keeping are meant to be owned.
You’d better remember one thing from tonight—
The fire burns brightest when the stars lose their light.

The conclusion comes. Remus thinks it would feel the same to fall backwards into water. 

After a moment of silence, there’s applause, whistles, a stomp or two against the floor. The bar comes alive again all at once. The lights shift. Chairs scrape the floor. Somewhere to his right, a man starts talking about grain prices again like nothing happened.

But something did. Remus just doesn’t know what.

He’s still here, physically. But the rest of him? It’s caught somewhere between the stage lights and the sweep of Sirius’ skirt as he turns and the line of his neck when he arches during a dance.

On stage, Sirius throws his sweat-damp curls from one shoulder to the other, breath still heavy in his chest. He reaches for the mic stand and leans in, casual, as if he didn’t just take the whole room apart and put it back together in a new order.

“Happy Friday, Nine. Hope your drinks are cold and your hearts stay yours,” he says, voice still buzzing with leftover electricity. The crowd laughs. “Don’t fall in love with anyone, yeah? It’s a nasty habit.”

There’s more laughter. A few whistles. Someone near the front—already drunk, probably—shouts something about already being in love, and Sirius blows them a kiss without missing a beat.

Emmeline claps with both hands over her head.

“Bewitcher,” she drawls, tilting her head toward the stage. “I’d climb him like a ladder.”

Lily laughs. “Down, girl.”

Kingsley snorts and takes a long drink, eyes still fixed forward.

“No, really,” Emmelime insists, only half-joking. “I think I’m in love.”

A guy shouts at the back of the bar—Remus doesn’t catch what it is, but Sirius just winks and says, “Save it for the last song, darling.”

Lily’s saying something beside him. So is Emmeline. Amos has reappeared with drinks and starts passing them around, grinning at some joke Remus missed. He can’t drag his eyes away, not even when someone claps a hand on his back. Not even when his glass gets shoved into his hand.

It’s Lily who notices first.

She leans in while the others are caught up in some story and whispers, “He’s got charm, huh?”

Remus snaps out of it long enough to shoot her a look.

She grins. “Just saying.”

Remus scoffs. “I’m just… listening.”

“To the Covey?” Amos raises an eyebrow. “Mate, it’s barely music. Sounds like a broom handle hitting a washboard.”

“Shut your mouth,” Kingsley tells him.

“You’d cry if someone gave you a tambourine,” Emmeline adds.

Remus blinks. Tries to smile. Misses.

“Don’t tell me that song knocked the words out of you,” Lily teases, sipping from her drink. “I need to write whoever composed this a thank-you note.”

“Sirius does that himself,” Kingsley mutters, distracted, glancing toward the stage for the hundredth time.

“A talented bastard,” Lily quips, then leans toward Kingsley, eyes still on Sirius. “So when do we get to meet Sybill?”

“Soon,” Kingsley replies. “They’ll do two more, then I’ll introduce you all.”

Remus stops listening halfway. The heat hasn’t left his face, and he’s not sure if it’s from the song, the drink, or the air in here. His heart’s still hammering like it hasn’t gotten the memo that it’s over.

The others are already mid-conversation again—about the Covey clothes, about Sybill, about Amos trying to smuggle whisky into District Five. It rolls on without Remus, and that’s fine. He’s used to slipping between the cracks of things. At first, he tries to keep pace, he really does, but his gaze keeps drifting back to the stage. 

“Alright,” Sirius says as the lights come back up slowly, washing him in pale gold. “Let’s see if I can keep your attention a little longer.”

The next song begins.

Sirius sings with one hand resting against the side of the mic stand, the other curled around the back of his neck. He’s not showy with it, not even trying, merely letting the music fill him and doing whatever his body wants. There’s this pull about him—a motion in the corner of your eye that makes you turn your head.

The song carries more rhythm, less melody. Someone near the bar claps along out of time. Sirius doesn’t seem to mind. He grins, turns a circle, keeps singing. A tambourine joins in.

Rhythm picks up—banjo and cello in perfect sync, a beat that makes Emmeline start tapping her boot against the chair leg. Lily’s swaying. Even Amos shuts the hell up and looks a little dazed now.

Remus tries to get a grip on himself. He does try. But the second he looks back, Sirius has just bent forward over the tambourine girl, singing down to her like it’s a dare. Her smile is wide. She doesn’t look surprised; they’ve clearly done this so many times before.

Remus keeps staring, because it feels too real that if he blinks, it might break the spell. Sirius catches someone’s eye near the bar and winks. Not at Remus. But it still hits like a direct shot.

The applause starts before the last note fades. This time, it’s louder. 

Remus sips his drink, barely tastes it when Lily catches him again. He doesn’t have to look at her to know; he feels the shape of her silence. The kind that says she’s paying attention, even if she’s not about to say anything just yet.

“This is the last one before break,” Kingsley reminds, shifting forward in his seat as if he’s about to start jumping up and down, “then I’ll take you up to the stage.”

It’s kind of funny, in a way—big, steady Kingsley, who could lift molten steel like it’s nothing, looking like he might faint from nerves.

Remus watches Sirius stepping back. He nods at the guitarist behind him, and they roll straight into another tune. It’s upbeat, meant to loosen shoulders and get people dancing, messy and loud in a good way. More clapping, more swaying bodies near the edge of the room. The night’s rolling now, gathering speed. It feels easy for everyone else. 

Remus doesn’t feel easy. He keeps watching Sirius.

He’s lost in it, dancing with his boots knowing where to go before he does. His blouse clings to his spine. One of the stage lights flickers, and for a second, his silhouette goes all shadow and sharpness, carved out of stardust.

Remus swallows and stays very fucking still.

When the final beat lands, Sirius throws one arm in the air and spins once, laughing into the mic before cutting the sound. A few people near the front cheer loud enough to be heard over the reverb. 

The applause swells, stretching wider than the room seems big enough to hold. Sirius stays where he is, right under the spotlight. 

One sleeve of his purple blouse has slid halfway down his arm, damp collarbone catching the light. His skirt swings as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, thick leather boots scuffed but solid beneath the sweep of fabric. His makeup hasn’t budged an inch—sharp liner, glinting shadow, something near his cheekbone that could be shimmer or sweat.

Sybill has already propped the cello beside her hip, the bow resting as if it’s an extension of her wrist. Another girl stands near the edge, a banjo slung low across her thighs, glitter stars stuck to her cheek. Someone else—tall, angular, in a gold jacket that gleams when they move—shakes their instrument right above their head.

Sirius dips into a half-bow, then hikes up the edge of his long skirt, revealing the top of one tall black boot. It’s smooth, worn at the crease where his ankle bends. The muscles ripple where his thigh flexes slightly.

People know what it means, apparently, because a few are already crowding the edge of the stage. A couple others cheer. 

Coins start dropping with a soft tink tink tink, one after another, slipping into the boot like rain. One person tosses theirs—it misses and bounces once against the wood. A girl drops in three at once. Someone else holds theirs out, waiting for Sirius to come closer.

“Oh,” Emmeline breathes, voice amused. “So that’s his thing.”

Sirius tips his head back and laughs, one hand gathering his long hair, the other still holding his skirt just enough to expose the top of his boot. There’s a girl who says something that makes him laugh harder.

He’s feeding off it, the attention. But it’s not arrogance, not quite. It’s craft.

Emmeline is the first to move from their group. She glances back once, eyebrows raised, then steps forward with that self-sure little smirk. Her coin is ready—gold and neat between two fingers.

When Sirius drifts closer to her side of the stage, Emmeline lifts her arm, and he meets her with a playful tilt of his knee. She slips the coin into the boot, fingers brushing leather, and Sirius mouths a slow, exaggerated thank you.

Remus watches him, hypnotized, fishing a coin out of his jacket pocket without thinking. He doesn’t have many to spare—not with rent and ration stamps and that birthday bread his mum spent the whole morning baking—but his fingers curl around the metal anyway. He weighs it for a moment, then pushes to his feet and steps forward too.

He trails after the others, his boots thudding quietly on the worn floorboards. The stage is close now, and Sirius is right there, perched at the edge.

After a beat, he notices Remus. His eyes land and stay.

Then, almost lazily, Sirius lifts his leg again, offering it out so Remus can reach. The trouble people don’t warn you about soon enough.

Remus swallows.

He stares at Sirius’ leg, at the slow way he offers it, and heat sparks in his stomach, dumb and wordless. Remus doesn’t toss the coin. He slips it gently into the open leather with two fingers, trying to act careful. His hand lingers at the top of the boot, stupidly, and he doesn’t realize until Sirius speaks.

“Nice cologne.”

Remus startles, his eyes darting up. Sirius’ face is close now, framed by dark hair that falls in waves around his shoulders, little silver hoop earrings catching the light.

“Thanks,” Remus replies, throat dry.

Bless you, Mum.

Sirius glances down, then back up, smiling slightly. Up close, he smells like sweat and almonds. And when he speaks, his voice is magic.

“You’ve got rough hands.”

Remus lets go of the boot as if it burned him. “I work in the forge.”

“That’ll do it,” Sirius says. He retracts his leg, steps back with a fluid bounce. “Heavy job.” He pauses just long enough for it to feel like a goodbye. “Hope you’re having fun, forge boy.”

He hops off the stage, skirts fluttering, flashes a grin at someone off to the side, and melts into movement like he’s allergic to stillness. Picks up a glass—water or gin, hard to tell—and leans over to whisper something to the dulcimer player, who throws her head back and laughs. One of the bar workers claps him on the back. He takes it in stride, tosses a wink, pivots away.

Remus looks down at his boots right when Kingsley find him near the stage and claps a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on.” He practically buzzes with excitement. “Come meet Sybill properly.”

Emmeline is already pulling Lily along, Amos not far behind. On stage, Sybill is tucking her cello back into its case. She hops down effortlessly, her green dress catching at the knees, her arms bare and glowing faintly under the warm bar lights. There’s a wire-and-button bracelet sliding down her wrist when she hugs Kingsley around the neck, nearly bouncing as she does. When she spots the rest of them, she beams.

“There she is,” Kingsley drawls fondly, turning to the group. He’s glowing. There’s no other word for it. “Everyone, this is Sybill. Syb, meet the crew: Emmeline, Lily, Remus—the birthday boy—and Amos.”

Sybill grins. “I’ve heard so much. Remus, happy birthday.”

Remus smiles, nodding. “Thank you.”

They crowd together, laugh through introductions, and Sybill is warm and fast-talking and strange in the way all Covey seem to be, already halfway into another song in her head.

Remus doesn’t expect Sirius to show up again, but apparently Kingsley is so delighted to have finally gotten everyone to meet Sybill that he now sees it as his mission to introduce all of his friends to tonight’s performers.

The boy is still dressed from the stage—skirt layered and creased, blouse loose at the collar, earrings swaying when he walks. His hair is long, his eyes ringed in smudged black, and even though the performance is over, there’s still so many things about him that hold attention. It’s as if his body hasn’t stopped dancing yet, and the stage didn’t let go.

Sirius slides in on Sybill’s left, a drink in one hand, his rings clicking against the glass. He glances around the group, taking them in.

“This is Sirius,” Kingsley introduces him. “Basically lives on that stage.”

Sirius lifts his hand in a half-salute, fingers decorated with chipped black polish. It looks like he’s already bored of being introduced. 

“More or less,” he quips. “Sometimes I go home.”

Kingsley nudges Remus forward. “This one’s Remus. Works with me at the forge. It’s his birthday.”

Sirius’ eyes bore into him. “Is it?”

Remus nods, a little stiff. “Yeah.”

His heart kicks. He doesn’t know why.

There are certain eyes it's impossible to look into. They stare back like two large satellites, shimmering with silver dust, spinning and rotating in endless orbit, making you dizzy. A sorcerer’s allegiance to the constellations above, the sky full of stars.

Sirius doesn’t say anything for a second. His gaze drags down Remus’ frame and back up, landing somewhere around his collarbone. Then he smiles.

“Well. Happy birthday, forge boy.”

The others are still laughing behind them—Amos telling Sybill something about bad ale, Lily threatening to sew his mouth shut—but Sirius doesn’t stay close to any of them. His drink disappears quick, and then he’s leaning against a nearby post, loose-limbed and light on his feet, half in the real world and half outside it.

Remus doesn’t mean to hover near him. It just sort of happens. He clears his throat. 

“You were—” he tries. “Great. On stage. That was... different. In a good way.”

“Mm.” Sirius hums like that’s either disappointing or interesting. Hard to tell. “Thanks.”

Remus’ heart does something inconvenient.

“I liked the, uh…” he adds, gesturing vaguely, instantly regretting it. “The boot thing. People seemed to really like it.”

Sirius grins, crooked. “They like giving away money if you make it feel like a game.”

Remus nods, too fast, unsure what else to say. His friends are chatting behind them, but they’re quieter now, further away somehow.

Sirius looks back at him. “So. Twenty… what? Four?”

“One,” Remus answers, and it sounds stupid in his mouth. 

“You look older.”

“I work.”

Sirius laughs quietly, then tilts his head. “You don’t talk well, do you?”

Remus feels the tips of his ears burning.

“I really don’t,” he admits anyway.

“Fine with me,” Sirius takes a half-step forward, just enough to invade his space a little, just enough to be felt. “Isn’t it just so pretty?” 

Remus swallows hard. “What is?”

Sirius shrugs, his eyes briefly catching on the edge of Remus’ jaw as he looks him over again. “To know that next time, you’ll be turning twenty-two.”

“Sort of,” Remus murmurs. “It’s good to know I’ll make it past the Reaping."

“Lucky us,” Sirius sing-songs. “My birthday’s in November.”

Scorpio generation, Emmeline calls them. Born under a blood-red sky, all fire and fury, always a little too aware of what’s at stake.

“We just have to get through this year,” Remus adds. “And then we’re free.”

Sirius’ eyes crinkle, but the smile never reaches them.

“Are we?” he whispers.

Remus falls silent. The word free tastes wrong in his mouth, sounds like a cannon in his ears, and lingers like the dust after a Tribute Parade. He looks down, watching his fingers move of their own accord, tracing the lines of his sleeve. He doesn’t want to think about the Games—not now—but the thought seeps in anyway, like an old wound that refuses to close.

It had always been a kind of mockery, just around the corner—a ticking clock that wouldn’t stop. They aren’t free. Not until they somehow manage to end it all. 

Remus runs a hand through his hair, trying to push the thought away, but it lingers—settled under his ribs, wrapping around his bones like poison ivy. He imagines it: standing before the crowd, watching the sky crack open beneath the cold weight of his name being reaped, sentencing him to death.

Sirius shifts, moving closer. Remus feels the warmth of him before he hears the soft exhale of breath that snaps through the air like a spark, lingering at his neck.

Remus stiffens. His heartbeat kicks too hard. It’s too much, too close, and for a moment, all he can do is bathe in the scent of Sirius’ post-stage skin, buzzing with heat. His gaze stays fixed on the floor. Sirius doesn’t move back; he breathes in lightly near Remus’ neck and smiles again, quiet.

“Relax,” Sirius murmurs. “I just really like your cologne.”

He leans back a little, giving Remus space. Thank God.

“Woodsy, right?” Sirius asks.

“I don’t know,” Remus croaks, a little pathetically. “I think so. It was a gift.”

“Hmm.” Sirius tilts his head. “A secret admirer?”

Remus gives a small shake, awkward. “My mum.”

Sirius pauses. For a second he looks confused, then it clicks, and the corner of his lip curls.

”Oh. That’s sweet.”

Remus flushes again. His hands suddenly don’t know where to go. His whole body feels too visible.

“Well,” Sirius says, voice brisk again. “Lovely talking to you, forge boy.”

He pats Remus once on the shoulder. 

“Happy birthday.”

And then he’s already turning, slipping back into the crowd, skirts moving around his knee high boots in soft waves. The hem catches the light and sways like it’s got a rhythm of its own. 

Remus watches him go, wonderstruck. 

He doesn't mean to, but he memorizes the way the fabric folds behind Sirius’ legs.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Sirius slips out through the side door, shoulder brushing the frame on his way out. The night air’s cooler than inside, but it doesn’t feel better. The courtyard is more gravel than ground, crowded with the haze of smoke and laughter that always follows the final song in a set. People linger near the benches, talking in low voices, lit by half-dead lanterns strung up years ago and never repaired.

Mary waves from across the yard, legs thrown over Clementine’s lap, talking with her hands like she always does. Her hair’s coming undone from its ribbon. Clementine is nodding, cigarette between her fingers, not really listening. Sirius lifts a hand in return, two fingers, then veers off behind the building.

He cuts around the back, past the barrels stacked along the wall, and doesn’t stop until the chatter fades and it’s just him, alone. Brick at his spine, cool and solid. It’s quieter. Easier to breathe.

The cigarette pack is hidden just under the waistband of his skirt, tucked away where hands don’t go without asking. He pulls it out, thumb brushing over the faded cardboard, and shakes one loose. It rests easily between his lips. Sirius digs for the matchbook and flips it open.

Empty. He didn’t even see.

The laugh that rises in his throat is dry and hollow, gone before it starts. Sirius taps the pack against his leg once, hard, but it doesn’t help. He clicks the matchbook shut. No flame means no smoke—only him standing there with a cigarette he won’t light. He leaves it in his mouth anyway, then tilts his head back until it hits the wall, and closes his eyes.

His hands are shaking again.

They always do, after. No matter how well it goes. He’s learned to live around it—how to button shirts with trembling fingers, how to hold a glass steady enough not to draw attention. Sometimes it’s worse. Tonight is worse.

Sirius breathes in shallow, then again, deeper. His eyes sting.

He can still feel their hands; they touched him too much tonight. Grabbing at his ankle, brushing up his calf, stuffing money into the top of his boot with that wide-eyed look. Some of them laugh when they do it. Some just stare, throwing coins at his feet. They always have coins, if you give them skin.

Sirius swallows around the weight in his throat, blinking hard when the pressure behind his eyes stings harder. It isn’t about shame—it’s about the aftermath. The way the touches stay, even after the people are gone. The way it never feels like applause, even when they cheer.

He pulls the cigarette from his mouth and holds it between his fingers, watching the empty street behind the bar. Nothing but rusted fencing, a few crooked lamp posts casting sickly yellow light, the outline of a half-collapsed playground two blocks down. Sirius probably reeks of sweat from the bar. Beer, too. Someone spilled it on his boot.

Under all of that, he can still smell the forge boy’s cologne. 

Works with me, Kingsley said. All freckled skin and amber eyes. Broad shoulders. Wood and smoke, sharp enough to cut through the barroom air. 

It should’ve been predictable, easy to forget like everything else. But oh, it’s not.

Sirius closes his eyes again. Breathes the cologne in like it's still there.

No.  

No boys. 

No thoughts about boys. Especially not ones who don’t know the rules. Especially not ones with calloused hands who look at you like you’re a mystery, when really, you’re an open book. No one just bothers to read the pages.

Sirius sucks in some fresh air through his teeth.

Nobody ever wanted more than the skin under the skirt, and Sirius made peace with that a long time ago. He turned it into a game. The boot is a crowd-pleaser, and the crowd pays well. If he lets himself want anything else—if he even considers it—he knows exactly what happens. Sincerity is so far from Sirius’ life, it might as well be a myth.

There’s a shuffle of footsteps in the gravel to his left. His head snaps up, neck stiff with the motion. Someone rounds the corner.

Remus looks just as surprised to see Sirius as Sirius feels to be seen. Which helps. At least it doesn’t look like he came out here for him. Makes it easier to pretend this isn’t a moment—and to walk away, if he wants to.

He doesn’t.

“You again?” Sirius blurts out.

Remus stops a few paces away, hands in the pockets of his patched-up jacket. 

“Didn’t know you were out here,” he mutters. “Sorry, I—am I interrupting?”

Sirius doesn’t answer right away. Three seconds pass, then four. He could say yes. Could shut it down.

But instead he says, low, “No. You’re fine.”

Remus nods once. “I just came out for a smoke.”

That gets Sirius' attention. He lifts the cigarette still dangling loosely between his fingers. “You got a light?”

“Yeah, hold on.”

Remus pulls a matchbox from the inner pocket of his jacket, worn at the edges, crumpled but still intact. Sirius takes it, brushing their fingers just slightly as he does, and strikes a match.

It flares to life. He leans in, cups his hand, and lights the cigarette. Breathes in slow.

“Thanks.”

Remus lights his own, then slides the matchbox back into his jacket. They stand there in silence for a while, with smoke curling around their faces. The sounds of the bar float over from the courtyard—laughter, boots against wood, someone off-key on the harmonica.

Sirius can feel Remus watching him.

Always the same script; he could recite it in his sleep. The way they look, how long they wait before saying something, the first compliment, the question that always follows: how much?

Sirius starts to rehearse the rejection in his head. Flashes of a fluttered lash, a crooked smirk, a deflection and a goodbye. He’s halfway through building it when he huffs softly.

“Say it.”

Remus blinks. “What?”

“You’re staring,” Sirius points out, turning his head just enough to catch him in the act. “I can feel it from here.”

Remus ducks his head slightly, tucking his chin toward his shoulder, which does nothing to hide the fact that he’s huge. He’s practically blocking the moon.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I just…”

Sirius turns away before he can finish. He knows where it’s going. Knows exactly how it’ll end.

“Just what?”

“I don’t know how to say it.”

Sirius snorts under his breath. “Let me guess. You were gonna say I have nice hair?”

Remus shrugs. “It’s fine.”

Sirius turns again, frowning. “Fine?” He lets out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Earrings, then?”

Remus looks up. There’s a flicker of humor in his eyes now, or maybe Sirius is just a little drunk.

“They’re nice,” Remus admits. “Cute, even.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “So not the hair. Not the earrings. Must be the face, then.”

Without hesitation, Remus answers, “Beautiful, yeah.”

Sirius almost rolls his eyes. Here it comes, he thinks. The cheap pickup line. The clumsy suggestion. Maybe even the question about whether he can hike up Sirius’ skirt.

But Remus keeps going.

“That’s not what I wanted to say.”

Sirius pauses. He glances at him sideways. “No?”

“No.”

“So go on, then. What is it about me that makes you stare?”

Remus drags from his cigarette, exhales slow, flicks ash to the ground. He’s silent for a long moment. Sirius doesn’t push. He doesn’t look at Remus, either—but his whole body listens. 

After a few seconds, Remus speaks again.

“Your spirit.”

Sirius frowns, not sure he heard him right. He turns, studies Remus’ face like maybe it’ll offer context. All he sees is the crooked bridge of his nose, the little tooth that peeks out when he talks, and the soft curve of his red mouth. Nothing helpful. Nothing he can read.

“My what?” he whispers.

“Your spirit,” Remus repeats, quieter this time.

He doesn’t look at Sirius when he says it. His eyes are fixed on his boots.

Sirius follows his gaze and catches the mess—toes scuffed to hell, laces pulled unevenly. There’s dust at the seams and dirt dried thick across the rubber. Remus has some on his cuffs, too.

Sirius looks back up at him. Still no eye contact.

“You’re very, um…” Remus hesitates, searching for the word. “Soulful. I mean—uh, starlike, in a way.”

That stops Sirius cold.

It’s not the kind of thing people say to him. He gets sexy, seductive, charming. Sensual, when someone’s trying to be poetic. Passionate. Once, ethereal, but that came from a girl who was trying to sleep with him and high enough to forget her own name.

He’s been called a lot of things—because the words come easy for people when they’ve had a drink or two and think touching someone is the same as knowing them—but never this. Never something that sounded a little ridiculous yet so painfully sincere. Never soulful, never starlike.

Sirius mouths the word once, testing it on his tongue. The tip of it touches the edge of his teeth, and it tastes sweet.

He swallows hard, suddenly very aware of how his hands are trembling again. He studies Remus' face like there might be a punchline coming, but it never does. Just that same steady quiet, that sheepishness tucked behind everything he says. It makes Sirius nervous.

Please don’t ask, Sirius finds himself thinking. Please don’t ask how much I charge, or if I ever go home with anyone, or if the boots ever come off. Please don’t ruin the night. It’s so starlike.

Remus says nothing. He flicks the last of his ash to the side and stubs the cigarette against the brick behind them. The ember dies with a soft hiss. He straightens, taps the remnants from his fingers, then shifts his hand into the pocket of his jacket.

“I liked your songs,” he murmurs, like it’s an afterthought, but it’s not. “The lyrics were beautiful.”

Sirius swallows. It’s not meant for people like him. It sounds too soft, too sacred, too far from anything anyone has ever said to him.

Remus pulls out the matchbox again and holds it out without a word.

Sirius tilts his head. “Sorry?”

“Take it,” Remus says. “You’re out, right?”

“Oh. No, no, really, it’s fine,” Sirius says quickly, backing off. “I’m alright. You keep it.”

“I don’t mind,” Remus insists, simple as that.

“You don’t have to, Remus.” Sirius lifts his hand in a vague protest. “I mean it. You’ll have none left.”

It’s the first time he says his name. It sits surprisingly soft in his mouth.

Remus looks at him for a long second. Then, instead of arguing, he pulls a few matches from the packet and offers them, pinched carefully between two fingers.

Sirius frowns. What’s he supposed to do with these matches? There’s nowhere to strike them. 

He opens his mouth to say as much, but Remus tears a strip from the matchbook’s edge, the rough side of the cardboard where the strike pad lives. It curls a little between his fingers as he presses it into Sirius’ hand along with the matches.

Sirius stares at him. What the hell is this? What the hell is—

“For next time,” Remus explains. “In case you want to smoke without talking to anyone.”

Suddenly, Sirius wants to smile, and he hates that he wants to smile. He feels the beginnings of it rising anyway, completely uninvited. He presses his lips together tight, biting the inside of his cheek to keep them in line.

Remus tucks what’s left of the torn matchbox into his pocket, gives a small, crooked smile, and turns.

He walks away without waiting for anything else, shoulders hunched slightly, hands in his jacket. The sound of his boots fades as he rounds the corner back toward the courtyard, toward the bar, toward the noise.

Sirius stays where he is, a strip of cardboard and a few matches curled in his hand. They're warm from Remus’ fingers.

The sounds from the courtyard are quieter now. Someone’s playing guitar again—sloppy, slow chords—and a couple voices are singing along in low voices, drunk enough to mess up the words. It’s late. Sirius should probably go back in. Mary’s probably wondering where he went, and Sybill will ask questions.

He leans back against the wall and tilts his head up toward the sky. It’s too cloudy to see the stars, because the district air never clears long enough. Still, Sirius searches for them anyway. A habit, because he’s starlike.

Too quiet for anyone to hear, a short breath slips from his mouth. The laugh escapes before Sirius can catch it, short and surprised, half-exhaled.

His fingers don’t shake anymore.

Chapter Text

Tuesday drags like wet fabric. After the weekend, it feels worse than usual. The bone-deep kind that settles between the shoulder blades and doesn’t leave.

Remus spent most of Saturday and Sunday helping around the house. His mum took apart the back room to deep-clean the pantry and needed someone tall enough to reach the top shelves. His dad had a stack of homework essays to mark, and even though it wasn’t really Remus’ job, he found himself squinting at uneven cursive from ten-year-olds, helping sort papers and put sets together.

Some of them wrote about animals. Some wrote about their families. One kid wrote three full paragraphs about a carrot he planted and how it hadn’t sprouted yet, but he hoped it would soon.

Even with everything, even with District 9 being what it is—tight-rationed, cracked at the seams, and watched—kids still find room to be kind. They aren’t old enough yet to be afraid of August, because they haven’t turned twelve. They still live in a world where monsters aren’t real, and the Corvium is just something far away that their parents whisper about when they think no one is listening.

Remus likes that about them, that softness. Even though it makes his chest ache sometimes.

On Saturday night, his parents surprised him.

His dad was talking to a colleague—just work stuff, usual complaints—and somehow it came up that the woman’s cousin’s husband knew someone who knew someone who ran a confectionery shop. The morning after Remus’ birthday, Lyall came home with a handful of chocolate drops in his coat pocket, wrapped in paper, handed over with an awkward sort of apology.

“Not much of a birthday cake,” he said. “I know. But you love chocolate.”

Remus didn’t care. The drops were small enough to balance between two fingers, rich and slightly bitter, and melted instantly on his tongue. He nearly ate them all in one sitting, but somehow managed to keep a few aside to bring to the others later. Let Lily steal a few. Give Kingsley some so he can share them with Lulu, who has a ridiculously sweet tooth. It feels better that way.

Monday, on the contrary to the weekends, was shit.

Their boss, Rhubarb, was in one of his moods, and they caught the worst of it. He stormed in shouting about the state of the workspaces, the missed numbers, the slag left on one of the tables. Kingsley, who never handled yelling well, immediately told him off. Loudly. Which was really, really wrong. Remus, in trying to calm him down, ended up catching the tail end of Rhubarb’s temper instead, and the man started threatening pay cuts. 

As if there was even anything to cut, honestly. Remus nearly choked on his own spit. Rhubarb already paid scraps, and he didn’t need it to get any worse.

To be fair, his family isn’t exactly poor—his mum sews, his dad teaches, and Remus makes enough for them to live decently, too. But the roof of their house finally gave out in October, and everything they had went into fixing it. Insulation. Reinforcement. A few janky pipes that pretended to be heating. It wasn’t perfect, but at least the house didn’t leak anymore or smell like mildew when it rained. Now, they just need to build their savings back up—piece by piece, week by week—and hope nothing else collapses in the meantime.

Today, Remus keeps his head down. He shows up early, scrubs his bench clean before the bell even rings. He doesn’t talk. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t pause.

By the time the end of shift creeps near, he’s exhausted. Soaked through with heat and sweat, ears still ringing from the clang of metal, fingers burning with raw ache.

There are thirty minutes left. Remus thinks about his bathtub even more than usual—shifts have been excruciatingly busy since Rhubarb went off for whatever goddamn reason. All he dreams about is clean clothes, crawling under his blanket, and not waking up until this hell of a week finally ends.

Remus finishes the last of his quota in silence. The minute the clock ticks past the hour, he slides his goggles off, hangs them on the hook, and unties his apron.

Kingsley appears at his side, arm glistening with sweat and a fresh soot smear across one cheek.

“You going tonight?” he asks, voice rough from the heat and the shouting earlier.

Remus doesn’t look up from where he’s coiling thick wire onto the rack. “Going where.”

“Lily didn’t tell you?”

Remus pauses, wiping his face with the back of his arm. “Tell me what?”

“Sybill’s playing tonight,” Kingsley explains. “Solo set. She invited everyone.”

Remus exhales hard through his nose. “King, we’re back here at six tomorrow. I want to sleep for a decade, not stand around in the Hub.”

Kingsley yanks off his gloves and shakes his arms out. “It’s at seven. Won’t be long. She just wrote a few new melodies. They’re doing instrumental stuff.”

Remus stops, slowly starts folding his apron. “Instrumental?”

“Yeah.” Kingsley doesn’t seem to notice the shift in Remus’ voice. “Just music this time.”

Remus glances down. His hands are shaking slightly from strain, but he keeps folding and tries not to sound too interested. 

“Sirius won’t sing?”

Kingsley shrugs, massaging his neck. “Doubt it. He might play something. Or dance. You know how they are.”

“Dance?”

Kingsley sighs. “Yes, Remus. Dance. They’re Covey. It’s what they do. Play, sing, dance, charm the living hell out of everyone. They all do everything.”

Remus lets out a short breath. Not quite a laugh. “And they really make a living like that?”

“Some do,” Kingsley says, finally starting to unlace his apron. “Mary—Sybill’s cousin—she’s a healer. Sort of. She does herbs, pressure points, weird infusions. People go to her for all sorts of things.”

Remus leans back against the bench, flexing his sore fingers. “That stuff actually works?”

Kingsley nods, smirking. “She fixed my migraines last month. Made me drink some swamp-coloured tea that smelled like rotting fish. Tasted worse. But it worked.”

“She charge you?”

Kingsley tilts his head, mock-offended. “I’m dating a Covey. You think she’d let me pay?”

Remus lets out a breath, half amusement, half exhaustion. He stretches his arms over his head, muscles stiff from the heat. Sweat slicks his lower back. His goggles have left red dents on the bridge of his nose.

The thought of sitting—or worse, standing upright—in a bar for hours makes him want to die.

But the thought of not going? Of not seeing if Sirius will be there, again in motion, again in candlelight?

That’s worse. Much worse, because Sirius is still in his head.

It’s not just the fluffy skirt or the boot thing or the red mouth. That would’ve been easier. That would’ve made sense. Remus could have shoved it in a box somewhere and let it burn itself out.

It’s Sirius' voice when he said his name, only once. It’s the way his fingers shook when he lit the cigarette. The line between his brows when Remus handed him the torn matchbox, and the way his mouth had nearly, nearly smiled.

Remus had spent the rest of the night staring at his ceiling, one arm thrown over his eyes, replaying it all like a song he didn’t know the lyrics to. Woke up the next morning already irritated with himself.

He knows better. You don’t want things you can’t keep. You don’t let your thoughts get too comfortable with people who walk around glowing.

But Sirius got under his skin without asking permission. It would be stupid to pretend otherwise. 

Remus, to his own misfortune, isn’t stupid.

The water in the bucket is lukewarm at best, already murky from the soot it’s stripped from his skin. Remus sits back on his heels, hands submerged to the wrist, watching small pieces of grit drift toward the surface before sinking again. 

It stings. His arms are raw from the day. There’s a faint mark across the top of his palm—he must’ve caught it on the edge of the anvil and not noticed at the time. It’s not bleeding, just red and irritated. His skin is always irritated now. Remus is not sure he remembers what it felt like to be fully clean.

The heat of the forge clings to everything—coats their skin, thickens the air, sticks to their clothes. Remus’ shirt is plastered to his spine. His collar’s gone stiff with sweat.

Kingsley is nearby, rinsing off his own hands, muttering under his breath about Sybill and taxes and night shifts. Remus nods once in response and doesn’t add anything. 

He tells himself he’s tired, which is true.

He tells himself that’s why his thoughts won’t settle, which is mostly true.

Remus scrubs slowly, because grime doesn’t lift easy. It lives in the lines of his palms now, in the bend of his nails, in the grooves his fingers leave behind when he touches anything.

That night in the courtyard keeps creeping in around the edges of his mind, same way the heat does after a long day—cloying, hard to shake. The smell of that cigarette. The silence they stood in. The way Sirius tilted his head and looked at him like he couldn’t figure him out, but wasn’t in any rush to try.

Remus didn’t expect it to stick. He thought it would fade by now. Thought he’d wake up Monday with clearer air in his chest.

He didn’t. 

He presses his thumb into the center of his palm; there’s a soreness there that has nothing to do with the forge.

Remus doesn’t want anything, alright? That’s not what this is. It’s not interest. It’s not anything he needs to name. It’s just—

Memory. Memory of Sirius. Unwanted and uninvited.

Still, he doesn’t wash it away.

Behind him, Kingsley’s laughing at something someone else said. The forge is half-shut down, and the day is over, but the ache hasn’t stopped. The others are dragging out the last few minutes of clean-up, packing tools, shouting half-hearted insults across the floor.

Remus dries his hands with a stained rag, folding his fingers against the rough cloth. Then, he reaches into his bag as they head toward the hook rack, fingers brushing past his notebook, a wrench he forgot to return, a paper-wrapped bundle tucked into the bottom corner.

“Here.” Remus pulls it out and presses it into Kingsley’s hand. “Before I forget.”

Kingsley frowns down at it. “What’s this?”

“Chocolate drops,” Remus explains. “My dad brought them back Saturday.”

“Shit. Real ones?”

“Yeah. From the sweet shop.” Remus shrugs, scratches the back of his neck. “I didn’t have cake, so Dad found a guy. Long story.”

Kingsley pauses. “Remus.”

“It’s fine,” Remus says quickly. “They are good. Just not a candle situation.”

Kingsley opens the bag carefully, peeking inside like he expects the drops to vanish. Inside are maybe five or six neat little drops, glossy and half-melted from the warmth of the forge but still solid.

“Well.” Kingsley refolds the paper. “That explains the sudden sweetness. Birthday boy guilt-gifting sugar to deflect.”

“You want them or not?”

“Oh, I want them,” Kingsley says. “These could buy you a seat at the Corvium if you traded smart. And you’re just giving them to me.”

“Not all of them,” Remus corrects, finally meeting his eye. “Give a few to Lulu. Tell her happy spring.”

Kingsley smirks. “You trying to get yourself adopted? Because you know she already worships the ground you walk on, right?”

Remus huffs. “She likes me because I taught her how to cheat at number puzzles.”

“She likes you because you remembered her silly doll tea party when I forgot.”

“Also that,” Remus admits.

He watches Kingsley shove the door open with one shoulder, stepping out into the evening as if he hasn’t just spent ten hours melting from the inside out. The light outside is shifting—still warm, but lower. That odd golden tint the sky gets when it’s not quite ready to let go of the day.

“You sure about the chocolate?” Kingsley asks.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Remus says, simple and flat. “This is all I got. Doesn’t mean I need to hoard it.”

Kingsley folds the bag closed again, presses it once between his palms, and tucks it gently into his pocket. “You’re a good bastard.”

“Don’t spread it around.”

Kingsley claps a hand to his back as they reach the road. “Well, now you have to come tonight. For balance.”

Remus groans. “Not this again.”

“Don’t make me drag you.”

“Do you know how much I stink right now?”

“Same as usual.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Kingsley shrugs. “You’ve got time to rinse off. We’ll all meet there. Lily already said she’s coming, Em’s probably in. Amos will say yes if there’s alcohol.”

Remus sighs, head tipping back for a second. “You’re really campaigning for this.”

“It’s not campaigning,” Kingsley argues. “It’s scheduling. You’re the last one to confirm.”

“I never confirmed anything.”

“You didn’t say no, either.”

Remus exhales. “It’s a cello set. You don’t even like instrumental music.”

“I like Sybill,” Kingsley says. “And Sybill likes when her friends show up when she’s nervous. So? Rinse fast, wear the clean shirt. I’ll even save you a seat if you stop acting like it’s a death sentence.”

Remus stares out toward the road for a second too long.

“I’m just saying,” Kingsley adds, a little lighter now. “I’m going to place a paper with your name on it on a barstool. And if you don’t show, I’m giving your chocolate to Emmeline and telling Lulu you ran off to join the Aurors.”

Remus snorts. “That’s low.”

“Exactly. Now you’ll show up out of spite.”

Remus doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t turn around, either.

Kingsley nudges his shoulder. “See you at seven.”

Remus glances down at his wrist.

The leather strap of his watch is cracked near the buckle, the metal face scratched enough that he has to tilt it toward the light to read it properly.

Just past six.

Which means Remus has—barely—an hour. Not even that, if he counts walking. Just enough time to rinse off the worst of the day, throw on clean clothes, maybe sit down for a minute if he doesn’t think too hard about it. Definitely not enough time to want to go, or to make it feel like a real choice.

Remus breathes out through his nose and watches the air move.

He’s not in the mood for company. He’s not in the mood for music, or liquor, or another long evening spent sitting at the bar where the air tastes like sweat and sugar and cigarette smoke.

But if everyone else is going—and Lily already said yes, and Emmeline never says no to a night out, and Amos will follow the scent of a drink like a bloodhound—then it would be stupid to pretend Remus doesn’t already know he’s going too.

He presses a palm to the small of his back, working out a knot that’s been building all day.

Yeah. If he rinses quick.

That’ll be fine. Probably.

Remus doesn’t look at the watch again. Only stands there for a second and thinks about cello music, and dingling bracelets, and an almost-smile behind the Hub that hasn’t let go since it showed up.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

The house belongs to Taffy Mauve, Clementine’s aunt, but at this point, it might as well belong to everyone.

Four rooms, one working stove, and a curtain for a door in the back, full of noise and elbows and bodies that know how to move around each other without breaking anything. Everything is hand-painted. Mismatched chairs, chipped mugs, a couch stitched back together with yarn the color of pumpkins. Bright, too-bright rugs cover every inch of the floor as if they’re afraid someone might notice how cracked it is underneath. There’s a smell of lentils and old perfume and heat.

Sirius is in the middle of it all, parked on a chair with one leg propped up on an overturned milk crate, skirt hiked up just enough to make room for Mary and Clementine as they put mascara on his lashes and dab glitter onto his cheekbones. His corset is already on, laced tight but not yet unforgiving. The maroon fabric of his skirt has gone warm under the house heat. His eyeliner is done—his own, sharp and smudged just right—but the rest is still in progress.

Sybil donated her blush—half gone, but still good. Clementine found glitter in a drawer she hasn’t opened in years. Pandora is working on tying a bandana around Sirius’ hair, humming while she smooths the fabric once, twice, knots it at the crown. Mary’s on lash duty again, muttering about how Sirius always flinches at the worst possible second and very actively trying to stop him from sneezing.

“Don’t you dare,” she warns, her elbow pressing into Sirius’ knee.

“I’m sorry,” he says, then huffs. The mascara smells sharp, chemical-sweet. “You’re so aggressive.”

“That’s my touch of grace, birdboy. Live with it.”

Sirius sighs and stays still. He is warm all over, flushed from the heat, but he doesn’t mind it. He never minds this part—being surrounded, fussed over, painted into something brighter. The Covey never do anything halfway. If you’re going to go onstage, you go glowing. If you want to collect all the stars tonight, you go starlike.

“Don’t tilt your head like that,” Mary scolds. “I’ll poke your eye out.”

Sirius shifts. “You’re terrifying with that thing.”

“You’ve lived through six different Auror raids and you’re scared of mascara?”

“It gets too close,” Sirius insists. “And your hands shake.”

“Only when I’ve had sugar. Stop talking.”

“That’s not illegal.”

Mary gently swipes the corner of his eye. “You say that like this city knows anything about legal.”

Clementine leans in a little closer from the other side and sweeps glitter high along Sirius’ cheekbone with the tip of her ring finger. It’s not fancy glitter, but she makes it look like moonlight. He resists the urge to blow it away; it sticks, anyway—catches in the hollows of his face and the folds of his blouse.

She leans back to admire her handiwork, head tilted. Mary has finished with the lashes and moved on to lipstick, brushing the color on with the kind of focus Sirius secretly finds flattering. Pandora’s fingers slip under the bandana and scratch gently at his scalp. Somehow, she knows exactly where it itches. The moment the bandana is tied, she tugs lightly at Sirius’ hair beneath it.

“There,” she says. “Now you’re a flame.”

He tilts his head at her, looking over his shoulder. “A pretty flame or a hazard flame?”

“A wildfire,” Pandora purrs. “Rapid and all-consuming.”

Behind them, Sybill is sprawled on the rug, arms outstretched, fingers twitching, playing an invisible cello. Her real cello rests beside her with its strings half-tuned, being adjusted by Xenophilius, who’s twisting one of the pegs carefully, tongue between his teeth.

“You’re going to snap it,” Sybill murmurs, eyes closed. “The A string’s touchy.”

“I’m touchy,” Xenophilius mutters. 

“You’re stubborn. There’s a difference.” Sybill lifts one leg in the air, points her toe toward the ceiling. “Sirius, when you’re onstage tonight, I want you to think about fruit.”

Sirius hums. “Fruit.”

“Specifically plums,” she clarifies. “Ripe. Dripping. Red.”

“Plums are purple,” Sirius muses. “Mostly.”

“I want you to think about red plums,” Sybill says.

“It’s a maroon night,” Pandora declares from behind him. “Bandana, skirt, cheeks. Blood-colored.”

“Is that a compliment?” Sirius asks.

“That’s a warning,” Pandora replies sweetly. “You’re going to ruin someone tonight.”

“Even if it’s true,” Sirius sing-songs, “I’m not dancing like a fruit.”

Xeno hands the cello back to Sybil, who immediately props it on her knee and starts to pluck a warm, lazy tune, the kind you’d walk to in late summer, pockets full of honey-sticks. The room hums with it.

“This one’s new,” Sybill informs, eyes half-shut. “I heard it last night by the lake.”

Sirius tries not to laugh. It’s not that he doesn’t believe her—he’s lived with the Covey long enough to know better than that. But Sybill has been tossing half-riddles around all week, and she hasn’t explained a single one of them. She says it ruins the shape of the future if you talk too plainly about it.

“You gonna survive tonight?” Mary asks, glancing toward her.

Sybill doesn’t open her eyes. “I’m not built for earthly things.”

“She hasn’t eaten all day,” Pandora adds helpfully.

“I’m fasting for clarity.”

Sirius leans back just enough to glance toward the kitchen. “Is the kettle still screaming?”

“No one’s brave enough to turn it off,” Clementine mutters.

“Good,” Xeno says. “It matches the mood.”

Mary snorts.

Sirius shifts a little in his seat, catching his reflection in the mirror by the doorway. The bandana’s tied snug, hair spilling out in soft waves. His lashes are dark and long, cheeks catching the light. He looks pretty.

“I’m seeing it from above,” Sybill continues dreamily. “Like in a dream. The notes float better that way.”

“She’s been at it for hours,” Clementine whispers.

“She’s perfect,” Pandora replies, lowering herself onto the floor. “She was humming in her sleep last night. The melody was upside down.”

“What does that mean?” Mary asks.

Pandora glances up at her, unblinking. “It means it started from the end. Some things do.”

Mary and Clementine finish Sirius’ makeup. He briefly touches his red lips, then drops his hand to adjust the corset laces, tightening them just a touch.

“He looks like a match,” Clementine says, stepping back to admire the full picture.

“Or the box,” Xeno supplies. “Or the strike.”

“Or the burn,” Sybill suggests.

“I love this support,” Sirius deadpans. “Really helps the nerves.”

“Do you get nervous?” Sybill asks.

Sirius shrugs. “Sometimes.”

No one talks about nerves here, but they show. In how Pandora is braiding her own hair too tight. In how Sybil won’t stop humming. In how Mary keeps checking the clock on the wall that’s been broken since January.

Performing isn’t just a show. It’s a job. It’s what gets them fed, or seen, or heard—if they’re lucky. Sometimes all three, if the crowd’s generous.

“Is Kingsley coming tonight?” Clementine asks, hands on her hips. Her skirt is patchworked with mismatched buttons down the front, some shaped like sunflowers.

“Of course he is,” Sybill answers casually, not looking up. “Said he might bring his friends again.”

“Oh?” Sirius says, dragging out the syllable. He keeps messing with the ribbon at the hem of his skirt, pretending it’s meaningless. “That whole group? The ginger girl… Emmeline? The loud one?”

“Lily,” Mary corrects. “She was nice. We ran into each other in the bathroom.”

Sirius snaps his fingers. “Right. Lily. And the other one. The… tall one.”

“Emmeline?”

“The forge boy.”

“Ah,” Sybill breathes. “Remus.”

Sirius shrugs. “Yeah. Him.”

“Want to see him again?” Mary teases, smug.

Sirius hates how hot his face feels in an instant.

“Why would I?” He swallows. “He’s just… thoughtful. Gave me the matches.”

Mary raises a brow. “Did you smoke with him?”

Sirius doesn't answer. 

Clementine claps her hands, giddy. “He did!”

“Do I need to write a ballad about it?” Sybil offers from the rug.

“Please don’t,” Sirius groans. “I already get enough attention.”

“You love attention,” Pandora says.

“I love attention that pays the bills,” Sirius corrects. “There’s a difference.”

“Kingsley said he’ll try to get everyone out, including Remus, but you know how it is.” Sybill sighs. “People say they’ll come and then don’t.”

“Mm.” Sirius nods. “Not everyone’s built for bars.”

“Not everyone’s built for your skirt, either,” Mary quips. “But here we are.”

Sirius grins. “You’re just jealous because I have better legs.”

“Absolutely,” Mary deadpans. “I’m devastated.”

Pandora stretches, catlike, and rises from the rug. Her skirts drag softly behind her as she crosses the room, quiet and sure, holding the cloth pouch close to her chest.

“I’m tossing now,” she says, more to the air than to anyone in particular.

She heads to the far end of the room, where the small table sits cluttered with thread spools and a chipped teacup Mary never finished. With a sweep of her arm, Pandora clears a space, then pulls a wrinkled swatch of cheap blue fabric from the drawer and lays it down gently, smoothing the creases with both hands. It’s frayed at the corners, faint stains here and there, but it catches the lamplight like water. It’s the same cloth she always uses.

Sirius perks up immediately. As soon as he sees Pandora setting up, he swings his leg off the chair and hops up.

“Oh, finally,” he murmurs. “Cardy card time.”

Mary rolls her eyes fondly. “You’re like a magpie.”

“I just know good magic when I see it,” Sirius declares, already padding over. His skirt swishes as he walks. The maroon catches the light like embers. “You gonna give us some magic, Panny?” 

“I might,” Pandora replies mysteriously. “I do actually see things tonight.”

“You see things all the time,” Xeno retorts.

Sybill lifts a hand lazily from her place on the floor, not playing her cello anymore. “She’s never wrong.”

“She said it was going to rain for a week straight,” Mary points out. “It didn’t rain once.”

“I didn’t say it would rain rain,” Pandora murmurs. “I said everything would feel wet.”

Mary looks at her. “That means nothing.”

“You were crying on Thursday.”

“Unrelated,” Mary fires back.

Sirius snorts, shaking his head. “Alright, fine. Toss your cards, Pan. But if I get another you will lose something line, I’m leaving.”

“You already did,” Pandora whispers, too quiet to be teasing.

Sirius glances at her, but she’s looking at her cards, not him.

“Xeno,” Pandora calls softly, still sorting through the deck. “Come on. Before the noise messes up the air.”

“You want a clear channel,” Sybill murmurs from the floor.

“I want the truth,” Pandora says, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “And the truth likes silence.”

Xenophilius rises from the rug with a creaky stretch and pads over barefoot, hair falling out of his ponytail like loose straw. He stops behind Pandora, placing one broad, careful hand across her eyes.

It’s always like this. He covers her vision, and she reads. Routine made ritual.

Mary drops into the nearest chair with a long exhale. Sirius plops down sideways across her lap without hesitation. She oofs softly under his weight but says nothing, only pats his thigh through the skirt in a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

“Was born to sit in your lap,” Sirius responds, flicking a bit of glitter from his knee.

Pandora’s fingers are already moving. The deck is old, edges frayed, some cards curled at the corners from being shuffled too much and slept on more than once. She moves with care, but no hesitation. Her nails are chipped. Her gold rings clink when they knock together.

Sirius' mind flickers, very briefly. It’s uninvited, but somehow, quite inevitable.

He thinks of golden eyes first. Then calloused hands, and that moment in the alley behind the bar. That single match struck in the dark. He tries to shake it off, literally, one shoulder rolling as if he’s got a loose thread on his back, but for a quick moment, it’s impossible.

Sirius fights it anyway. He doesn’t need his brain dragging up Remus now. Not when he looks like this, pretty with a purpose, about to go onstage and pretend he doesn’t care who’s watching.

He bites the inside of his cheek and watches Pandora draw.

The first card slips out, and Pandora holds it up toward Xeno.

He squints. “Lovers.”

A chorus of loud, theatrical uuuuhhhh rises up from the girls.

Sirius bursts out laughing, head thrown back. “No, no, no. Not the Lovers. Absolutely not. Banned.”

“Too late,” Mary grins, knocking her knee against his thigh. “We’ve already got mysterious forge boys with broad shoulders.”

Sirius rolls his eyes, trying to ignore the weird flutter in his chest. Pandora pulls another card and hands it up.

Xeno barely glances. “The Fool.”

Sirius points across the table. “Oh, that’s Clem.”

“I heard that,” Clementine calls from the other room, walking in with a bowl of stew that smells like lentils and pepper. She smacks him lightly on the shoulder as she passes. “Careful, birdboy.”

Sybill rolls over on the rug, propping herself up on one elbow, eyes round. “Lover and Fool… sounds tragic. Do you think someone’s getting unlucky tonight?”

Sirius shrugs, grinning. “Unlucky in love, lucky in cards.”

The girls laugh. Mary squeezes his thigh gently. Sirius shifts slightly in her lap, scratches at the back of his knee, eyes flicking toward the window. The sky’s still pale outside, holding on to the last edge of daylight.

Pandora hums low in her throat, reshuffling. “Don’t worry, Sib. You and Kingsley are sealed tight. Like honey in a jar.”

Sybill preens slightly but hides it behind her hair.

“He does bring me my favourite plums from the market,” she tells them. “That has to count for something.”

“That’s why I’m having this red plum thing going on tonight?” Sirius asks, amused.

Sybill just smiles. Pandora flicks the deck once, and a card slips free on its own, flipping halfway before landing face-up on the tablecloth.

Xeno leans in. 

“Star,” he says softly.

“Star,” Sybill echoes. “Sirius!” 

Mary shifts under him, shoulder pressed into his back now. “Well, look at that.”

“I always told you the cards liked him,” Clementine says, reappearing in the room.

Sirius blinks down at the card, a little stunned. The Star, right there. No tricks. It doesn’t even feel like a joke.

“Stars are loners,” he murmurs, just to say something.

“They shine anyway,” Xeno offers.

Mary wraps both arms around his waist and squeezes once, quick and quiet. Sirius lets himself smile.

Pandora keeps shuffling. The cards whisper in her hands; she knows them well, they know her just as good. Xeno watches her work from behind, his hand still gently covering her eyes, his other arm resting loose at his side.

He glances away just once. A smudge of mascara has dragged down under his left eye—barely there, but Sirius sees everything. His head tips toward Xeno for a second, and then he lifts a hand near his face, fingers fluttering in a silent signal. Right side, just under the lash line.

Xeno frowns, catches on. He reaches up with one hand, ponytail swaying slightly as he adjusts his angle, and wipes at the spot with the edge of his thumb. He misses.

Sirius shakes his head, motions again. Just a bit lower.

This time, Xeno catches it. Rubs carefully until the smudge disappears, then looks back to Sirius with his palm still half-lifted, brows raised in question.

Good?

Sirius gives him a short nod and a wink. Xeno ducks his head, snickering softly just under his breath, and drops his gaze again right as Pandora draws. Only instead of turning to show it to Xeno, she flips the card around and faces it toward the girls and Sirius.

He squints to see the image. "What's High Priestess, again?"

Instead of responding, Pandora hums—a long, low hmm that starts deep in her chest and barely escapes her lips. Her eyes are still hidden beneath Xeno’s hand, but her voice comes from somewhere further off now. One of her trancey ones.

“The lover is a fool,” she begins quietly, “and the Priestess tries to guide the Star.”

Sirius frowns. “What does that mean?”

Another pause. Pandora doesn’t rush.

“Someone’s going to make a fool of themselves tonight,” she says eventually, like the words are arriving late. “But it won’t be out of foolishness. It’ll be… love, badly timed. Not their fault.”

Xeno leans in, captivated.

“The Star isn’t favored tonight,” Pandora continues. “But the Priestess urges calm. To quiet the mind. Trust what’s already known, let instinct guide you. Not everything is what it seems.”

Sirius doesn’t get it, but the words stay anyway; they’re sticky. Like something lodged between the ribs.

Clementine lets out a low whistle. “That’s so cool.”

Sirius tips forward a little, dropping his voice to whisper into Mary’s ear while her hands keep drumming lightly against his thighs.

“Better keep an eye on Clem,” he murmurs. “She’s got zero intuition.”

Mary snorts. “You basing that on her dating history?”

“Shut up,” Clementine calls from across the room.

Sirius straightens, grinning. “Why shut up?”

Clementine takes a few steps forward, squinting at him like he’s an insect that learned to talk. “The things that come out of your mouth are ridiculous.”

Srius slides off Mary’s lap with one smooth motion and backs away a step, laughter already rising in his throat.

“Ridiculous?” he echoes. “Your name is Clementine Rust. You are literally called Orange Orange.”

Clementine lunges toward him. “ Rust is not the same as orange, you—”

“It is, though,” Sirius teases, already dodging around the edge of the table. “It’s literally just orange but sad.”

Clementine breaks into a sprint. “Take that back!”

“I won’t!”

“You little bastard—!”

They’re both laughing now, tripping over rugs and dodging chairs. Sybill covers her face with her hands, giggling into her sleeves, while Pandora stays perfectly still, Xeno’s hand still covering her eyes like nothing else in the room matters. Mary leans back in the chair and watches the chase with an open smile, shaking her head.

Sirius darts past the front door, nearly knocks over the broom propped beside it, and yells over his shoulder, “Orange orange can’t catch me!”

“I will end you!” Clementine threatens.

The old clock ticks on, mostly ignored. The air smells like dust, sweat, and clove, and the floor shakes slightly under their running. The Star runs, Clementine close behind, and all around them, everything is golden.

Eventually, the shouting dies down. Clem calls a truce when she gets too warm, and Sirius lets her catch him on purpose, breathless from laughter. Pandora sits back down at the table, card deck in her lap, quietly shuffling. Mary leans across from her, fanning herself with the Star card in one hand, the other picking at a loose thread in her trouser cuff. The conversations are low and lazy between them—something about a dream Pandora had three nights ago that still won’t let go, then about which market stalls are still selling dried apple slices, and which ones are price-gouging.

Sirius wipes sweat from the back of his neck with the edge of his sleeve and catches Xeno’s eye from across the room.

“Need you,” he says, already reaching for his tambourine to lift it from the floor.

Xeno lifts a brow. “You want to dance?”

“We’ve got an hour.”

Sybill hears before either of them move. Half-curled on the rug, cello now upright between her knees, she lets her fingers find their places without effort and starts to play. It’s low at first, humming underneath the room, then swells just enough to pull everything into place.

Sirius shakes the tambourine once and starts to move; small steps, ankles loose, fabric swishing with each beat. The maroon skirt follows like it knows the rhythm already. He lets the music pull him forward, feet dragging softly across the floor, spinning once and then again, tambourine ringing each time it strikes his palm.

Xeno starts to hum along, feet quiet against the rug as he finds his spot beside Sirius, picking up the pulse of the room. His voice is hoarse and warm when he begins to sing:

Sing, sing, my mockingjay,
Lift our hearts, don't drift away,
With your song, the dark will fade,
You’re the light the stars once made.

Sirius laughs, letting the beat roll through his wrist and the tambourine guide him in a circle. He throws it up, then catches it with one hand. His skirts flick as he turns, bracelets catching lamplight in brief flashes. He sings back:

Fly, fly, but not too far,
I’ll still watch you from afar.
In your wings, a vow I see,
You’ll come back and sing for me.

Mary is the first to stand. She claps along once, then twice, then sways into step, grabbing Xeno with one hand and Sirius with the other. Clementine joins next, skirt hitched up just above her ankles, hopping in place until she finds the rhythm. Pandora jumps up from her seat with a shake of her head, platinum hair flying loose from the ribbons she’d tied a few hours ago.

Soar, soar, my mockingjay,
Sing the words I’d never say.
In your tune, my heart still beats,
Even when our eyes don’t meet.

Sybill plays louder, eyes wide and bright. The cello wails, then purrs, then steadies itself. The song catches in their mouths, half-whispered, half-chanted. 

They’re not exactly graceful, but they’re bright. Alive. Skirts swaying, trousers flaring, sleeves slipping off shoulders. Every jump lands too hard, every movement spins slightly off-kilter.

Burn, burn, the lies they weave,
Sing of truth they can’t believe.
I’ll be strong, and you will guide—
The fire walks with us tonight.

Clementine spins, earrings swinging. Xeno knocks into a chair and it topples with a thud, but no one stops. Mary loops an arm through Sybill’s and drags her up, cello abandoned, laugh bubbling as Sybill stumbles into the dance. Pandora laughs, loud and sudden, tossing her head back as Sirius pulls her into a spin. Her cards are scattered across the table behind her, long forgotten. She doesn’t need to look at them to know what they say.

Rise, rise, with wings of flame,
They’ll fear the echo of your name.
Sing for those who could not stay,
Lead us through another day.

Sirius keeps the beat. His feet slide across the rug, and his bandana slips slightly, but he doesn’t stop to fix it. His chest rises and falls fast with each movement. It’s so, so full. 

Cry, cry, but do not break,
Songs are stronger than they take.
When they hush the world with fear,
Let your voice be all they hear.

Sirius closes his eyes. The ringing trails through the room like smoke, like ash, like the ghost of fire; a long breath held, then slowly exhaled.

Sleep, sleep beneath the sky,
Dream of peace they can’t deny.
When the dawn begins to roam,
Sing me safe, and sing me home.

When it ends, they’re panting, red-cheeked, bracelets tangled in sleeves and waistbands crooked on hips. Clementine leans on Pandora for balance, still laughing. Xeno wipes sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt.

Sirius stands in the middle of it all, hair damp at the temples, chest still rising like he’s caught mid-flight. All around him, fabric and jewellery and half-undone braids, flushed faces and ringing ears. This is his flock. His fire. The only place he’s ever been able to breathe with his whole body.

He drops to the rug, tambourine still in hand, head thrown back against the edge of the couch. The music fades, but it doesn’t really leave. If there’s a word for the way this feels, Sirius doesn’t know it.

All he knows for sure is that it’s his.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Remus slips into the bar just after the lights have gone out.

He didn’t mean to be late. That wasn’t the plan.

The pant leg of his best pair of trousers tore clean open on a hook by the hallway, and by the time he’d untangled himself and assessed the damage, the entire side pocket had ripped open at the seam. His mum insisted on stitching it, and Remus went to change, already sweating. The second pair sat awkwardly on his hips, a little tight where the fabric hadn’t fully broken in.

Then, keys. Remus had forgotten them entirely, already halfway down the street before realizing he’d need to get back inside at some point tonight. By the time he retraced his steps and grabbed them off the hook in the hallway, he was late enough to stop pretending otherwise.

He passed the edge of the meadow on instinct.

Didn’t mean to stop, but he did. The wildflowers had grown up a little since Remus last walked through it. Pale purple, soft yellow, tight little white petals clinging to thin stems. He picked them without thinking. Just enough to fit in his hand. They’re crushed now, pressed into the lining of his jacket pocket, petals slightly damp and caught against the stitching.

He closes the door behind him, already ducking his head at the hush of the room. The music has started. Sybill’s bow moves slow and careful across the cello strings, the deep, rounded sound carrying through the bar in long, rich strokes.

Around her, the other Covey sit in a loose semicircle, playing soft accompaniment—flute, an instrument with a bell-like tone Remus can’t quite place, soft and sharp at the same time, and the reedy wail of an accordion held low in someone’s lap. A tambourine joins in from the far side of the stage, but Remus can’t make out who’s holding it. His eyes are still adjusting. He thinks briefly that his vision’s gone a bit shit since he started full shifts. Either that or it’s his hearing. Probably both.

He skirts the edge of the crowd, head still lowered, eyes flicking quickly toward the stage, then back to the dark outlines of heads and chairs. The room smells warm and woody—cider, pine smoke, tired bodies.

Remus spots his friends at their usual spot, clustered together at the bar. He lifts a hand in silent greeting.

Lily sees him first and nudges Kingsley with an elbow. Kingsley turns, takes one look, and lifts a thumb in the dim light—all good. Remus mouths sorry, slides in beside him, nodding to Emmeline.

Sybill plays without looking up. The melody unfolds slowly, swells and softens with ease, never overreaching. Her fingers move confidently along the neck of the cello while the other Covey circle around her in a loose semi-ring of sound.

Remus settles on the barstool, already feeling the heat from the walk starting to rise from his skin.

Lily leans in from his other side. “What are you drinking?”

Remus shakes his head. “I’ll get something later.”

“Remus.”

“Fine.” He sighs. “The plum mead, if they’ve still got some.”

“No beer?”

“You know I don’t like beer.”

“Thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”

“I haven’t.”

“Shame.” Lily smirks, already turning. “One day, I’ll win you over.”

She whistles sharply through two fingers toward the far end of the bar. Trilly Wellock—the well-known bartender of District 9, with a name that seems to have collected more Ls than he knows what to do with—turns from his post near the barrel stack. His grey uniform is already damp under the arms.

Lily holds up two fingers and mouths plum mead. Trilly nods once, disappears behind the counter.

Remus only notices when Sybill’s piece slows, her bow lingering on the strings a moment longer before the flute picks up around her, that the seat next to Emmeline is empty. The one Amos usually claims, slouching with a drink already half gone by the first five minutes into the night.

“Where’s Amos?” Remus asks.

Lily turns her head slightly, eyes still on the bartender. “Couldn’t make it.”

Remus raises an eyebrow. Lily doesn’t make him ask.

“He’s on a date,” she whispers.

“A date?”

“Mm-hm.” Lily sips from her glass, clearly enjoying the opportunity to spread gossip. “Some girl from the hospital. A nurse, maybe. I don’t remember. Em said she’s blonde and wears suspenders.”

Remus looks away briefly, out toward the edge of the crowd. He presses one hand into the side of his jacket; the flowers are still there. Crumpled now. Warm from his body heat.

“Think it’ll go anywhere?” he asks.

Lily hums, thoughtful. “I want to say no, just to be petty, but—” She shrugs. “Amos is charming when he wants to be. And he has good hair.”

Remus snorts.

“I’m serious,” she adds. “He’s a moron sometimes, sure. But some people are into that.”

Remus glances back toward the cello, not quite hearing it. “What if…” He trails off. His voice doesn’t want to commit.

Lily turns to look at him fully now.

Remus rubs at his jaw. “What if his name comes up in August?”

Lily doesn’t look away.

“The Reaping happens every year,” she says quietly. “That doesn’t mean we stop living in between.”

Remus frowns. His fingers curl slightly on the bar counter’s edge. “But it could be him this year.”

“It could be any of us.” Lily leans in, her voice a low murmur now, meant for no one else. “McKinnons—fifty slips between them, thanks to their father’s mess. You think that stops Marcella from seeing that boy from her street?”

Remus doesn’t say anything. His eyes follow the arc of Sybill’s bow, but his thoughts snag elsewhere. On blonde hair and gold jewellery and too much perfume. On silk dresses too fine for district streets.

The truth is, he doesn’t like the McKinnon twins at all.

They’re proud, polished, full of sharp glances and louder opinions. Their father had enough money to believe that made him untouchable—until it didn’t, and the Corvium reminded him otherwise. Didn’t stop his daughters from parading around town in their fancy clothes as if nothing had changed.

To Remus' taste, Marlene is the worst of the two. Always in imported fabrics that shimmer in the sunlight, hair bouncing around her shoulders in glossy curls she’s constantly flipping back with fingers coated in pink varnish. She adjusts her fringe with the same annoyed swipe every time, like it’s everyone else’s fault she has one. Remus watches her do it and wonders why she doesn’t just grow it out.

There’s a pin Marlene wears all the time—a silver swan that glints when she walks past, radiating that McKinnon-like arrogance as if the world should step aside for her. Remus has never seen a real swan in his life—those are Corvium birds now, gone from the Districts—and it doesn’t make it any easier to watch her, smirking and flashing a deadly symbol pinned to her chest. As if she’s not just another district piglet, whose right to live exists only if the government says so.

Remus finds it mocking and strangely frustrating.

Marcella, at least, is quieter. Still wears the same expensive fabrics, still walks with her chin tilted too high, but she doesn’t flash it around like a badge. Remus doesn’t like her, exactly, but he minds her less.

He pulls himself out of his thoughts just long enough to murmur, “I still can’t stop thinking about Slate.”

Lily doesn’t move for a moment. Then, she exhales sharply.

“He volunteered, Remus.”

“They called his sister’s name.” He shakes his head, jaw tight. “She was thirteen. Not much difference, is there?”

Lily presses her lips into a thin line. She looks at him for a long time, green eyes catching fire under the low light. 

“If they called Tuney,” Remus adds, “you’d go too. And it would still be a murder, volunteer or not.”

The look Lily gives him is like the snap of a wire. Her hair shifts as she turns, fire-lit ends curling slightly from the humidity. But it’s not anger behind her eyes. It’s sorrow she won’t show unless she’s forced. Remus sees it in her mouth, the way it pulls tight; he’s hit a nerve, and they both know it.

Of course she would go instead of Petunia; it’s just that her sister would be unlikely to do the same.

Slate Commonheart was seventeen when he went in Tulsi’s place without hesitating. She screamed when they took her brother; the whole District saw it. The Games ended with Slate in a metal box, skull caved in, face too ruined to show. It rained the day they brought him home.

Lily swallows once. Then says, steady and hard, over the sound of the tambourine, “That’s right. I would’ve gone.” Her fingers tighten on the rim of her glass. “But they don’t get to decide who I am and what I feel. That’s mine, not theirs. I’m not throwing away my life just because the bloodsucking Corvium wants me to bleed pretty for their cameras.”

She turns toward Remus, shifting in her seat, now watching him. 

“Are you?”

The question doesn’t leave him any room to flinch.

Remus blinks, and it stings. That sting he’s worked all his life to crush before it can reach his throat. His eyes burn, dry from smoke and this familiar mess of disgust and fury and helplessness, all tangled in the pit of his stomach, crawling up, up, up.

Everything about it is wrong. The rules. The odds. The names in the bowl. The Corvium’s need for trembling hands, breaking voices, mothers sobbing in the streets, fathers held back by guards, and cinematic death.

Their power isn’t just in Slate, forever seventeen and gone, his skull caved in on national broadcast. It’s in Tulsi, fourteen now, still flinching when someone says his name.

It’s in the way the Corvium loves a sob story, loves to watch people cry. They feed on pain, on the noble sacrifice, the trembling close-up shot of a girl who just lost her arm or a boy who just got poisoned—but might win anyway. They chew through fear, drink tears from crystal glasses, and laugh while children die, their bodies, youth, and dignity buried beneath gold-slick floors.

Remus, truly, wants to give them nothing.

His father taught him that—bit by bit, in long, quiet talks over supper, in the way he always fell silent when the names were read aloud every August. They’ll try to break you, one way or another, he used to say. They want a show worth watching. Don’t hand it over.

Slate’s huge mistake was feeding their greedy mouths. He really gave it to them, didn’t he? Selfless, soft and quiet, holding his sister’s hand when they called her name. Stepping forward. Crying when they took Tulsi away before she could run to him.

Remus breathes in once, then again, through his nose. The coppery scent of candle smoke and alcohol steadies him, but inside, something still clenches around the shape of his name and the idea of what might happen if, come August, it’s called.

The tambourine hits again—louder this time—and Remus jerks slightly in his seat, the sound catching him just under the ribs. He winces, shaking his head as if the noise might fall out.

“Who the hell is playing that—”

He turns his head, and that’s it.

Remus could die a thousand tiniest deaths—under the weight of the Corvium, in the dirt of the arena, by the hand of an Auror with an itchy trigger finger—but no death would be more brutal than this one. 

Because Sirius is on stage, tambourine in hand, all made of wind and rhythm.

It knocks the air clean out of Remus’ chest when he sees the sway of the skirts beneath the tight corset, the way the fabric moves with every twist of his hips, every turn of his heel. Maroon suits Sirius unfairly well. The satin catches every turn of the light, flaring like a flame with every shift in direction, covering his legs and half-taming the curls trailing down his shoulders.

Sirius looks like a poppy in full bloom, baring his neck as he throws his head back and spins, throat exposed, shoulders catching tension mid-arch. His spine curves with the beat. The tambourine crashes once, twice, and Remus’ heart answers in time.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

It matches the rhythm now. His pulse synced to the Covey’s music, to the sound of Sirius’ feet hitting the stage, to the crash of brass and fabric.

Remus doesn’t realize how hard he’s staring until Lily nudges him.

“Remus,” she whispers, voice close. “Are you—what is it?”

He doesn’t look at her. “Nothing,” he says, too fast, staring at the satin bandana wrapped around Sirius’ head. “I just—need some air, I think.”

Lily looks at him, then follows his line of sight, then looks back. Her eyes narrow just slightly, the green of them catching the candlelight like polished glass.

“Oh.”

Remus turns sharply. “Not oh. Don’t you dare.”

Lily lifts her hands in a slow, innocent arc. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I read your thoughts,” he bites back, pitching his voice slightly higher in a brutal impression of hers.

She snorts into her drink. “You’re such an ass when you’re flustered. It’s adorable.”

Remus gives her a look. “Please stop talking.”

“Prickle,” Lily says. “Why didn’t they name you Burdock?”

Remus rolls his eyes. “Why didn’t they name you that? You’re the one who always sticks to me.”

She laughs again, light and bright and right in his ear. He tries not to smile.

Then, she sobers just a little, tilting her head toward the stage. “Are you going to talk to him after?”

Remus answers before he thinks better of it. 

“I can’t reach him.”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” Lily notes.

Remus shrugs. “It’s true.”

“Well, I think you could. For the record.” She leans in slightly. “You’re handsome.”

“Yeah, handsome with crooked teeth.”

“And a crooked nose,” Emmeline supplies, even though no one asked for her opinion.

“Very mannified,” Lily insists, flicking his shoulder. “You also smell really nice. Did you wear the new cologne again?”

“It was the first thing I grabbed,” Remus mutters defensively.

“Right, right, because you’re rolling in options, rich boy,” Lily mocks. “A whole shelf full of expensive perfume.”

Remus shakes his head and rolls his eyes again, this time with more effort. The corner of his mouth gives him away.

Emmeline coughs once, twice, smoke catching wrong in her throat as she leans back and fans the air with the hand still holding her cigarette.

“God,” she rasps, eyes fixed on the stage. “He’s glorious. That red skirt should be illegal. That his name or what?”

Lily glances sideways, sipping from her drink. “He wore purple on Friday. Maybe his name’s Violet or something.”

“Why not Red?” Emmeline presses, exhaling smoke from the corner of her mouth. “He’s wearing it better than the color ever wore itself.”

Remus frowns. “What are you two talking about?”

Emmeline gestures again, as if it’s obvious. “Covey names. Each of them has a color.”

Remus squints. “Color?”

Lily turns toward him, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve never heard that?”

Remus shakes his head. He shifts in his seat and lightly kicks Kingsley under the table. “You know Sirius’ color?”

Kingsley doesn’t look away from the stage. “No. But I’d agree with Em—it’s red, or something close.” He shrugs. “He’s a show-off.”

Emmeline exhales a laugh. “What about Sybill?”

This time, Kingsley answers without hesitation. His mouth pulls into a small, crooked smile, and his voice comes out soft. “Sage.”

Remus looks back to the stage, blinking through the soft amber light, the floating curls of smoke above the crowd. Sybill’s still playing, but Sirius is the one his eyes find again. His head tips back, curls slipping from the bandana at his brow, and Remus is dizzy just watching him, mid-motion, tambourine raised, skirts catching the candlelight in a thousand directions at once.

If each of them has a color, then Sirius could be Navy, because the hottest stars burn blue, and every twist of his waist is like a flash flare in the dark. 

He could be Gray, too. His eyes catch the light just enough to dazzle—silver where the moon hits, too bright to stare at directly. Every time Remus catches them, he has to look away. It feels like looking into a reflection that doesn’t give anything back.

Or he could be Ruby. His cheeks are flushed poppy-red from dancing, from heat, from whatever lives under his skin that makes him move like this. That joy, reckless and bright. No filter. No dimmer switch.

Or he could be Sirius Black, after the embers and ravens and water depths. Birth, death, rebirth again. Fast-burning. Smoke-fed. Moving with wind-like speed, leaving scorch marks on the stage and the inside of Remus’ throat.

Truthfully, any of them would fit.

Every color. Every name.

Sirius is a kaleidoscope in Remus’ eyes; too much for them to hold at once, spinning and refracting in ways Remus doesn’t know how to track. 

It’s senseless, isn’t it? To lose your breath over someone you don’t even know. To feel your pulse hammering because someone turned their head mid-spin and smiled without meaning it.

Maybe that’s what’s pulling him in. The not knowing, the ache of a puzzle he’ll never finish. Maybe Sirius is a siren, and the tambourine is the lure, and the skirts are the tide, and the next step is over the edge. 

Or maybe Remus is just losing his mind. Wouldn’t be hard to believe. Not here, in a city rotting from the inside out.

Whatever it is—whatever strange rhythm is thumping behind his ribs now—it’s the first time his heart has moved like this. The first time it’s found rhythm in a stranger’s body.

It terrifies Remus just as much as it stuns.

Someone in the crowd whistles. Sirius laughs mid-turn, never faltering, and keeps going, bouncing the tambourine once, twice against his palm.

Sybill plays the final line of her part, bow gliding fast and clean. The music cuts out. On the very last beat, Sirius stomps one booted foot into the stage floor with perfect timing. The whole bar erupts in cheers.

Sirius bows with a flourish. A bewitcher, like Emmeline once said. He gives his tambourine a couple of lazy shakes, a soft jingle lost under the roar, then looks into the crowd and winks.

Remus swallows. He knows it isn’t for him. But he lets himself pretend, just for a second.

Lily elbows him. “Go.”

Remus jerks around. “Go where?”

“Don’t you make that face.” She clicks her tongue. “Go to him.”

Remus scoffs. “No.”

“Yes,” Lily argues.

Emmeline joins in, dragging her voice up an octave in mock offense. “What’s wrong with you, bonehead? Go.”

Remus shoots her a look. “Why are you even involved?”

“Whole bar’s been watching you stare.” Kingsley informs. “You may as well make it worth it.”

“I thought you were my friend,” Remus says.

“Exactly,” Emmeline fires back. “That’s why we’re all telling you to move your ass.”

Lily leans in, conspiratorial. “Say something nice.”

“Be romantic,” Kingsley adds.

Emmeline tips ash into her empty glass. “Would’ve been great if you had flowers.”

Remus hesitates.

The teasing dies down a little when they see him shift in his seat, fingers moving lightly to find the edge of the jacket pocket. 

He didn’t mean to bring the flowers for anyone, alright? That’s not what it was. That’s not what it is. They were just… there. On the walk.

Remus touches the stems gently, tests them. They’re soft—still mostly intact. He’d been careful, and the pockets are wide. Coneflowers press against mariposa lilies; forget-me-nots tangle with sprigs of primrose and goatweed. Tickseed still shines yellow beside the buttercups. A handful of whatever his hands had reached for—crushed a little, but still holding color.

When he takes them out of his pocket, Emmeline and Lily make the exact same sound at the exact same time. Long, high, infuriatingly delighted gasp.

Remus sighs. “Please don’t.”

“You picked flowers for him,” Lily squeals, eyes wide.

“Lover boy,” Emmeline coos.

Kingsley raises an eyebrow, grinning now. “So you’ve been charmed by a Covey. Tough luck.”

“Oh, you hush,” Lily snaps, waving him off. “Let us manage our friend’s tragic romantic arc in peace.”

Remus opens his mouth to object, but Emmeline shoves his arm hard enough to get him standing. His plum mead stays untouched on the counter, brought by Trilly and catching the glow of the candlelight. 

“Go,” Emmeline orders. “Give them to him.”

“I’m not—”

“Go.”

“Em.”

“Go. Go, go, you coward. It’s your chance.”

Remus looks at Lily. She nods, certain. Then at Kingsley, who huffs a breath through his nose and gives a nod of his own.

Remus swallows. His heart is pounding so hard it feels structural; inside his chest, it’s all percussion. He grabs the plum mead from the bar and takes two short gulps. It’s sharp and sticky going down. Lily grimaces in sympathy and pats his shoulder.

Right. Fine. He can do this.

Sirius is already offstage, leaning casually near the curtain rigging, one boot braced against the wall. He holds a clear drink in one hand, eyes tracking the other Covey as they begin to tune up, resetting for the next song.

As Remus moves through the crowd, another set starts. He hears it without really listening—his body is moving, his brain is not. The flowers stay crushed in his palm, hidden against his thigh. He just hopes he’s not giddy enough to shove them in Sirius’ face out of nerves, like a lunatic.

When he gets close enough to really see him, his entire chest freezes, his spine locks up, and his steps falter. 

Remus is nearly there when Sirius turns his head, catching the movement. For one terrifying moment, he expects nothing. A nod, maybe. Politeness.

Instead, Sirius grins wide when their eyes meet. He’s still flushed, skin hot from the dance, lips tinted darker, a touch of sweat glinting along his neck. It makes him look more human. Somehow even less real.

“Ah, forge boy!” he calls, voice playful. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Remus echoes quietly.

Sirius tilts his head. “Did you enjoy the set?”

“I did,” Remus says. “You danced… really well.”

Sirius dips into a mock curtsy, glass perfectly level in one hand, other fingers tugging the edge of his maroon skirt with a flourish. “Thank you. Starlike enough?”

He giggles at his own joke, and Remus can’t help staring. He catches it in his throat—the sound, the smile, the flash of perfect white teeth. No one else smiles like that. 

He lets out a breath of a laugh. “Yeah. Very starlike, actually.”

Sirius turns his attention back to the stage, half-listening, still glowing.

“How was your birthday?” he asks. “Good night? You vanished so fast after our smoke break.”

Remus shifts his weight, eyes scanning the line of Sirius’ jaw before looking quickly away. “Yeah, uh—we wandered off. New spot, then went home.”

Sirius nods. He’s not looking at Remus, but he doesn’t seem disinterested either. Maybe he wants him to speak.

“And your weekend?” Sirius asks, tilting his glass slightly in Remus’ direction. “Any excitement?”

Remus shrugs. “Just helped my parents.”

“What do they do?”

Remus clears his throat. “Mum’s a seamstress. Dad’s a teacher.”

That gets Sirius’ attention. He turns again, brows raised.

“A teacher?” His lashes flutter once as he smiles again. “That’s nice.”

Remus nods, not trusting himself to speak just yet.

“What does he teach?”

“All sorts of things,” Remus flicks a look at the stage, then back to Sirius’ face. “Little ones. Different ages, different classes.”

“Oh.” Sirius smiles again. He lifts his glass and sips. “Lovely.”

Remus watches his throat move as he swallows.

“You help him grade papers?” Sirius asks.

Remus nods again. “He loves assigning essays.”

Sirius angles his shoulder toward Remus. “Do you read a lot?”

“Sorry?”

“Well, if you’re correcting essays, you must be good with words. So, do you read?”

“I guess,” Remus murmurs, scratching behind his ear. “I like books.”

Sirius hums, swirling the drink in his glass. “You reading anything now?”

It throws Remus off a little—how talkative Sirius is now. Nothing like their last conversation, huddled outside with smoke in their lungs and silence between them. This is different. Looser. Still not easy, but Sirius is visibly handing it over piece by piece.

Remus isn’t about to waste it.

“Yes, a book on celestial bodies,” he answers. “Space. Planets. All of that.”

Sirius lights up, the smile widening again, teeth gleaming in a stage light.

“Must be fascinating.”

Remus lets his mouth twitch. “You’d know.”

At that, Sirius laughs. His mouth curves around his bottom lip, biting down gently. Remus watches it happen, immediately regrets watching. His breath catches on the way out. He exhales sharply.

“Does your mum sew dresses?” Sirius asks, voice even lighter now, but his eyes trace Remus’ face too closely to be careless.

Remus flushes under the weight of it. Sirius doesn’t look away.

“I have this idea,” he muses, his free hand lifting to gesture loosely. “We’re putting on a big show in three weeks. Could use someone to mend a few costumes. Just scraps, really, but I think they could shine again.”

Remus swallows. “Oh. That’s… that’s actually a lovely offer. But I don’t think she’s ever done anything for the stage. She mostly sews uniforms. Auror gear.”

Sirius squints one eye, lips tugging into a knowing little smirk. There’s something foxish about it—the way his mouth curls sharp at the edge, the glint under his lashes.

“Well, that’s not exactly fun, is it?”

Remus laughs, just under his breath. “Not really.”

“If she’s up for it,” Sirius continues, “we’d be grateful. Some girls are handy with a needle, but I doubt we’re what you’d call professionals.”

Remus smiles faintly and nods, dropping his gaze again.

He feels Sirius watching him for another beat—can feel it in the air—before the boy turns back toward the stage.

“Did you get cake?” 

“Hmm?”

“For your birthday,” Sirius clarifies. “Cake?”

Remus shakes his head. “No. No cake.”

Sirius frowns. His whole face folds with it. He turns again, sharply, quick like everything he does.

“But my dad got me chocolate drops,” Remus adds, too fast, like it matters. Which, he guesses, it does.

Sirius squints. “Drops?”

“Yeah. Little pieces.” Remus shifts, nearly lifting the hand still holding the flowers before catching himself. 

Instead, he digs into the other pocket of his jacket and pulls out the folded paper bag. These were meant for Emmeline, technically. But he can figure that out later.

He offers the bag. “Here.”

Sirius blinks at it. “What is it?”

Remus presses his lips together briefly, tilting the bag toward him. “Chocolate drops.”

Sirius looks down at it, then back up at Remus. His eyes flicker once between them. Then, slowly, he reaches out with his free hand—fingers careful, delicate—and takes the bag, peeling it open at the top and peering inside.

“Smells so nice,” he breathes.

“They’re good,” Remus mutters. “You can try some.”

Sirius lifts his head and shakes it immediately. “No, Remus, thank you. You already gave me your matches. And chocolate’s rare. I know how hard it is to get.”

Remus rolls his eyes gently. “I’ve had plenty. I mean it. Take some.”

Sirius still looks unsure. He bites his lower lip again—an act that really should be considered a punishable offense—and hesitates. But after a moment of hovering, he sets his drink on the edge of the stage, reaches two fingers into the paper, and pulls out a single drop. He pops it into his mouth. His eyes go wide.

“That’s really good,” he whispers.

Remus beams. “Told you.”

Sirius swallows, licks his lips, then leans one hip against the wall. 

“Sugar makes me dizzy,” he informs, “but it’s too tasty to resist.”

You make me dizzy, for some reason, Remus thinks, loud and fast in his head.

Sirius takes another chocolate drop from the bag and tosses it into his mouth. He chews slowly, savoring, then hands the paper back to Remus.

“Thanks,” he says, a little softer. “It’s the best evening of my life.”

Remus snickers, takes the bag and pushes it back into his pocket. His fingers linger in the fabric longer than necessary. The flowers shift slightly in his other hand.

Sirius turns back toward the stage, eyes drifting over Sybill’s hands as she plays. He doesn’t reach for the drink at his elbow. Maybe he wants to keep the taste to stay.

Remus rocks forward on the balls of his feet, then back again. Then forward again, closer. It’s comforting that Sirius doesn’t tell him to go. 

“I, um…” His voice cracks a little. He raises the hand that’s holding the flowers. “I brought these, too.”

He offers them forward.

Sirius is smiling at the stage, humming lightly with the rhythm of the music, completely unaware. He nods to the rhythm, the beat in his bones. Only when he turns, expecting whatever it is he expects, does he actually see the flowers.

The smile dies.

“What’s that?” he asks.

Remus tries to hold the bouquet steady. “They’re for you.”

Sirius stares, but fingers don’t even twitch.

He doesn’t take the flowers.

He doesn’t take them.

He doesn’t take them.

Remus knows, instantly, that he’s done the wrong thing. That everything is wrong now. That something fragile just cracked and won’t be glued back.

Sirius looks up slowly. The kohl around his eyes makes the grey sharper, more metallic. It cuts straight through.

“Why did you come tonight?” 

Remus’ throat tightens. “What?”

Sirius’ voice stays level, but it’s not soft anymore. “Why do you keep coming here?”

Remus frowns. “Kingsley invited me. Sybill had a solo—”

“You came for the cello?”

Remus stares at him for a long moment. Swallows.

“No.”

Sirius glances at the flowers again. Then right back at Remus’ face. His chin lifts slightly, and his mouth tightens.

“This isn’t going to work,” he says. “I don’t… do this. The flowers. All of it. If you’re coming here for me, instead of the music, you should stop.”

If Remus thought he’d died one of his tiniest deaths earlier—when Sirius spun under the lights, skirts flaring, eyes wild, cheeks red—he was wrong. That wasn’t it.

This is.

His hand, still holding the bouquet, dips slightly. Just enough to feel the weight of no.

Remus doesn’t breathe for a second. Or maybe he does and it just doesn’t reach his chest. He presses his fingers into the stems of the bouquet—too hard, too fast—and feels the soft snap of a few breaking inside his palm. That small, stupid sound. That brittle little give.

It jerks through him like someone kicked the back of his knee.

Sirius’ lashes dip and rise again in one long blink—almost indifferent, almost cruel in its calm. The kohl makes it worse. He looks cinematic. Swan-wing lashes that sweep down and up with no effort.

The worst part is how serene he is when he says it. How directly he looks Remus in the eye now, when he hadn’t earlier—when they were talking about his mum, or his job, or the stars, safe and nonchalant, nowhere near this.

“Sorry,” Remus says. Or tries to. The word scrapes its way out, dry and cracked. “I just thought—”

“You thought wrong.”

Sirius’ voice doesn’t waver. He looks away.

“I don’t do romance,” he adds. “I was just being friendly.”

Remus echoes it, the word turning to gravel on his tongue. “Friendly.”

“Yeah.” Sirius doesn’t look back at him. “It was a game.”

Remus stares at him, and Sirius glows under the yellow bar light, every angle of him unreasonably beautiful. Starlike, even now.

A game. Of course it was.

Haven’t they had enough of them?

“Seems you can play with hunger too,” Remus murmurs.

It’s a dark line, or close enough to one. A flick of a match, tossed, but Remus lets it slip anyway. 

Sirius whips his head toward him, silver eyes widening, embroidered with mascara and glitter. Remus bites his tongue immediately, teeth pressing deep into the muscle. 

Anything to stop himself from begging.

Just one chance. One walk. One word. One night. Please.

He pushes what’s left of himself up from his gut, forces it into his shoulders with the low, tight instinct of someone trying to salvage what little pride he has left from the wreckage. He stuffs the ruined bouquet into his trouser pocket, the stems catching awkwardly on the lining, folding in on themselves. They don’t fit neatly. They weren’t meant to go back.

He nods once, short and functional. Then again, because he doesn’t know what else to do with his head.

Remus turns, not indulging in any last glance over his shoulder. He walks past the bar without looking at the Covey girls, the couples swaying in their chairs, or the half-drunk men tapping glasses against their knees. He doesn’t spare a thought for his friends either—his feet carry him through the space between barstools and chairs, as if he’s not even touching the floor.

Even when Lily calls out—“Remus!”

Even when Emmeline’s voice follows, louder—“Hey! Rem!”

The door slams shut behind him. It startles someone across the street, makes a bottle clatter against stone.

That’s enough for tonight. Remus can’t watch another dance.

Outside, the air is colder than he expected. It cuts through the sweat on the back of his neck and finds its way down the collar of his jacket. He starts walking without thinking which direction he’s heading. There’s a strange buzzing under his skin, somewhere between shame and static. His body feels too full and too empty at the same time, as if he’s carrying a fire he didn’t light and can’t put out.

The streets are quiet this far out, except for the wind pushing dry grass against the fences. The street lamps don’t work on this side.

Remus breathes through his teeth.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the broken flowers, and throws them into the dark—over the edge of the path, into the grass that lines the roadside. They land with a papery rustle. Gone.

His boots drag. Remus doesn’t bother lifting his feet properly—never mind what his mother used to say about posture, how dragging your soles invites rot. Let it. Let the rot in. It’s already there, shaped like rejection.

He keeps his jaw locked. His throat aches, but Remus is not going to cry. He’s not a crybaby, okay? And the fact that he ends up crying every single goddamn time something embarrassing like this happens doesn’t mean anything. He’s just... disappointed. That’s all. Any boy would be.

What hurts most, maybe, is that Remus really, really liked the stupid handful of sentences, the cigarette, the way Sirius looked at him and the color on his cheeks from dancing, and how he’d called him forge boy with that effortless confidence.

Remus knew what he was doing when he picked those flowers. Knew what he was doing when he touched the bottle of cologne to the side of his throat, to the place where the blood moved quickest—just like his dad taught him. Knew what he was doing when he offered the chocolate drops.

God, it’s so humbling to hope. Almost laughable, truly, that he built a whole picture in his head, pieced together from fragments. A voice in the dark. A tambourine. A shared cigarette behind a bar. 

He’s always done this. Better to live in imagined futures and sky maps than in a District full of grief and coffins. Better to talk to the moon in your mind than listen to another mother scream her child’s name near the Hall of Virtue during the Reaping.

Dreams collapse often, don’t they? That’s the cost. They fall apart with one slow blink and a voice that doesn’t even lift at the end of the sentence. The reality is dirt under his nails and smoke in the wind. The names called in August. The parents standing tall and quiet, like the hanging trees. Young people who never come back. 

The silence they’re carrying isn’t strength. It’s just the briefest sound before the explosion hits.

The thing is, you don’t get to live in your head forever. Sooner or later, you’re six feet under—whether it’s the arena or just because a boy told you no.

Chapter Text

The night is colder the farther Remus walks from the bar. The stars are veiled tonight, dimmed behind a breath of cloud, and even the moon looks tired, thin around the edges. The kind of sky that refuses to offer comfort. Not even enough shine to pretend it’s listening.

The houses thin out, then come back. Familiar shapes in the dark. Remus knows which porches creak and which windows never light up. Knows where the loose brick is in the side of the bakery and where the cats sleep under the glass shop awning. It’s the same stretch of road he’s taken for years, every crack in the sidewalk memorized, but tonight it stretches out like elastic, refusing to end.

Remus walks, nearly pulling himself by thread.

He digs his hands deeper into his coat pockets, fingers still sticky from the chocolate he shared. There's something bruising about the sugar lingering on his skin, as if sweetness itself has betrayed him. His knuckles ache where he clutched the flowers too hard, and his palms still remember the sound of stems breaking between them.

Useless, broken things. Stupid, soft-hearted gesture. Oh, how foolish he feels; a boy who believed in stars when the world only ever gave him smoke.

By the time he reaches the front steps, the porch light is still flickering. The electricity's been acting up all week, but his mother leaves it on anyway—says it helps people find their way home. Remus can hear the low hum of something inside—either the television, or conversation, or maybe just the quiet sound of two people who have loved each other for long enough that they don’t need much noise.

The cold finally starts to sting. His fingers are stiff. The smell of metal and forge still clings to his skin, because there’s no day in his life when it doesn’t.

Remus opens the door as quietly as he can and steps inside, brushing dirt off the cuffs of his trousers. From the living room, warm light spills into the hallway, along with the soft cadence of his father’s voice, reading aloud. Remus kicks off his boots without untying them. One of the laces gets caught under his heel, and he has to bend and yank it out. It snaps wetly from the mud.

“My boy?” comes Lyall’s voice a second later. “So early?”

Remus shrugs off his jacket. “Amos got plastered,” he lies. “Walked him home. There wasn’t much happening anyway. I’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Poor child,” Hope says in a tired voice. “There’s stew on the stove, if you want some.”

“I’m not hungry, Ma,” Remus replies gently, already moving toward the living room. 

He leans into the doorway, jacket still bunched in one hand. His mum is lying with her head on his father’s shoulder, half-wrapped in one of the old woven throws they keep on the couch. She smiles when she sees Remus walk in. Lyall’s glasses are halfway down his nose, and the book’s open across his lap, thumb holding the place.

Remus nods toward it. “What’re you reading?” 

“Ah,” Lyall perks up, adjusting his glasses. “You’ve got to hear this.”

Remus nods once and crosses the room. He sits down on the floor beside the small table, leans his back against the couch, and lets the jacket slide into his lap.

His dad clears his throat. His voice is a quiet recitation that comes from love—for words, for rhythm, for the woman resting against him, and for the son who’s finally come home.

They say the stars were stitched by hand,
In ancient thread of silver breath.
But she was woven out of red,
A color kissed by love and death.

I met her where the katniss grows,
Where even ash begins to gleam.
She passed me like the summer wind—
Too warm to hold, too sharp to dream.

She bore the red of hearth and coal,
The kind that sings, then slips to black.
No oath she swore, no glance she gave,
Yet still I watched her not look back.

The words fall like ash. Remus swallows. Something about the rhythm of it lands right in the hollow where embarrassment used to sit before it calcified. He doesn’t know who wrote the poem—probably some District amateur—but he knows exactly who it’s about. Or, rather, who it reminds him of.

I was the moth, the fading hush,
The shadow drawn to softest flame.
I was the moon—too high, too pale—
But never once she spoke my name.

I knew her by the soot she wore,
The cinder smile, the flint-struck flare—
A warmth that dares the frost to stay,
And never once was mine to bear.

Remus rests his cheek against the arm of the couch and watches the edge of the rug, the bit where the threads are starting to come loose.

He thinks of red skirts and white teeth and kohl, of laughter that curled like incense from someone else's mouth. Of someone who glowed like firelight and burned just the same. Thinks of the eyes that don’t look back, not even when they should. Not even when someone offers them flowers, or chocolate, or anything worth turning around for.

I held a bloom—too bright, too late—
Its petals bruised by my delay.
She did not turn, and yet the dusk
Blushed deeper as she slipped away.

I left a sprig upon the rail,
A petal bruised, a note unsaid.
She did not come. Or if she did,
She stepped around the flowerbed.

It shouldn’t hurt. It was just a night. Just a boy with too many earrings and a mouth like fire. But still, it hurts, and somehow, it’s almost pointless—the idea of having something. Little dates. Little beginnings. Conversations that don’t turn to dust in your palms.

Not that Remus knows Sirius. He just saw glimpses—flashes of colorful cloth and silver eyes, a mouth that always seems halfway to a grin. A hoarse voice. A curl in his hair. A spark, alive in a way Remus has never allowed himself to be.

Maybe that was his mistake—wanting something from someone who was never offering it. Maybe all Remus wanted was the possibility, even if it was small and almost unreal. Maybe he wanted just a moment. A hand reaching back.

The world may burn, or softly break.
The dawn may kiss the tallest tree.
But what is left of flame, once gone,
but smoke that does not wait for me?

It’s only that Remus forgot that the fire doesn’t reach back. It glows. It dazzles. And it leaves you with nothing but ash.

“Nice one, isn’t it?” Lyall asks, closing the book softly. His thumb stays tucked in the spot as he looks down at Remus. 

Remus swallows. His mouth is dry again.

“Yeah,” he replies. “It’s good.”

It’s also very, very cruel, in the way reality can be. 

Hope reaches down and smooths his hair back once, gentle. Remus leans into it, just slightly. She tucks a curl behind his ear, and her fingers brush softly down to his shoulder. 

“You wear yourself thin, sweetheart,” she says.

“I’m fine.”

“You never tell us when you’re anything else.”

Remus’ breath leaves him in a puff of air. It’s not really a protest. More of a tired sound.

Hope shifts slightly on the couch, careful not to jostle Lyall too much. “You sure you’re not hungry?”

“I’m sure.”

“There’s bread too.”

“Ma.”

“Alright, alright.”

Remus presses his cheek to the worn cushion, just next to her knees. Her skirt smells like lavender and the faint dusting of flour that always clings to the fabric no matter how often she washes it.

“I like it when you read too,” he murmurs. “You don’t do it as much anymore.”

“You stopped asking,” she answers, smiling.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

Lyall leans forward just enough to reach over the couch. His fingers find the edge of Remus’ ear and pinch the shell lightly, just like he used to when Remus was little—thumb and forefinger, one soft twist. Apparently, it’s muscle memory.

Remus grunts. “Dad.”

Lyall raises an eyebrow above his glasses. “Still works.”

Remus hides a small smile and pushes gently at his hand. Hope laughs once, quiet and fond. He leans into her side for a second longer, then peels away.

“Gonna rinse my hands.”

“Leave your jacket on the bench,” she calls after him. “I’ll shake it out later.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Hope laughs. “Stop calling me that!” 

Back in the hallway, Remus tosses his jacket onto the bench by the door and makes his way barefoot to the kitchen. The tiles are cool under his feet, the sink still a little warm from when his mum did the dishes. The stew pot sits on the back burner, covered.

Remus scrubs his hands with the rough-cut soap Hope keeps in an old tin by the faucet. It smells like crushed herbs and coal-tar, and the heat in his palms from the forge still tingles beneath the surface. 

He dries them on the crooked towel slung over the hook, then pads back to the living room.

Hope hasn’t moved. She’s still curled up on the couch, her feet tucked under Lyall’s thigh. She looks up at him and lifts one eyebrow.

“You cleaned under your nails?”

Remus grimaces. “What am I, five?”

Hope lifts both hands in surrender. “Only asking.”

“I’ve got to be up early.” Lyall sets the book aside with a soft tud. “The little ones are still writing with their hands sideways. I’m going to lose years off my life reading that handwriting.”

Hope snorts and nudges his leg with hers. “You say that every term.”

“I mean it every term.”

Remus leans over the back of the couch and rests his chin briefly on Hope’s shoulder. She tilts her head against his out of habit, and their hair brushes together.

“You always make them write essays,” he murmurs, eyes flicking toward the stack of notebooks piled unevenly on Lyall’s desk.

“They like it,” Lyall says, shifting slightly to catch the spine of the book again.

“They’re nine,” Remus counters. “They like mud and chewing gum and kicking cans down the road.”

“They have thoughts,” Lyall insists.

Hope rolls her eyes fondly. “One of them wrote a whole essay about what he’d do if he had a hundred birds.”

“Did he say what kind?” Remus asks.

“Any kind,” Lyall replies. “He’s a socialist.”

Hope swats his arm, but it’s a soft hit. She knows exactly how much pressure her husband needs.

Lyall makes a noise of annoyance, half-hearted. “If those ducklings show up before eight again, I’m locking the door.”

“You love them,” Remus says, finally dropping down between them on the couch. Lyall wraps an arm around his shoulders without being asked, and Hope shifts until she’s half draped across his chest. “And also awful at pretending you don’t.”

Lyall raises an eyebrow at him, then looks at his wife to find some support, but she only gives him a solemn nod.

“You do, darling,” she confirms. “And they love you too.”

“They like my drawer of cheap candies,” Lyall mutters.

Hope flicks his knee with two fingers. “You keep bribing them with those saccharine things.”

“I don’t bribe anyone.”

“Sure you don’t.”

Remus smiles. It slips out before he knows it’s there. His legs stretch out under the coffee table, long and graceless, and he lets his head fall sideways to Hope’s hair. It smells like dough and clean laundry.

“Thanks for the drops, by the way,” he murmurs, voice muffled into her curls. “I gave some to Kingsley at the forge. Told him to share with Lulu.”

Lyall turns a little on the cushion, curious. “Yeah?”

“Yep. She loves sweets,” Remus answers. “Always says they make her happy. That I should keep bringing her little treats.”

Lyall laughs through his nose. “That girl’s going to be running District Nine by the time she’s thirteen. Two braids and no patience.”

“No question,” Remus agrees.

Hope sits up just enough to tug gently at the collar of his shirt and press a kiss to the crown of his head. “You’ve got a soft heart.”

“I do not,” Remus says, though he doesn’t move away.

“Yes you do,” Lyall adds from the side. “Always had one. Don’t argue.”

“I’m practical,” Remus counters.

“You’re a sentimental fool who presses flowers into your books.”

Hope snorts.

Remus rolls his eyes. “You’re making things up now.”

“Nope,” Lyall argues. “I’ve seen the violets, my boy. No one’s fooled.”

Hope finds Remus’ hand where it rests on his knee. She links her fingers with his, palm to palm, and squeezes three times. He squeezes back.

I love you, Ma.

“I’ll pack you some stew for lunch tomorrow,” she tells him. “And bring me those socks with the holes. I’ll mend them this week.”

“They’re barely holes,” Remus protests.

“They’re holes,” Hope says firmly.

Remus groans.

“You’ll thank me when you’re not limping around on hard soles with your toes sticking out.”

“I don’t limp.”

“You do, sometimes,” Lyall puts in. “You just don’t notice because you’re stubborn.”

Remus closes his eyes, still holding Hope’s hand. Her thumb traces soft circles in his palm. He breathes in, and it smells like stew and thread and old paper. Home.

“Fine,” he relents eventually. “I’ll bring the socks.”

Hope grins like it’s a victory. “There we go.”

Remus rolls off the couch and drops into the armchair across from them. His knee hits the edge of the table on the way down. 

“Shit,” he mutters, rubbing it.

Hope clicks her tongue. “Such grace.”

Remus slouches into the cushions and stares up at the ceiling. “Born ballerina.”

Lyall watches him for a moment, then reaches over, pinching the top of his ear between thumb and forefinger again—same spot as before, same old habit.

“Dad—” Remus huffs, swatting his hand away. “You’re like a mosquito.”

“Better than your boss,” Lyall says. “And considerably more affectionate.”

Hope starts laughing so hard she snorts. Remus drops his face into both hands.

It’s warm in here. Remus can feel it all settling into his bones—the couch creaking, the ticking of the wall clock, his parents' voices shifting from laughter to calm without losing their rhythm. 

Remus thinks, briefly, about the chocolate drop he gave Sirius. About the way Sirius blinked at it, eyes catching the light, the slow curl of a smile that didn’t quite reach his cheeks, the way he left his drink half-finished.

He folds that thought up. Enough.

Lyall pats the back of Remus’s hand once before rising with a groan. He bends to leave a kiss at the crown of his son’s head and murmurs something about not staying up too late, and eating if he gets hungry. Then he disappears into the hallway, rubbing at his lower back.

Hope stays a moment longer, her gaze resting on Remus with quiet fondness.

“You alright, my love?”

Remus picks at a thread on the armrest. “Yeah. Why?”

“I’m your mother,” she only says.

He goes quiet. Watches the thread as it tugs and feels the twitch in his leg. Hope’s eyes flick to his knee. Remus stops.

“Remember on Friday you told me to wear cologne in case I met someone?”

“I do,” Hope murmurs. “Did you?”

Remus lifts his eyes. “Got rejected tonight.”

Hope’s face falls a little—just a soft drop in the cheeks, a small stillness in the lips. Then she gathers herself, leans in and puts a hand on his knee.

“That happens, sweetheart. Doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with you. You’re a handsome thing. What happened?”

Remus shrugs. “Brought flowers. Nothing remarkable.”

“And the person didn’t take them?”

He gives a small, embarrassed shake of his head. Shame prickles at his ears.

Hope’s voice softens. “Do you like them?”

Remus hesitates. “I don’t know them.”

Hope tilts her head slightly, asking for more.

“I only saw him Friday.” Remus frowns at the carpet. “When we went to see Kingsley’s girl play.”

Hope nods slowly. “Someone from the bar?”

“Covey boy,” Remus mutters.

“Covey?”

“Yeah. One of them.”

Hope smiles gently. “Did you talk to him?”

“A little. We smo—”

His eyes go wide and Hope rolls hers.

“Smoked. Alright.” She sighs, amused. “What else?”

“We talked again today. He danced to Kingsley’s girl’s music.”

“Did you like the way he danced?” Hope asks simply.

Remus drops his eyes, cheeks heating. He presses his mouth shut and stares at a threadbare patch near his foot. 

It takes a lot of effort to say, “I couldn’t stop watching.”

Hope’s fingers tighten slightly on his knee. “Did you feel the squeeze?”

That’s what she calls it. She always says butterflies are nonsense—that the only thing that means anything is the squeeze in the chest. A sharp pull, solid and unmistakable, like all the emotion is tying your ribs together so you don’t come apart, and your heart is trying to hold itself in place before it bolts off without you. 

The problem is, Remus definitely felt it. That damn squeeze.

“I think so.”

Hope clicks her tongue three times, displeased on his behalf.

“Try again later, hmm? Maybe he needs time to get a proper look at you. It’s only been two talks. Not everyone starts with flowers and dates. Some people take their time before they figure out what they want.”

Remus knows she means well; he loves her for it. He’s glad his mum cares, really, but those are words from someone who knows they can’t help. Sirius said no, and in Remus’s world, no is final. He’s not the kind of person to push. He folds in too easy.

“Thanks, Ma.”

Hope smooths his knee again. “What’s yours will find you, my dear.”

Remus breathes a short, awkward laugh. “Wasn’t mine, I guess.”

Hope doesn’t answer at first. She just keeps her hand on his knee, her thumb brushing in circles. 

“You’ve always had a spirit like this,” she says after a moment. “Wanting things to mean something doesn’t make you weak, Remus.”

Remus doesn’t look up. His thumb is rubbing at the seam of the cushion. 

“I wasn’t expecting it to feel so—” 

He stops himself.

“Sharp?” Hope offers.

He nods once, eyes fixed on the middle distance.

“You may not know someone,” she continues softly, “but something in you still reaches. That’s not weakness, sweet boy. That’s hope. It means your heart works well.”

Remus blinks a few times. “He barely looked at me today.”

Hope’s thumb presses into the cuff of his pants, smoothing the edge. “Some people don’t know how to look until they feel safe. You might’ve caught him off guard.”

“I don’t want to be someone’s surprise,” Remus whispers.

“You want to be seen,” Hope supplies, and she definitely knows it’s the right thing. “Let me tell you something. I met your father when we were fifteen. He was awkward and had ink all over his hands. Didn’t say anything worth remembering for the first three weeks.”

Remus huffs a soft laugh through his nose.

“I thought he was a fool—too shy and too stubborn at the same time to flirt properly,” Hope says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Turns out, he was brilliant. I just needed to take a closer look.”

Remus looks at her now. “You’re saying I should wait?”

“I’m saying,” Hope replies, “don’t give up on your softness. Even if he’s not the right one, even if it doesn’t lead anywhere... don’t start guarding the part of you that wanted to give a boy flowers.”

Remus stares at her, his throat tight.

“I didn’t think I’d mind this much,” he admits.

“Because it wasn’t nothing,” she coos. “And I’m proud of you for trying. That’s the brave part.”

Remus glances down again. “You always know how to say it.”

“I’m your mother,” Hope says again, gently. “I’ve had practice.”

She rises from her seat and ruffles his curls. Her hand presses just a bit harder this time.

“Brush your teeth,” she reminds.

“Please, I’m twenty-one,” Remus mumbles.

“You’re my twenty-one,” Hope sings back, smiling.

She crosses the room, halfway to the kitchen, then turns with a thoughtful look.

“We’re out of eggs. Could you buy some tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“And flour.”

“I’ll stop by the market after shift,” Remus offers. “It’s on the way.”

Hope beams at him, that kind of grateful grin that has nothing to do with groceries. “I’ll write it down.”

“I won’t forget, Ma.”

“If I don’t write it, I’ll forget,” she says lightly, disappearing into the kitchen.

A cupboard door groans open. Hope has always said she doesn’t trust her memory at the end of the day—too many lists in her head, too many days blending into one another.

A moment later she’s back, folding a slip of paper in half and placing it on the armrest beside Remus.

“There. Written.”

Remus unfolds it. The handwriting’s half neat, half rushed: eggs, flour, cheese if you find it. kisses, mum.

Remus scrunches his nose fondly. “You wrote kisses on the grocery list?”

“I meant them,” Hope says, matter-of-fact, brushing a few stray hairs behind her ear.

Remus bites back a grin and tucks the paper into his trouser pocket.

“I’m off to bed. Work tomorrow,” Hope informs, already leaning down with open arms. “Come here. Gimme a kiss, handsome.”

Remus cranes his neck and lets her cup his face to press a kiss to his forehead, gentle and familiar, like every goodnight of his life.

“Don’t stay up too long, my boy,” she murmurs. “And don’t overthink, I know how you do. Let yourself rest. Things will come in their own time. You’ve still got so much ahead of you.”

Remus tries to smile. He doesn’t tell her what she already half-knows—that there’s still one more Reaping to face. That he’s still twenty-one, and that the line between a future and a name on a slip of paper is thinner than thread. He doesn’t tell her that he’s not sure what ahead even means anymore, because if he’s reaped for the 50th Hunger Games, he’s as good as dead. There’s not a shred of doubt in him. Quarter Quells are known for their ruthless rule changes, and Remus feels it in his bones—if he’s chosen as a tribute, this year will be his last.

But then, maybe, there’s a chance. Maybe he could get lucky. If the rules change in his favor—if they decide to leave certain tributes out—Remus might be safe this time. They could choose not to call anyone over a certain age, or maybe they’ll expand the limit to reap only twenty-two-year-olds. In their twisted cruelty, they might even opt to reap from the existing pool of Victors. Or maybe they’ll send a pair of siblings. Remus has none, and that might be his salvation.

It’s a horrible thought, ugly in its selfishness. He doesn’t wish that fate on anyone, not even those he barely knows. But hell, he doesn’t want to die, either. No one here does. No one wants to meet their end at the hands of the Corvium, only to entertain the audience with a death that’s either too quick or too tragic. It’s a vicious cycle. A twisted game of survival.

Remus doesn’t say any of it, of course. Because Hope is his mum. And no mum wants to hear those things from her child, even if they’re truer than anything else. It’s one thing to know and another to hear it spoken out loud.

Hope pats his cheek, gives his shoulder a parting squeeze, and slips down the hallway.

Remus watches her go. Listens to Lyall’s voice rise softly as she reaches their room—some joke, probably, some quiet murmur only for her, because he loves her like the stars love the night sky. Their voices blend into each other, muffled through the walls. Pipes click faintly. Floorboards shift beneath the weight of sleep settling in.

When Remus finally reaches his room and closes the door behind him, he sits for a long time on the edge of the bed and says the pieces of the poem his father read aloud under his breath, until the words lose their shape.

But what is left of flame, once gone,
but smoke that does not wait for me?

And he understands, now, why some people keep dancing in the middle of fire.

Perhaps, if they stop, they might remember how much it hurts to be touched.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Sirius pads barefoot across the rug again, towel still damp around his neck, curls dripping cold on his skin. There’s a tune in his head, half-finished, and it won’t leave him alone. It loops with the same syncopated rhythm as his feet—toe-heel, twist, back, toe.

This happens often. Even when his chest aches or his stomach knots up, there’s rhythm. His bones itch to move, and he lets them.

Alphard sits on the sofa, a little hunched over, sorting the coins Sirius dumped onto the table earlier, fingers flicking through them with the ease of someone who’s handled too many.

“It’s a lot,” he says, turning one over, squinting. “They must be obsessed with you. Giving up near their last scraps.”

Sirius spins once. “They better.” He lets the towel drop from his shoulders and catches it again with both hands behind his back. “I perform for their money.”

Alphard scowls. “These factory men, they stare—“

“Alphie, please,” Sirius whines, lowering the towel and rolling up the sleeves of Alphard’s threadbare shirt he’s wearing. “Don’t start this again.”

“I’m not starting anything,” Alphard counters flatly. “I just worry. I don’t want them grabbing you.”

Sirius sighs loudly. “You’re doing the dad voice again.”

Alphard huffs. “Well, someone has to.”

Sirius groans and keeps moving, hips loose. “Get a life, old man.”

“Stop calling me that,” Alphard mutters. “I’m only forty-six.”

“That’s basically fifty.”

“You watch your mouth, boy.”

Sirius snorts and tosses the towel onto the arm of the couch, then drops himself onto the cushion beside Alphard, head falling onto his uncle’s shoulder. It’s solid under his cheek, the scent of tobacco and soap caught in the wool of his sweater.

“I want to pull weight, Alphie,” Sirius says quietly. “Like Andy does. You and Tobi already work your asses off. I’m not gonna sit around like an extra mouth.”

“You’re not an extra anything,” Alphard argues. “You’re family.”

Sirius smiles without showing teeth. “Yeah, yeah. You love me. Blah blah.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

Alphard glances at him. “If you wanted to lie around and drink milk out of the bottle all day, I’d still let you.”

“That’s disgusting.” Sirius lifts his head and shoves Alphard gently in the ribs. “You know what I mean. I don’t want to be useless.”

“You’re not useless, Sirius.”

“You and Andy and everyone else have jobs—”

“Andy doesn’t let men paw at her legs to earn a wage.”

“Alphard,” Sirius warns. “It’s still work. I don’t care what they think they’re paying for.” He swings his legs back down and leans forward, elbows on knees. “I know what I’m giving them.”

“I just wish you didn’t have to.”

Sirius glances over. “You don’t like the dancing?”

“I like the dancing.” Alphard shrugs. “I don’t like their hands.”

Sirius grins a little. “Well, I move too fast for most of them to catch.”

Alphard looks at him for a long moment. Then, he ties the coin pouch with a lazy flick and squints at Sirius over the rim of his glasses. 

“Who was the kid with the flowers?”

Sirius perks up a little too quickly, eyes wide as if that might erase what was asked. “Alphie, no.”

“Looked like a lamp post,” Alphard continues innocently. “Does he even fit in normal doorways?”

“That’s not funny.” Sirius shoots him a quick look, then glances away, fast. “He’s—he’s only taller than most.”

Alphard hums, catching the shift. “Poor buddy was shaking like a leaf,” he says. “Didn’t look like someone who gives things for no reason. He likes you?”

“He doesn’t know me,” Sirius mutters. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. The same motion he used when he was little and didn’t want to cry in front of Regulus. “I’m just a stranger who dances for tips.”

Alphard tilts his head. “And that makes you unworthy of flowers?”

Sirius doesn’t answer. He recalls the way Remus looked—how his hands trembled, how he tried to hold eye contact and couldn’t. Sirius is used to people staring at his body, at the glitter and gloss. Not like that. Not like that.

He pulls one leg up, hugs his knee to his chest, presses his forehead to it. His hair is still dripping a little onto his shirt. 

Sirius thinks about the weight of wanting—the way it grows in your chest and claws through your ribs, the way it makes you foolish. He’s seen it in people’s eyes every night. They want. They ache. They leave money behind like it’s a solution.

Nobody ever left a silent gesture that asked for nothing in return.

Sirius doesn’t want to admit how much the feeling that followed rattled him. That sharp twist in his gut, as if all the mechanisms inside him paused.

“It doesn’t,” he breathes finally. 

Alphard watches him a beat longer. “Still, you didn’t take them.”

“No,” Sirius says shortly. Then adds, quieter, “Of course not.”

He’d felt the squeeze of it. A split second where his body wanted to move forward, hand out, say thank you, say anything. But his feet stayed planted. All that music in his head, and not a single note came out right.

He sighs. “He’s probably already forgotten about it.”

“A boy like him?” Alphard snorts. “He won’t.”

Sirius picks at a loose thread on his shirt. “Then he’s a fool.”

“Or charmed.”

Sirius scoffs. “Same thing.”

“What about you?” Alphard prompts. “You like him?”

Sirius lets out a sharp breath through his nose and pushes up from the couch, arms swinging loose at his sides. “I don’t know him, either.”

“And? Since when has that ever meant you couldn’t like anyone?”

“If you met Tobi at a flea market and fell in love with him on the spot,” Sirius says, “that doesn’t mean everyone’s ready to fall neck-first into some stranger’s arms.”

He starts pacing again, bare feet brushing over the worn pattern of the rug, toe dragging slightly on the edge like he always does when he’s frustrated. There’s paint under one of his toenails—yellow, from the stool he and Tobi fixed yesterday. 

“Was that the first time you saw him?”

Sirius throws a narrow glance over his shoulder, then busies himself with the bookshelf. The books are stacked sideways, some with painted spines, some with corners chewed by years of use. 

The shelf is chipped purple and sunflower yellow. He runs his fingers along it. The paint was cheap, but it made things feel less grey, and Alphie said that was a kind of magic.

Sirius lets his hand fall to one of the books, opens the cover, closes it again, then repeats.

“Second,” he says finally, quiet. “Friday was the first. He was with friends. He’s, um—Sybill’s boyfriend brought him.”

Alphard hums. “So he came back today?”

Sirius presses his lips together and nods. 

“I’ve never had anyone do that before,” he muses. “Bring me something without… wanting anything back. He’s the first guy.”

Alphard’s voice softens. “That’s a good thing he is, m’star.”

Sirius closes the book and presses it to his chest, then looks over his shoulder. “He’s probably regretting it right now. Probably thinks I’m some—” He stops. His throat feels thick.

Alphard leans back into the couch cushions, eyes still on his nephew. “That why you’ve been twitchy all night?”

Sirius shakes his head, then nods, then shakes it again. “No. I mean, yes. I mean—” he looks at the rug, brow creased, and adds, almost to himself, “I didn’t even say thank you.”

Alphard stands slowly and crosses the room to him. He doesn’t say anything, just rests a hand on Sirius’ shoulder, gives it a short squeeze.

“You know,” he murmurs, “you’ve got this habit of assuming everything that goes wrong is your fault.”

Sirius shrugs beneath his palm. “Because it usually is.”

“It’s not.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They stand like that a moment. The pipes groan above them, settling. 

“I didn’t mean to scare him off,” Sirius admits sheepishly.

“I know,” Alphard says. “Maybe you didn’t.”

Sirius huffs. “Well, his flowers are not exactly here, are they?”

“Doesn’t mean they won’t be.” Alphard gives his shoulder one more press and lets go. “You ever think maybe he’s the one doing the overthinking now?”

Sirius rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. His eyes fall back to the shelf, to the book now tilted open again.

There’s a long silence, then Alphard asks, “You want to see him again?”

Sirius lets the question hang. His arms tighten around the book. “Maybe.”

“Then find him.”

Sirius shakes his head. “I don’t chase.”

“You don’t have to,” Alphard says simply. “You just have to not run, for once.”

Sirius scoffs. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“That thing you do. Gentle parenting.”

“It’s who I am.”

Sirius glances over, half-smiling now, reluctant. “You always make it worse by being nice.”

“Good. Then maybe you’ll stop trying to pretend it didn’t matter.”

Sirius breathes out slowly, then puts the book down on the shelf again, carefully, as if it might fall apart if he’s too rough.

“Do you want tea?” Alphard offers.

Sirius looks at him. 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Tea would be good.”

Alphard squeezes his elbow on the way past.

Sirius stays by the bookshelf. It’s their doing, his and Alphard’s. They painted the thing years ago in the backyard, cheap leftover cans from the junk shop, everything bright and uneven. The shelf creaks if you breathe near it, but it holds, like everything in this house. 

From the kitchen, there’s clink of mugs. Alphard is humming to himself, low and tuneless, as the kettle starts to boil.

Behind Sirius, the bathroom door clicks open. He doesn’t have to look to know it’s Tobi, still warm from the steam, hair curling around his temples. He went in right after Sirius. 

It’s a daily war, who gets the water first. Three men obsessed with skin and softness living under one roof is, frankly, a catastrophe.

If only they could afford to let the water run forever, it wouldn’t be a problem. But they can’t. They don’t live poorly, sure, but they’re not reckless either. Sirius pays what he can into the bills. He tries. His only guilty pleasure is long baths with those oils Mary uses for her healing duty. It requires so much—time, space, heat. And water. So much water. Still, Sirius barely takes showers; they leave him colder.

“There’s our little mockingbird,” Tobi sings lazily, stepping into the living room. “Or should I say jabberjay, considering how much you love to eavesdrop?”

Sirius rolls his eyes and turns, leaning back against the bookshelf. Tobi’s shirt sticks to his chest in damp patches, and he still smells like Alphard’s favourite soap.

“Alphie’s making tea,” Sirius informs. “You want?”

“Sure.” Tobi shrugs, already halfway past. “You look broody again. Everything alright?”

“Parent on duty again?” Sirius mutters. “Can I brood in peace?”

Tobi snorts, stretching as he walks past him toward the kitchen. He flicks his fingers under Sirius’ ribs as he passes—that annoying little tickle he always does—and Sirius bats him away half-heartedly.

He’s almost in the kitchen when Sirius calls, “Tobi?”

Tobi glances back over his shoulder, hair shifting with the motion. “Yeah?”

“Do you,” Sirius starts, then hesitates. His voice lowers. “Do you, by chance, know someone from the forge named Remus?”

Tobi pauses. Thinks. Then his eyes light up slightly. 

“Ah. The Lupin boy.”

Sirius frowns. “The Lupin boy?”

“Yeah. Son of Lyall Lupin. Teaches the nephew of my Friday shift partner.”

Sirius shifts, arms crossing loosely. His fingers worry the inside of his elbow. “Do you ever…” He swallows, feigns nonchalance. “You ever work a shift with him?”

Tobi scratches behind his ear, thinking. “Sometimes, yeah. Thursdays, mostly, but he’s got an early-out then. The young ones clock off at four.” He pauses. “But there was a thing recently, might screw that up.”

Sirius looks over. “What thing?”

Tobi shrugs. “That kid—the one dating Sybill? Got into it with Rhubarb. Boss flipped. Started yelling about slashing pay and working ‘em like beasts. Wouldn’t be surprised if he makes good on it.”

Sirius hums, distracted again by the bookshelf. Staring past it now.

Tobi squints. “Why’re you asking?”

From the kitchen, Alphard hollers, voice smug and full of tease. “Sirius likes a boy!”

Sirius groans. “Shut up, that’s not true!”

Tobi raises a brow, grin threatening. “You like the Lupin boy?”

Sirius launches instantly into defensive offense, baring his teeth. “I didn’t even know he was a Lupin boy. And I don’t like him. I don’t even know him.”

Tobi smirks. “Didn’t know your uncle either. But when we met—”

Sirius waves a hand, scowling. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that story three hundred times. Go drink your tea with your ancient, sacred, one-true-love.”

Tobi laughs, wide-mouthed and warm. He steps close again, fingers dancing under Sirius’ ribs one last time before vanishing into the kitchen.

Sirius exhales and lowers himself onto the couch. Crosses his arms, then uncrosses them. His shoulder touches a pillow Andromeda embroidered three winters ago with a crooked orange star.

He can hear them in the kitchen, the clink of mugs, the hum of Alphard’s low voice, and Tobi laughing again at something he said. That unshakable sound of two people who belong to each other.

To be completely honest, Sirius has heard the story more than three hundred times.

Alphard met Tobi Cardinal at a flea market. One wanted a kettle, the other sold broken ones. Tobi asked if it worked, and Alphard said no, but the romance was in the trying. That was that.

They ended up sharing a small space in the District before they shared a bed. Then a life. Then the fights, the lean years, the times they couldn’t look at each other. Nearly three decades of Reapings and uprisings and long nights when loving a man meant hiding it, when even walking arm in arm was enough to get spat on or arrested or worse. The winters of silence, the summers of protest. All of it. They held on anyway.

Sirius has seen it—not just the pretty parts. Not just the tea-making and the jokes. He’s seen the silences too. The shaking hands. The ugly fights when they stood at opposite ends of a room.

And still, they’re here. They sit together, eat together, fight over chores and who ate the last piece of bread, argue about who made the first move. Alphard says it was fate, and Tobi says it was Alphard’s ass in tight pants.

Alphard still calls him sweetheart in front of everyone, still takes his hand when the news is bad. Still keeps his toothbrush beside Tobi’s like it was always meant to be there.

Sirius never says it out loud, but it stuns him, how it lasted. How it wasn’t stolen, or crushed, or starved.

He doesn’t think that kind of thing is built for him.

Not because he doesn’t want it. He does. He’d take it if it came. But it just won’t, because it’s not in the stars. They don’t let birds like him stay in cages.

People fall in love with the idea of him, with his hips, with the smile he makes when he bites his lip just right. They throw coins, come to him to say he’s stunning, and Sirius leaves before they get a chance to think too hard.

He makes his living like that. Dancing on tired stages, letting men imagine what he looks like with the lights off. Pulling up his skirts just enough to make it worth their coin. He plays the part: the pretty one, the wild one who knows what he’s doing, and how to make you think you’ve been there too. Who knows how to sell the suggestion of sweetness, and who’s good at pretending he’s been kissed before, held before, wanted right. The crowd adores it.

It always works, but it’s never real.

His family brings him joy. The other Covey, too—the girls and boys who live loud and glittering and vivid. They’re brilliant, they’re close. They’re a world of their own.

But love? Love that you can sit next to in the kitchen and pass a mug of tea to? Love that forgives you after a bad night and still makes you soup the next day? Sirius has never seen that up close. Not in his own life, at least. 

Everyone around him seems to be falling in love, or falling into bed, or falling apart in someone else’s arms. Meanwhile, he dances until his thighs burn and collects crumpled pieces of himself from the bar floors.

It doesn’t help much that these days, behind his eyes, there’s the memory of Remus. The boy who didn’t want the show. Tall, serious. Real.

People pay for the fantasy, but Remus didn’t come for it. He didn’t smile or wink or shout anything gross. He just held out a handful of crumpled flowers, looking like the room had shifted under his feet and he was still trying to catch his balance.

Sirius stares at the rug below him a moment longer, then presses his palm flat against the couch. It creaks under his touch, like it always does.

The forge boy is too much for him to handle. Oh, he really is.

But Sirius has to admit—for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t playing a part.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

The swing creaks once, then again, as Remus pulls it back, bracing his boots against the packed dirt. It’s not even a real swing—just an old tire bolted to a crooked wooden frame someone in the district welded together years ago. Half-rusted, weather-beaten, leaning slightly left. But it works.

Mostly.

Lulu kicks her legs forward again, heels flashing in the air, her braids swinging with her. She’s got chocolate on her chin left by half-melted drops from the bag Kingsley brought home, and she’s working her jaw furiously as she chews, giggling through her nose.

“Higher, Moony!” she squeaks, the sound trailing up into a shrill hiccup of laughter. “Come on, come on, push harder!”

Remus huffs a tired smile. His arms are sore. Everything’s sore. He feels like someone took a handful of rejection and stuck it in the space behind his ribs. But Lulu’s squealing through a mouthful of chocolate drops, so he keeps moving. She's his darling, after all. There's a sweetness about her that's impossible to explain, hay-bright and water-clear. 

“If I go any higher,” Remus warns, “you’re gonna end up flying straight into District 7.”

“Good!” she shouts back. “Then I can come back with a tree!”

Kingsley, sprawled out in the grass nearby with a stalk of dry clover between his teeth, lifts his eyebrows. “That your plan, huh?”

Lulu nods furiously, legs kicking again. 

“Me and Kinny did a sun-spin last week,” she tells Remus. “Went all the way around the pole.”

Remus almost freezes mid-push. “You did what?”

“A sun-spin!” she repeats, flinging her arms wide like she’s demonstrating the orbit of the earth. “He spun me real fast! We did the whole circle!”

Remus turns to look at Kingsley.

Kingsley shrugs. “She didn’t die.”

“Not helpful,” Remus mutters.

“She loved it,” Kingsley adds, grinning. “Screamed like a fire alarm, but she loved it.”

Lulu squeaks again, then breaks into a sing-song, all high and giddy and off-key: 

“Moony-Minnie, Moony-pie, moonlight beam, Moony-moo!”

Remus snorts, almost tripping over his own feet. He leans in, pushing her again with just enough force to keep her swinging, skirt and braids flaring out in rhythm. She's squealing again, that high-pitched sound she always makes when she’s too delighted to breathe properly.

Behind them, voices begin to rise—other kids starting to trickle in, parents off shift guiding them in by the elbows, already shouting for someone to get down from that pipe. 

Kingsley rolls onto his side. “Why doesn’t she have a cool nickname for me?”

Lulu giggles from the swing. “Because-because!”

“Wow,” Kingsley mutters. “Such insight.”

Lulu laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Remus shakes his head, still smiling, and steps in closer to slow the swing. He grips the tire’s side and starts rocking it to a stop.

Lulu groans. “Noooo! I’m fine, I’m fine—”

“You’re gonna get sick,” Remus says gently. “Let’s take a break, alright, darling?”

She scrunches her nose. Then lets go of the rope dramatically and throws her arms up. 

“Catch me!”

Remus laughs and leans down, scooping her up as she flops off the swing and wraps herself around him with no hesitation—arms around his neck, legs around his waist, face tucked into the crook of his shoulder.

“You’re getting heavier every day, you know that?” he grunts, adjusting her grip. “Maybe stop for a while.”

Lulu hums against his shoulder, then leans back just enough to look at him. “I don’t wanna be twelve forever.”

“You could at least stay small,” Remus teases. “It’s starting to get hard to carry you.”

Lulu tugs on one of his curls playfully. “You’ll manage if you want to.”

Kingsley whistles low from the grass. “Girl’s got claws.”

Remus chuckles, bouncing Lulu slightly on his hip. “You never run out of comebacks, do you?”

“Nope.” Lulu pops the ‘p’ and leans her cheek against his. Chocolate smudges his jaw. “Not getting dull.”

The sun catches softly on her braids, and for a second, Remus forgets what the inside of his chest feels like today. Lulu is warm. She smells like dirt and sugar, kicks one foot lazily in the air, and one of her braids is now caught under Remus’ chin. His arms ache, but it’s the good kind of ache. 

It’s peaceful here. No forge noise, no talking about the Games. No Covey boys. Just the soft creak of the swing behind them and the sound of distant footsteps as more parents return from work, kids tugging at their hands, filling the field again one by one.

It almost feels safe.

“I broke up with Wylie,” Lulu announces, swinging her feet.

“You did?”

She nods, very solemn. “He gave Sima half his muffin at breakfast and everyone saw.”

Remus tuts. “Not very loyal, is he?”

“He said it wasn’t romantic,” Lulu mutters. “But I know what it looks like when a boy likes someone. I read books.”

“Mm,” Remus hums, trying so hard not to laugh.

“He also said if I didn’t give him my pudding cup at lunch again he’d stop saving me a seat,” Lulu adds. “So I said bye.”

Remus finally barks a laugh and sets her down gently on the ground.

“Brutal,” he says.

Lulu grins, proud. “He cried.” She bats her eyelashes at Remus. “Will you be my boyfriend now?”

Remus shrugs nonchalantly. “Sure, why not.”

Kingsley whistles low. “Damn.”

“Language!” Lulu gasps.

Remus crouches, playfully tugging on one of her braids, then the other. “You are so twelve.”

“I’m a very mature twelve,” Lulu corrects, picking a piece of grass from his collar before sudden delight flashes across her face. “Butterfly! ”

She squeals and takes off across the field, chasing the soft blur of gold and wings. Her laughter dances behind her.

Remus watches her go, then sinks down beside Kingsley in the grass, knees drawn up, arms folded over them. He lets out a slow exhale. Kingsley glances at him sideways and nudges his shoulder.

“How you holding up, man?”

Remus keeps his eyes on Lulu, who leaps over a patch of weeds. “She makes everything better.”

Kingsley watches his sister for a beat, then hums. “Yeah. Everything’s better with Lulu.”

They sit in silence, long enough for the wind to move through the grass around them, warm and thick and full of dust.

“Wanna talk about Tuesday?” Kingsley asks eventually.

Remus runs his thumb along the seam of his pants, jaw shifting. 

“Not really.”

“C’mon, Remus. It’s just me.”

Remus doesn’t answer right away. He’s not sure he wants to talk about this rare episode of utter humiliation, but it’s Kingsley, and that means he can not say everything while still saying something.

He sighs, leaning back on one hand, the other still braced on his knee. 

“Sirius didn’t want the flowers,” he says. “He just… shut it down. Made it very clear he didn’t want them. Or me.”

Kingsley winces slightly. “Shit. That sucks. I’m sorry, mate.”

Remus shrugs. “He was polite enough about it. Just said it’s not his thing.”

Kingsley picks at a weed beside his boot. “Some Covey are hard to pin down, you know. They’re so into their freedom that romance doesn’t fit into that picture at all.”

Remus glances at him. “Says a person in a happy relationship with Covey.”

“Oh, enough.”

“No, I mean it,” Remus insists. “Sybill looks really in love with you.”

Kingsley looks up sharply. “She does?”

Remus nods. 

“Yeah?” Kingsley asks again, giddily.

Remus huffs, a small grin curling. “Yeah.”

Kingsley lets out a long breath, mouth tilted into a crooked smile. “Guess I got lucky.”

Remus smiles, too. But only for a second. Then it fades.

“Not all of us do.”

Kingsley nudges him again. “Hey. Come on. If it’s not Sirius, it’ll be someone else. You’re not gonna die over one flower fiasco.”

Remus sighs. He’s still watching Lulu, who’s now crouched in the grass, whispering something to her hands. He can’t see what she’s holding.

“I don’t get it, King.”

“Get what?”

Remus presses his forehead to his knees for a second, then lifts it again. “What it is about him. There’s just—I’m not—I don’t know what’s happening. He makes my heart race.”

Kingsley doesn’t start laughing, though for a single traitorous moment, Remus thinks he could. But he just watches the way Remus' shoulders bunch in close, as if he's holding himself still on purpose. Which he does.

“I’ve never heard you talk about anyone like this,” Kingsley murmurs.

Remus looks at him, eyes tired. He chuckles once, bitter and embarrassed. 

“Me neither.” He turns his face toward the sky, eyes narrowed. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? I saw him twice. Once, we smoked behind the bar. The second time, I offered him those stupid flowers, and he told me no. And yet, I’m still thinking about him. I don’t even know him, King.”

Kingsley shrugs. “Doesn’t sound stupid to me. He’s the kind of person who grabs your attention. You don’t have to know someone for them to catch your eye.”

“It’s not just the clothes or the dancing. Or the songs. It’s how he is, you know? He says things differently. He is different.”

“Oh, I know,” Kingsley drawls. “He chews you up.”

“Then spits you right out,” Remus concludes. “Maybe I really messed it all up with the flowers. Maybe that was too much.”

“I don’t think so,” Kingsley counters. “Knowing you, man, you weren’t exactly expecting him to fall into your arms after that.”

“No,” Remus confirms. He swallows. “I didn’t expect anything, really. I just… I just wanted him to remember me, I guess.”

Kingsley snorts. “Well. He definitely will.”

Remus laughs, but only a little. Mostly for show. The hollow in his chest doesn’t budge.

“Is it pathetic?” he asks after a moment.

Kingsley glances at him. “What?”

“That I’m twenty-one and I’ve never had a real relationship. Everyone else is dating and kissing and figuring stuff out, and I just… go to the forge. Come home. Repeat.”

Kingsley stretches his legs out, crosses his ankles. “I think everyone’s time comes at a different pace. Maybe yours just hasn’t arrived yet.”

Remus groans and drops his head into his hands. 

“This is fucked,” he declares. “I cannot stop thinking about him.”

Kingsley chuckles and claps him on the shoulder. “Covey effect, man.”

Remus makes a pained noise into his palms.

“Look, look, look!”

In a sudden blur of motion, Lulu comes sprinting back, hands cupped together like a boat.

“I caught it!” she cries. “I caught a butterfly!”

She stops first in front of Kingsley and peels her palms apart just enough to let him peek inside.

“See?” Lulu whispers. “She’s still here.”

Kingsley leans forward to take a look. “She’s a pretty one.”

Luku nods and gently turns toward Remus, who barely gets a second to look before she flops directly into his lap—limbs every which way, forcing him to stretch his legs straight out in the grass. She fits neatly there, her small back against his chest, her legs swinging over his stretched-out thighs. Her weight is warm and light and exactly familiar. One of her braids falls across her shoulder, and Remus gently starts to twist the end of it between his fingers.

Still watching the delicate flutter of wings in her cupped hands, Lulu asks:

“Is the Reaping scary?”

Remus goes very still behind her. 

Kingsley sits up a little straighter in the grass. “Why do you ask that, Lulu?” 

She shrugs, craning her neck to look into her hands again. “Amaryll from school said her sister cries every year. Is it 'cause she’s scared?”

Kingsley’s jaw shifts. 

“I‘m not sure, baby,” he deflects.

Lulu nods slowly, resting her hands on her knees, still cradling the butterfly. She doesn’t let it go.

“Were you scared the first time?” she asks, not looking at either of them.

Remus doesn’t tell her the truth—that it’s always scary, every single time, even after you’ve aged out, even when your name isn’t in the bowl. He doesn’t say that the fear lingers in your gut, that it stains your clothes, your birthday cake, and the way your mother looks at you when you leave the house on the tenth of August. He doesn’t say that Kingsley, despite finally having aged out, flinches every time the calendar flips past July. That they all carry fear like another bone in their bodies.

Instead, he lies gently. “Just a little, darling. It gets easier after that.”

They meet eyes again across her small shoulders—Remus and Kingsley—and in one shared glance, it’s clear they’re both doing it. The easy, necessary lie you tell a child you love more than anything.

She’s only just turned twelve. Her first Reaping is months away.

Little Lulu, the long-awaited one. Born a day shy of Kingsley’s tenth birthday. Named after the soft, round pearl she was to her parents—precious, irreplaceable. And now, just like every other child in District 9, caught up in the ugly machinery of Corvium’s Games.

There’s a soft desperation in the way they look at her. We’ll protect her, their eyes say. Somehow. Some way.

Lulu, unaware of the weight in the air, perks up again. “Let’s let her go together, Moony. Make a wish.”

Remus rests his chin lightly on her shoulder. “What’s yours gonna be?”

She shakes her head quickly. “Can’t tell wishes.”

Remus aches at the kind of innocence her eyes gleam with.

Lulu leans in slowly, presses her lips near his ear, and whispers, her voice a hush-low breath, “That the Games stop. But don’t tell anyone.”

Remus feels his throat go tight. He nods once, kisses the top of her head. 

“I won’t,” he promises. “Mine’ll be the same. Maybe if we do it together, the universe will listen.”

She beams. He covers her small, cupped hands with his own—two sets of fingers making a soft cradle, sealing the wish.

“One,” Lulu says.

“Two,” Remus echoes.

“Three!”

They open their hands. The butterfly takes flight—its wings catching the sunlight, trembling just once before lifting into the air and drifting upward, past the rusted swing frame, into the stretch of pale sky.

Lulu tracks it with her eyes. “She’s beautiful. I wish I was a butterfly.”

“You already are,” Remus murmurs, tugging playfully on her braid again.

She snorts. “But you call me darling.”

Kingsley barks a laugh. “Darling’s better than butterfly. You ever seen one without wings?”

Lulu makes a face. “Ew, Kinny.”

She climbs out of Remus’ lap and turns to shove her brother, who laughs and catches her by the arms, pulling her into a bear hug. She groans in mock agony, making loud gagging sounds.

“Blegh!” she groans, wriggling like a caught fish. “You’re squishing my guts!”

“Good,” Kingsley grins. “Keeps you humble.”

Lulu finally surrenders and loops her arms around his middle, resting her cheek against his chest. When he finally lets her go, she screeches “Oh, Marls!” and bolts off again across the grass.

Remus’ smile fades.

Because just up the path, her name already on Lulu’s tongue, striding toward the rusted playground in a soft pink dress that catches every ounce of dying sunlight, is Marlene McKinnon. A brooch in the shape of a swan glints at her collarbone, sharp silver-white. It catches the dying light like a knife, and it shines. Mockingly.

Remus watches her come closer and doesn’t know yet if he wants to duck his head, look away, or keep staring.

Kingsley hums low beside him. “Here we go.”

Marlene bends with nonchalant grace, fingertips tapping her knees, pink skirts pooling around her legs in high-end imported folds as she presses her palms against them—just so—before leaning toward Lulu. Her heels sink slightly into the patchy grass. She murmurs something only Lulu hears.

Whatever it is, it makes the little girl laugh. A bright, surprised little giggle, full of delight.

Remus still hasn’t quite figured out what anyone sees in Marlene.

In the mental list he keeps in the back of his mind, she’s always filed under three core traits: vanity, venom, and her uncanny ability to walk through shit without a scratch. Even after her father spent a month rotting in the Hall of Virtue—rumors said for illegal dealings through the clothing shop—she strutted through the District like it was all part of the plan.

Remus’s mother doesn’t shop at the McKinnons. She prefers the little corner shop with cheaper fabric, where you have to sift through every bolt to find the ones that aren’t too thin or stiff. But everyone else goes to the McKinnons. Their clothing’s too good not to. Imports from District 1. Silks and gold-threaded collars, lace-trimmed gloves, longline vests. Whatever the Corvium has, the McKinnons copy it—then sell it to District 9 at half the reputation and double the price.

So, yeah. That’s Marlene in a nutshell: high-gloss arrogance, a lethal tongue, and the sort of posture you only get when you’ve survived scandal and still walked out with your chin up.

“Ah, Loopy-Loony,” she croons, voice sugarcoated with attitude. “What a day, hmm?”

Right. She’s also a bully.

Remus hadn’t noticed Lulu tug her over. The first thing he sees is the shimmer of the brooch. Then the pink. Then the polished shoes that don’t belong anywhere near this grass.

She’s called him that since school. Loopy. It stuck from the moment someone found out he liked to read alone and didn’t come in for a week straight after a coughing fit turned into a fever. He passed his exams anyway—studied in the forge, kept his head down—but for them, he stayed the weird boy the meanest girl in town decided to tease.

And then Lulu had to go and start calling him Moony, which Marlene had overheard once. The damage was done. Remus once learned a rhyme for it from the streets and never quite went back to just Loopy. It’s also Loony now.

“Marlene,” he drawls. “Enjoying your evening walk?”

She tips her chin up, all teeth and confidence. “Life’s too crappy not to enjoy. I try to squeeze out what I can.”

Lulu tilts her head, pressing against Marlene’s leg and tugging on her skirt. “Why’s life crappy?”

“Hey now,” Kingsley cuts in. “Let’s not repeat that one.”

Marlene brushes her hand lightly over Lulu’s head. It seems like a friendly gesture, but Remus doesn’t trust it. He’s not sure she ever does anything without purpose. Real or not real—that’s the question with Marlene McKinnon.

“Let the girl know, Kingsley. She’s twelve, isn’t she? First Reaping coming up?” She straightens, flipping her bangs with an irritated twitch. “Better she learns now. It doesn’t get prettier.”

“No?” Lulu asks, voice small.

“Lulu,” Kingsley calls, firmer this time. “Don’t listen.”

Remus looks at Lulu’s face, small and round and sun-warmed. Marlene waves it off and turns all of her attention to Kingsley. 

“Your girl was in our shop the other day,” she tells him, almost bored. “Talking fabric with a bunch of her little Covey friends. Couldn’t understand a word, honestly. One of them invited me and my sister to the Auror show.” She swings her gaze back to Remus. “Just giving you a heads-up. So you’ve got time to decide not to come.”

Remus pulls a face, scrunches his nose, and gives her a mock smile. 

Marlene winks. “Have a nice evening, boys. Loopy, swing by sometime. We’ll fit you for a proper suit.”

She smooths both of Lulu’s braids gently with her fingers—gentler than Remus expects—and Lulu smiles up at her. Marlene gives the tiniest smile in return, flicks the tip of Lulu’s nose with one manicured finger, and strolls off.

“Show-off,” Kingsley mutters.

Remus watches her go. Her skirts bounce like they’ve got springs sewn into the hem. So do her curls. So does her voice.

He shakes his head slowly. “Bit much, that one.”

He’s not sure he’ll ever understand the McKinnon girl. Doesn’t know if anyone does.

They both stare a second longer before Lulu bounces in place and grabs Remus’s hand. 

“Can we go to our house now?” she asks. “Please?”

Kingsley raises an eyebrow. “We’ve got work tomorrow, Lulu. Remus wants to rest.”

Lulu pouts hard. “Half an hour! Please, please, please, Moony—just a little?”

Remus glances at Kingsley. Then at Lulu. One of her braids is half-loose again, and her eyes are pleading and sun-bright.

He sighs, but it’s already over. He’s lost. She’s impossible to deny when she looks at him like that. He gets up. 

Kingsley groans, standing and brushing off his pants. “You spoil her.”

Lulu squeals. 

Remus shrugs, his voice light. “She’s worth it.”

And just like that, they’re on their feet, walking the cracked stone path toward home. Lulu darts ahead, singing some nonsense tune, her braids flying like ribbons behind her. Kingsley snorts and mutters something under his breath.

They follow her down the path, three shadows stretched long by the setting sun, headed for a half-hour that always turns into three.

Chapter Text

Honk-honk.

Sirius groans before the sound has even faded. “Oh, not the geese again.”

Andromeda crouches by a patch of bluebells, brushing dirt from the stems as she gathers them into a loose fist. She doesn’t look up. 

“Why do they bother you so much?”

“They want me dead,” Sirius mutters, keeping an eye on the cluster by the waterline. “One of them tore my skirt last year. That olive one with the embroidery at the hem. Ripped it clean through. I’m not going near them again.”

He bends to pluck a daisy from between his boots, inspecting it for bugs before adding it to the small handful already in his palm. The petals are slightly uneven, but Sirius doesn’t mind.

“I like swans better,” he adds, almost offhandedly.

Andromeda glances back at him with a half-smile. “There aren’t any swans in the districts.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Corvium birds, all fancy and state-owned.” Sirius pauses, then shrugs, eyes on the daisy. “But they used to live out here. Before all this.”

Andromeda rises, brushing off her skirt with one hand, flowers bunched in the other. “They used to sell pomegranates in corner markets too. Now we only see them in pictures, while Corvium chokes on them at their banquets.”

Sirius kneels by the grass, fingers trailing through green, and finds another daisy tucked low between the stems. He pulls it free, brushing off the dirt with care.

“The birds didn’t do anything wrong,” he says softly.

Andromeda snorts under her breath. “Give it a year, and they’ll turn them into mutts. Send them into the arena to leave nothing but bones.”

Sirius doesn’t respond. 

He doesn’t really expect to be called in this year’s Reaping. Pandora told him she didn’t see Dolores—the Corvium’s escort—pulling his name from the bowl, and Sirius trusts her. Most days, he trusts the stars too. 

But still, nothing is certain, not with Corvium, not with the Games. The line between safety and the Arena has always been thinner than anyone admits. There’s always a chance to fall straight into the fire. It lingers under everything, even in the quiet.

They keep walking, slow through the meadow, hands half-full. The grass is uneven, tugging at their ankles. The light is kind, because it’s that sweet hour before evening, when the sun slants in just enough to remind you it’s finally spring. Somewhere nearby, the forge’s smell creeps into the air. Metal and soot.

Sirius walks slower than Andromeda, hands brushing the flower heads as they pass. He doesn’t mind the silence. He never has, especially not with her. She’s always let him live inside his head a little.

He still keeps thinking about Tuesday night’s draw.

It replays in pieces, not all at once—Pandora’s fingers over the deck, Xeno’s palm resting gently over her eyes. One of those Covey things—half poetry, half warning, gone by morning. First the Lovers. Then the Fool. Then the High Priestess. Then the Star.

It hadn’t made sense until after. Until the quiet walk home, until the lights of the bar had faded behind him and Sirius could hear the echo of Remus’ voice in the dark—soft, uncertain, too gentle for the place they were in. Until he remembered how he’d turned him down. 

The lover is a fool. The Priestess tries to guide the Star.

If Remus was the lover—if that small, quiet moment in the bar meant what Sirius suspects it did—then maybe he was the fool, too. It’s only that it didn't look like foolishness. It looked like someone trying, gently, to take a step closer. Like someone willing to reach without being asked to.

And if Sirius was the star, pulled in every direction, too afraid to stay still long enough to be seen properly—then what was the Priestess trying to tell him?

Not all things are what they seem. That’s what Pandora said. 

It makes Sirius wonder if the moment with Remus was different than he thought. If it could have been more. If it already was, and Sirius just refused to look at it properly. Or maybe—maybe he was right to walk away. Maybe that’s what the High Priestess was trying to say. That his instinct was good. That stillness and inner knowing were better than impulse.

To think about Remus is a stupid thing in general, especially considering the rules Sirius set for himself ages ago—no boys, no softness, no feelings—but the thoughts don’t ask for permission. They come anyway, slipping sideways into his mind, like fish darting through a torn net, impossible to pin down.

Sybill calls them sailfish thoughts. Like selfish ones, but quicker. Finned and slick, always heading in the wrong direction. They feel good, even when you do nothing about them. Even when you act like you never had them at all.

Sirius picks another flower. Poppy this time.

“What do you think they’ll do this year?” he asks Andromeda. “For the Quarter Quell?”

Andromeda’s shoulders go tight. She stares out across the grass, at nothing in particular.

“I don’t know,” she answers, frowning down at her bouquet. “With those freaks and their idea of entertainment, it could be anything. I just hope they don’t lock the age down.”

Sirius glances at her. “You mean lower it?”

Andromeda nods. “I can already hear the asshole and his twisted little speech.” She clears her throat and mimics him without blinking, low and clipped and chillingly accurate. “As a reminder of how the Corvium has spared the lives of those in its generosity, every district is required to send only tributes under the age of twelve.”

Sirius flinches. The imitation is too close. Riddles' voice echoes around the inside of his skull.

His voice always echoes. It was built for it, and that’s the worst thing about him.

Sirius swallows and looks away. Andromeda is never scared of saying such things out loud. She adjusts the flowers in her arms and keeps walking, her steps steady through the grass. 

“What if they decide to send mentors?” Sirius asks quietly. “Or all of the past Victors?”

Andromeda crouches again by a cluster of yellow clover, fingers working through the stems.

“I wouldn’t want Bella to go back,” she muses. “Whatever’s left of her after her Games wouldn’t survive a second round.”

“She’d want it on you,” Sirius says.

Andromeda turns her head slightly to look up at him. 

“She’d want it on me too,” Sirius adds. “It would please her to see us both dead.”

Andromeda stands slowly. “She’s lucky the Victor’s Village doesn’t have a window into the way I live my life out here, twenty-four, bowl-free, with no arena hanging over my head. She can scowl as much as she wants from her wealthy neighbourhood. The only people I worry about now are the girls and you.”

Sirius watches her carefully, then turns his face toward the sky. The sun is lower than it felt a moment ago.

“Do you think she likes it there?” he asks. “In the Village.”

“I have no idea.” Andromeda shrugs. “I heard Cissa visits her sometimes. People say she’s gone completely off. Talks to the walls now.”

“You always act like you don’t care,” Sirius murmurs, “but then I hear you crying into your pillow.”

Andromeda lets out a breath through her nose. “She’s my sister, Sirius. She wants me dead. She hates me for running from District One, for leaving with no explanation, and she’d hate me for becoming Covey, too. But she’s still my family. I don’t know how to unlove her, so I get angry. I pretend I don’t care. Being angry is easier than letting the hurt in every time I remember what we used to be. Don’t you know that?”

Sirius sighs and drops down onto the grass, letting the small pile of flowers fall onto the blue fabric of his skirt. The petals scatter lightly across the folds, some catching in the pleats, others rolling off the edge with the breeze. A butterfly lands on one of them; its wings are pale orange, almost translucent in the light.

Sirius whispers a quiet hello, fingers reaching toward it, but it flutters its wings once, twice, and lifts away just before he can touch it with a fingertip.

If it were possible to live a weightless creature, Sirius thinks—just a butterfly, nothing complicated, no broken family trailing behind you like a shadow—life might be easier. Not happier, maybe, but easier. No guilt. No legacy. Just movement. Just wings.

Andromeda moves through a few more patches of green, pulling flowers without urgency. Then she lowers herself down beside Sirius, letting her gathered bouquet spill gently on his skirt, adding to the small spread already there. She stretches out on the grass, turning toward him with her head cradled in the crook of one arm.

The sun threads itself through her brown hair, catching the hints of red in it. It’s March, but the earth is softening. The air is warm enough that neither of them needs a coat—the last few days have felt hotter than anyone expected—though the soil underneath still holds the memory of winter.

Sirius lies back too, bending one arm behind his head as a pillow. He looks sideways at Andromeda, at the soft scatter of freckles, the unmistakable shape of the family nose, the shadow of old worry just under her green eyes. She’d chosen Juniper as her color when she left everything behind. He remembers how her voice didn’t shake when she said it out loud for the first time. Sirius watched her become Covey with a kind of awe that never really left.

“You look so much like her,” Andromeda says suddenly.

Sirius closes his eyes. “I know.”

“Sometimes,” she continues, “when I bump into you in the dark, it’s her. Just for a second. It kills me.”

Sirius lets out a dry breath. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to become anyone’s ghost.”

Andromeda hums, wry. “Hard thing not to be in this world, don’t you think?”

Sirius swallows hard. He thinks about Bellatrix’s Games. The Reaping, the Parade, the rumors that never left. Her alliance with a boy from the same District. The boy from Five who beheaded him in front of her. Her knife. The way she stabbed him seventeen times and didn’t stop until her cries turned into laughter. Corvium talks about it like it was strategy, when really it was madness.

Sirius remembers how deranged she looked—her eyes too wide, her mouth twisted in a snarl. He remembers standing in the square when it aired, the crowd thick around him, the gray afternoon and the light from the screen washing everyone pale.

He remembers Andromeda sobbing beside him. Everyone thought it was fear, but she wasn’t mourning the brutality. She wasn’t crying for the Games. She was crying for her sister.

Sirius looks up at the canopy above them, at the way the branches arc just slightly, framing the bright blue of the sky like a ceiling with no corners. Sunlight slips through in thin, angled shafts, warm where they touch skin. He lifts his hand and holds it there, letting the light play over his fingers. It refracts against the curve of his knuckles, his rings catching flashes of gold.

“I wish I could run away with you,” he mutters after a moment, voice drifting. He tilts his head toward Andromeda, the side of his mouth curling into a teasing smile. “But you had to go and marry your beloved Ted.”

“You already ran away with me once,” Andromeda says, eyes closed, face tipped toward the sun.

“Because Alphie took us,” Sirius replies. “That wasn’t even a real escape. We just got scooped up.”

Andromeda opens one eye. “Running away was always your dream, birdboy. Mine was love.”

Sirius hums low in his throat and looks back up at the trees. “Love is too dreamlike for me.”

“It only seems that way,” she murmurs. “It’s more grounding than you think.”

“Grounding?” he echoes, laughing under his breath. “You screamed for months that Ted Tawny was a bookworm and a bore—”

“Don’t start—”

“—and then you couldn’t stop dancing the entire night after he kissed you for the first time, because—surprise!—he’s genuine and smart as hell. Your words, not mine.”

Andromeda groans, draping her arm over her eyes. “Yes. That happened.”

“And now you’re trying to tell me that love makes people grounded when all it does is rob you of your identity and make you act like an idiot.”

“Did it rob me of my identity?”

“No, but it did make you act like an idiot.”

Andromeda doesn't rise to the insult. 

“You’re wrong,” she declares. “It’s a good kind of idiocy.”

Sirius raises a brow. “A good one.”

“Yes.” She closes her eyes again. “Because love brought me back to the places where there are still beautiful things.”

That stays with Sirius longer than he wants it to.

He looks up again, back to the branches and the bright patches between them. It’s delicate, the way she says it. Sirius doesn't really know what it means to be brought back to anything.

He’s never been in love. That much is certain. There were kisses, here and there—his mouth on Xeno’s once or twice, back when they were teenagers and dared each other to try things, and another with a blonde boy after a show, who smiled with all teeth and touched too much too fast. He pulled Sirius into the alley after a gig and said all the right things until his hand slipped too far down, until Sirius felt dirty, as if he was being offered something dressed up as affection but rooted in nothing but want. The want that doesn’t see you, but grabs.

That one ended with Sirius brushing spilled drink from his blouse, walking home alone, feeling like he’d been scraped clean and left empty. 

Maybe that’s what makes it hard. Maybe Sirius would believe in love more if people didn’t look at him like they were deciding what part of him to take home.

The truth is, he wants what most people want, though he wouldn’t say it aloud. Sometimes—on quieter days, on bad mornings—he thinks about what it would feel like to be touched with care. Not just the familiar affection of the Covey or the parental love of Alphard and Tobi, but something else. 

A boy.

His boy, who’d lie beside him by the river. Who’d pick flowers or apples with him just because it’s nice. Who’d hold his hand on Reaping Day, even when their palms are sweaty, even when they’re pretending not to be scared.

Sirius wants it. Quietly, yet so desperately. It’s just that life hasn’t offered that to him, not once. What it has offered are strangers in dark corners, people who want him in the way Corvium wants everything—bright and on display, with no thought for the person underneath.

So instead, he falls in love with other things. With the melodies Sybill hums in her sleep. With the rhythm Mary finds in her feet when she dances on cobblestones. With the sound of Clementine’s laughter when she gets the lyrics wrong. With tambourines and palms against wood and notes that belong to no one. 

And when that isn’t enough, Sirius turns to color. To fields like this one, drenched in yellow and green and violet. To flower petals that don’t care if he’s soft or strange or tired. To sky and heat and meadow air. 

It’s what he has. All the beautiful things.

Sirius rolls onto his stomach, nudging their mixed bouquets gently from his lap and arranging them in front of him on the grass. The stems press into the earth, already wilting a little in the sun. His elbow nudges a spot of purple just ahead—tall, crowned in a soft cluster—and he reaches out to pluck it by the base.

He turns it in his fingers, glances at Andromeda. 

She’s still lying with her eyes closed, so Sirius leans over and brushes the tip of the flower along the ridge of her nose.

She wrinkles it, one eye sliding open. 

“What’s this?” Sirius asks.

Andromeda squints at the bloom, then shuts her eye again. “Lupin.”

Oh. Of course it is. 

Which is great, really. What else could it be?

Sirius stares at the flower, lets the word echo once or twice in his head like a low note. Then he sighs and places it carefully down among their flowers, which are now all tangled together, impossible to tell apart. He rests his chin on his arm and looks out across the grass, where the sun kisses the field in broad, golden strokes. Midges float lazily in the warm light, carried by the breeze.

“How did you know Ted liked you?” 

Andromeda hums faintly. “You mean, were there signs?”

“Yeah. That.”

She threads her hands behind her head. “He was awful at hiding it. Kept scratching his nose. That’s his thing when he’s nervous—rubs it like it itches. Walked around red-faced for weeks.”

Sirius picks at a blade of grass, chin on his forearm. “So it shows up in gestures.”

“In the eyes, too,” Andromeda says, shrugging lightly. “He looked at me all the time. Didn’t even try to hide it. Once he walked straight into a notice post because he wasn’t paying attention.”

Sirius huffs. “That’s what boys do when they like you?”

“Well, it depends on the boy.” Andromeda pushes herself up onto one elbow, her smile turning sly. “What do you do when you like someone?”

Sirius looks away. “I’ve never liked anyone.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I haven’t.”

“Okay,” she relents, unconvinced. “But if you did, you’d probably try to deflect. You’re too scared to feel things properly.”

“That’s not true,” Sirius counters, a little too fast. “I feel things just fine.”

Andromeda tilts her head at him. “You won’t even sit through Xeno’s flute solos because they make you ‘feel too much.’ You stop reading books three chapters from the end because you think you’ll never recover if something bad happens.”

Sirius rips a blade of grass and flicks it at her forehead. “Okay, this is getting weird. You might be my sister, but I didn’t ask for a psychological excavation.”

Andromeda laughs and swats the grass away. “I’m just saying, you’re brave in all the wrong places. You’d spend a night in the Hall of Virtue if it meant getting on Aurors’ nerves, but if someone so much as likes you, you’re halfway to the opposite end of the world before they can say it out loud.”

Sirius rolls his eyes, but it’s too late to pretend she’s wrong.

He rubs at his temple, then lowers his hand, eyes fixed on the grass. His fingers curl around another stem. He doesn’t pluck it.

Remus is in his head again.

He’s been there for days, lurking at the edges of Sirius’ mind like a song stuck on loop. Every time he tries to put the thought down, it wraps tighter. 

It’s ridiculous, because Sirius doesn’t even know him, and everything he does know about him makes things worse. The amber eyes. The smell of smoke and wood. The way he watched Sirius in the courtyard, or at the bar. The way he shared the chocolate drops with him. The soft way he spoke about the lyrics.

It’s like touching something sweet and melting and sticky that clings to your hands no matter how many times you wipe them off. It lingers. It leaves a taste. Sirius tastes it. Every day since that Friday.

It’s easier to perform, to control the story before someone else can. It’s easier to play at detachment, to laugh, to let people think you’re unreachable instead of afraid. The skirt, the boots, the sweat, the show—they’re all armor, and they’ve worked so far. But none of it works on someone who looks past it. Someone who doesn’t seem fazed by the performance at all.

Andromeda gently nudges him with her knee. “Why are you asking? Someone on your mind?”

“What?” Sirius jerks his head toward her. “No. No—”

Andromeda gives him a look. “Sirius.”

“Andy, there’s no one.”

He can feel her watching—the way she tilts her head, the way the sunlight catches on her pretty face. He knows she’s reading him like she always does, catching the tension in his shoulders, the way he presses his fists tight under his chin. He shifts on the grass, restless. Cornered.

“What would you do,” Sirius begins carefully, “if—hypothetically—there was a boy. Who maybe liked you. And he’s... well—he’s kind of strange.” He smiles. “Not what you expected. And you—maybe—you’re drawn to him too, but you’re not really ready to, uh… let him in. Would you…” He pauses. “Would you give it a chance?”

Andromeda hums, thinking. “Is he attractive?”

“To you, he is.”

“And am I in the mood for romance?”

“You don’t know,” Sirius mutters. “Because you’ve never really tried.”

“Hm,” she muses. “Am I scared?”

“Terrified.”

“But do I want to try?”

“You don’t know that either,” he admits, rubbing his thumb against his knuckle. “But maybe. Maybe you just want to get to know him. Because he looks at you like…”

He trails off.

Andromeda raises a brow. “Like what?”

Sirius swallows. “Like he doesn’t assume anything. He doesn’t try to slap you with labels.”

“So he’s not like the others?” Andromeda asks.

Sirius knows he could stop there. Backtrack. Put the wall up again and leave it vague, throw up his usual wall of laughter and rolled eyes and a smart little jab that would send the conversation spinning. But she’s already looking at him like she knows. And once Andromeda knows something, it’s over.

He groans and lets his head fall back into his hands. “He just—he seems genuine.” He growls, frustrated, and lifts his head to look at her. “To you, I mean. You see him that way. But, obviously, you wouldn’t jump on him just because he was there. You’ve only seen him a couple of times, yet something about him… pulls at you anyway. So what do you do?”

Andromeda considers. “Has he shown any signs he’s into me?”

Sirius shrugs and starts fussing with the flower stems again, fingers restless. The geese honk again, somewhere down the field. Sirius lowers his voice.

“He blushes when he’s near you,” he mumbles. “And he, um—he brought you flowers. But you didn’t take them.”

He doesn’t look at Andromeda, but he hears her gasp. That sharp inhale she only makes when she hears something wildly unexpected or just deeply delicious. Sirius wishes she didn’t make that sound. He wishes the geese would come back and start screaming so he wouldn’t have to get through this torture.

“He gave me flowers?” Andromeda repeats, voice already too bright.

Sirius speaks fast, trying to bury the shame under words. “And you could’ve been friends, really, because he reads books about stars and he brought you chocolate, even though it’s nearly impossible to find these days. And his mum’s a seamstress, and you need help finishing your costume for the performance—”

Andromeda catches one of his hands gently, halting the spiral. She holds it between her fingers for a second.

“Did you say chocolate?”

Sirius looks at her, eyebrows raised in quiet horror. 

“Suppose he had a birthday,” he says cautiously. “Suppose he didn’t—didn’t have a cake. But his father found him a little bag of chocolate drops. Tiny ones. He brought them with him.”

Andromeda blinks. “And he gave them to me.”

Sirius nods, feeling a little like an insect under glass. “He offered some. Hypothetically.”

She leans back a little, eyes wide, and juts her lower lip out, nodding with exaggerated gravity. 

“Well. In that case, I’d at least take the flowers.”

“Do you think you were stupid not to take them?” Sirius asks, plucking a petal off one of the wildflowers and letting it fall.

“I think you were stupid for pushing away someone who might’ve been a friend.”

“What if he didn’t want to be a friend?”

“You said you saw him only a couple of times.”

“Yes. Twice.”

“Exactly,” Andromeda points out, folding her arms. “You can’t want more than friendship with someone if you’ve never even talked to them properly. He tried. You didn’t let him.”

Sirius doesn't answer.

He’s grateful, actually, that she doesn't ask for a name. Doesn’t ask who the boy is, or where Sirius met him, or what he looks like. She listens like a sister. Like a mother, too. Like the whole galaxy holding up whatever Sirius’ stars can’t.

“I don’t want to be wanted just for my body,” he mutters.

Andromeda’s tone doesn’t shift. “Did he say he wanted you for your body?”

“No,” Sirius admits. “He didn’t say he wanted me at all.”

“Did he try anything?”

“No. We barely touched. Only when he put a coin in my boot. And once more when he gave me matches.”

Andromeda frowns. “Matches?”

Sirius looks away. “He gave me a few of his. Said they were for next time. So I could smoke without having to talk to anyone.”

Andromeda exhales, slow and deep. That one, long sigh she only does when she already knows what she’s about to say and knows he won’t want to hear it.

Sirius stares down at his hands. “So I messed it up.”

“I don’t think you messed it up,” she says, finally. “But you can be too sharp sometimes. Not everything calls for a wall, my star.”

She reaches over and brushes a curl from his face, tucking it gently behind his ear. Her hand stays there just long enough to steady him.

“Does the fact that he gave you flowers scare you off?”

“It’s not that,” Sirius says, shifting on the grass. “It’s just… I don’t meet people like that. The ones I get—they usually want the show. They think I’m a doll with no thoughts in my head. They don’t see anything.”

Andromeda’s voice softens. “Some people are real, Sirius. They’re genuine. You just have to look long enough to notice. You can’t keep shutting everyone out and expect the universe to drop your person into your lap. Romantic or not. Friend or not. You have to turn around when something actually catches your eye.”

Sirius plucks a blade of grass and runs his thumb along the edge. “What if he’s just another jerk?”

“He gave you chocolate.”

“People give me money every night.”

Andromeda rolls her eyes. “Argue all you want, my star. But some things really aren’t what they seem.”

And there it is, like a stone to the gut.

Not all things are what they seem.

The exact words from Pandora’s mouth. The cards on the table. The High Priestess turned toward him as if she’d always known this moment was coming. Some part of him had already felt it—long before now—but it takes Andromeda’s voice to name it. 

Once it’s named, it’s harder to pretend it doesn’t matter.

The worst part is, Sirius doesn’t even really regret the rejection. It kept things in order. Being seen means people can reach for you, take what they want, call it theirs. It means letting them press too close and name things you haven’t even spoken aloud. It means giving them the chance to change their mind.

Sirius doesn't like that kind of power in anyone’s hands. He’s still deeply afraid of being misread. Or worse, being read perfectly and left anyway.

But now, knowing what he knows, he wishes he’d been gentle to Remus. He wishes he’d let himself speak like someone who believes good things are still real.

He watches the sky through the branches, light trembling between the leaves, and whispers, without thinking, “What do I do now?” 

Andromeda looks up toward the branches too. Somewhere above them, the birds start singing—light and split-noted, familiar in the way old songs are.

She smiles. “Mockingjays.”

Sirius’ mouth tilts, almost against his will. 

Andromeda turns back to him, lifting her head. “You said you needed your costumes fixed.”

He furrows his brow. “Yeah?”

“And his mother’s a seamstress.”

The furrow deepens. “Yeah...?”

Andromeda stares at him.

Sirius blinks at her.

She keeps staring. Harder, somehow. Waiting for a gear to turn. Sirius stares back, trying to be stubborn, but he feels the slow, ridiculous click of everything aligning in his head.

Andromeda sees it happen. She sits up with that little victorious noise she always makes when she wins a silent argument. She brushes her palms off against her skirt, then reaches across and flicks Sirius on the nose.

“Time to sing, mockingjay,” she says. “The show’s not over ‘til you say it is.”

Before Sirius can reply, Andromeda jumps to her feet. She snatches the flowers from the grass and takes off through the field, sprinting down the slope. The mockingjays follow her rhythm, as if they’ve always known how she moves.

All fire, she is.

Sirius stays where he is for a while, rolling slowly onto his back, arms folded behind his head. He watches the trees sway. Hears the mockingjays again, further off, echoing across the meadow. The notes fold in on each other, loop back, scatter into new melodies. They always remember. They always echo. They pick up whatever survives and carry it forward.

Sirius closes his eyes.

The wind slides gently over his face. The sky above him is pale and stretching, flecked with clouds. The trees lean in over the field, their leaves trembling softly. The mockingjays keep singing—call after call, voice after voice.

For a moment, it almost sounds like they’re singing someone’s name.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Wednesdays are the worst. The shift runs long, the heat never breaks, and the younger workers get careless with their hammers, so everything takes twice as long. But Thursdays are the reward.

They walk out of the forge together, still half-glowing from the heat. Remus stretches his arms over his head and hears his shoulders pop. The corridor smells like coal dust and warm iron, and the clangs behind them keep going, fainter now with every step.

Wade’s in the middle of some story, waving his hands like he’s casting a spell.

“—and then she goes, you’re too cold-hearted, Wade. Like I’m the bad guy or something. And I’m standing there thinking, wow, I genuinely don’t even know what we’re talking about.”

He nudges Remus sharply between the shoulder blades.

“Girls are weird, right?”

Remus winces and offers Wade a tight, apologetic smile. He lifts a finger in a little half-circle, gesturing vaguely toward himself—a quiet not the best guy to ask, mate, wrapped into a single motion.

Wade’s eyes widen. Then he winces too, grimacing. “Ah, shit. Right. Sorry. I forgot—shouldn’t ask you about girls.”

Kingsley bursts out laughing.

Remus does too, ducking his head and scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

“It’s fine,” he says, amused. “Happens.”

Wade shrugs, grinning. “Still. My bad.”

He’d spent pretty much the whole day—alright, the part of the day they worked, because thank the stars, it’s Thursday—going on about his new girlfriend. How she drives him insane by expecting things. Which Remus doesn’t judge, honestly, because Wade has an obvious and long-standing allergy to responsibility and emotional commitment.

He’s a strange fruit, Wade West. Remus gave up trying to keep track of his partners a year ago—there just isn’t enough space in his brain for that many new names every other week. The rumor mill says he even tried it on with the worse of the McKinnon twins, and she shut him down hard. Not shocking, honestly. One, she’s terrifying. Two, Remus would’ve shut him down too, if he were into that. Which he’s not. And which, thankfully, Kingsley is always happy to say out loud for him.

“I’m just saying,” Kingsley mutters as they shove the forge doors open into late afternoon light, “you’re kind of an asshole, man.”

Wade, already pulling out his cigarette pouch, squints. “Me? Why?”

Remus, for once, decides to chime in. “Because she probably just wants a little effort from you. You said she listens to you complain after work. Why can’t you do the same for her?”

Wade gives him a look. “Since when are you the relationship expert, Mr. Virginity?”

“He’s not a virgin,” Kingsley protests. “He was with Charity Burbage.”

Remus makes a noise of embarrassment. “Hello? Still present? Maybe don’t discuss me in front of me?”

Wade lights a match, strikes up a flame, and offers it to each of them. “Charity Burbage? How? She iced me after, like, one conversation.”

Kingsley laughs, taking a drag. “Remus knows how to talk to women. District Nine’s own Casanova.”

Wade leans in. “No, but seriously. You do well with girls. What’s your secret?”

Remus gives the same response he already gave: scrunches his nose and lifts two fingers, gesturing toward himself.

Wade blinks, then nods quickly. “Right. Right. Yeah. Queer friend. Got it. Forgot again. Sorry.” Then, after a beat, he adds, “Wait, so you needed Charity Burbage to figure it out?”

Remus exhales slowly through his teeth. “Shout it a little louder, yeah? I think District Five didn’t catch that.” 

Wade blows smoke. “Sorry. So?”

Remus drags from the cigarette. “It wasn’t, uh, about Charity. She’s very lovely. We’ve been seeing each other for, I don’t know, three weeks? But the… physical part wasn’t really it for me.”

“Remus,” Kingsley says pointedly.

“Took me forever to even get started, and when I did—”

Wade elbows his arm. “Remus.”

“What? I kind of had to think about—”

And then they’re both nudging him, Kingsley from the left, Wade from the right.

“What do you want?” he snaps, already frowning, and Kingsley just jerks his chin behind him.

Remus turns, and—oh.

Oh, no.

Boom. Crack. Knees.

Standing half in sunlight, Sirius is a dream Remus wasn’t supposed to have twice. White skirt fluttering around his legs, floral corset laced tight, dove-colored blouse tucked in beneath it, undone at the collar. His hair’s half up, dark and glossy in the sun, and the look on his face is softer than usual. Less flame, more bird-song.

It hits Remus low in the stomach like a fist made of honey.

“Hi,” Sirius says quietly, almost a whisper.

Remus tries to speak. Finds nothing. Eventually chokes out, “Hi.”

Sirius’ eyes flick toward Kingsley. “Hey, King.” Then toward Wade. “And…?”

Wade steps forward, sticking out his hand. “Wade. And you are… something else.”

Sirius snorts, not taking it. “Nice try. Keep it to yourself.”

Remus can’t help it. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Wade blinks, then laughs. “Damn. That’s cold.”

Sirius looks Wade up and down until his gaze finds his newsboy cap. “Your visor’s stupid.”

“You’re not exactly holding back, are you?” Wade asks, peeling it off with one hand.

Sirius hums. “I suppose we have that in common.”

Wade laughs under his breath. “Lucky me. I don’t mind a little fire.”

Remus can feel it happening. The moment pulling slightly off-kilter. Wade’s eyes are alight with curiosity now, and Sirius is dancing his way through the interaction without a misstep, saying things that sting and sing at the same time, as if he’s done this a thousand times before. Maybe he has, because Wade is lapping it up like a starved dog.

There’s a strange clatter in Remus’ chest. A piece of it falls and not quite lands. He forces it down and looks down at his cigarette, focusing on the curl of smoke. He watches the paper burn itself down to the filter. The heat near his fingers is easier to manage than whatever’s happening behind his ribs. 

He draws in, slow, lets the taste steady him. It’s harsh—cheap tobacco always is—but it’s something to focus on that isn’t Wade’s stupid grin or Kingsley’s knowing silence or the memory of Sirius calling him by name in that soft, sugar-coated voice that sits too close to Remus’ spine.

He doesn’t look up until he feels fingertips, gentle, catching on the edge of his sleeve.

Remus looks up, and god, he shouldn’t have.

It’s like looking straight into the sun. Or catching a spark in the eye because you forgot to wear goggles in the forge. Bright, jarring, stupid.

Sirius meets his gaze. “Can I talk to you?”

There’s a little color in his cheeks, a strand of hair caught in his lashes. His fingers are still lightly hooked in the fabric of Remus’ shirt.

Remus flicks the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his boot. His hands are already wiping against his pants out of habit. 

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Of course.”

They step a few feet away from the others. Gravel crunches beneath their boots. Remus adjusts the strap of his work bag, mostly to keep his hands busy.

Sirius glances around once they’re out of earshot, hands tucked behind his back. “Hi.”

Remus gives him a small, breathless smile. His heart jumps in his chest, a restless rabbit. 

“Hi.”

Sirius hesitates. “Look, I know Tuesday wasn’t… great. And I just—I wanted to…” He breaks off, glancing over Remus’ shoulder. His voice drops to a whisper. “Are your friends going to keep staring?”

Remus turns to look, and yeah. Sure enough, Kingsley and Wade are posted by the fence, poorly pretending not to eavesdrop, elbowing each other and whispering behind their hands. 

“No,” he says, louder this time, not bothering to hide his pointedness. “They’re leaving.”

The two idiots nod, terribly. Wade gives him a stupid thumbs-up. Kingsley bows, because he’s an asshole. Then, finally, they shuffle off, still whispering to each other.

Remus exhales through his nose, turns back around. “Sorry.”

Sirius’ fingers drift up to his hair, and he pushes a curl behind his ear. Remus follows the movement without meaning to—watches the curl fall into place, watches the way it frames his cheek and drops just past the lobe of his ear. His gaze trails lower, across the line of Sirius’ neck, down to his elbow. His hair ends there, feathered and light against the fabric.

“It’s fine,” Sirius says. “I mean—I should be the one apologizing.”

Remus shakes his head. “Sirius, you don’t have to—”

“No. Just—listen.” Sirius shifts his weight, looking down, then back up. “I was kind of awful the other night. The stuff I said about the… game. And the flowers. You—you were really sweet. I should’ve met you there. At least for that.”

Ah. There it is.

Remus nods slowly, but it catches in his throat anyway.

Pity. The old favorite.

He doesn’t like it. Not from anyone, least of all from Sirius. Not because it hurts—though it kind of does—but because it’s so direct. So unlike the way people usually talk when they’re trying to backpedal.

But the fact that Sirius came here at all—came to find him, to say this—sends a flutter through his chest Remus can’t quite kill. If pity is the price of this moment, he’ll pay it. He’d spent two days trying not to think about Sirius and failing. Maybe it’s a fair trade for this second chance to talk to him again.

“It’s fine,” Remus says, voice steady even if everything inside him is lurching sideways. “Really. Don’t worry about it.” He watches Sirius hesitate, then tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing with soft concern. “Did something happen?” 

Remus meets his eyes and regrets it immediately. Sirius isn’t wearing his usual eyeliner tonight, but there’s mascara fanned through his lashes and a wash of silvery shadow across his lids, soft and delicate, like the dust of wings. Mockingbird feathers.

“I really need your mum,” Sirius breathes.

That makes Remus blink. “My mum?”

Sirius nods—several times, quick little movements that set his curls bouncing. “Yeah. You said she’s a seamstress. And I mentioned Tuesday that we—”

“Have a performance coming up,” Remus finishes for him. “Yeah. I remember.”

Sirius is watching him again with that unreadable expression, the one that makes Remus want to look at anything else. But he doesn’t. Sirius tosses his hair back over his shoulder and holds his gaze as if it’s nothing. Remus grips the strap of his bag to keep from fidgeting.

“I was hoping she could help us with the costumes,” Sirius tells him. “My sister, Andy, is trying to alter mine, but it’s taking forever. I tried sewing too, but—” He holds up his hand, palm-out. “I stabbed myself with the needle.” He presents his finger to Remus, brow furrowing. “Look.”

Remus leans closer, squints, and yes—the puncture is ridiculously visible. That’s definitely from one of the heavy-duty quilting needles. 

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Sirius drops his hand with a sigh. “Thank you.”

There’s something about how he says it—mock formal, a touch of a smile at the edge—that Remus nearly laughs.

“We’d pay well,” Sirius adds. “I know it’s a lot of work, but we’ve got almost three weeks, and if she has any friends who sew, that’d be helpful too. But I came to you because…”

He trails off. Then his eyes go wide.

Remus’ eyes go wide too, out of pure instinct, which is stupid, because he doesn’t even know what Sirius is thinking about.

Sirius blinks fast, clearly scrambling, but he doesn’t fill the silence. So Remus does.

“My friend sews,” he offers. “Lily. She was with us at the bar on Friday, with Kingsley.”

Sirius nods, a little too fast. “Oh, the redhead. I remember her. One of my friends really liked her.”

“Pandora?”

Sirius squints. “How’d you know?”

Remus shrugs, amused. “Just a hunch. Tell her Lily’s definitely interested too.”

Sirius’ smile is a quiet thing, but real. “I’ll tell her.” He ducks his head a little, bites the inside of his lip, and Remus has to look away before he gets caught staring at the little mole just above his upper one. “So? Will you ask your mum?”

Remus shifts his weight. “She’ll want to help, I’m sure of it. She loves your… thing. Your people. But I just—she works so much already.”

Sirius nods. “I understand. But we’ll pay generously, I can promise that. Like—well enough that she can turn down other little orders if she wants. My uncles are pitching in too.”

Remus catches on that. “Uncles?”

“I live with them.”

“Oh. Sorry—I didn’t know.”

Sirius shakes his head. “It’s fine. You might know one of them, actually. Tobi Cardinal?”

“Tobi? Yeah, we share shifts sometimes. That’s your uncle?”

“Partner of my uncle, Alphard.” Sirius smiles softly. “But yeah, sort of.”

“He’s well-liked around the forge,” Remus tells him.

“He’s well-liked everywhere,” Sirius replies, smirking. “He’s a charmer.”

Remus huffs. “Weird it’s not him who’s your real uncle.”

Sirius lets out a laugh, low and sudden and lovely.

“You flirting with me?” he teases, tilting his head.

Remus frowns, feigning offense. “Of course not.” Then he leans in just slightly and drops his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “You didn’t take the flowers. I’d rather not embarrass myself again.”

There’s a flicker across Sirius’ face—like for a second he isn’t sure whether Remus is joking. But when Remus makes an exaggeratedly sad face, Sirius exhales in a rush, shoulders dropping as he gets it—and this time, when he laughs, it’s loud. Bright. One of those laughs you can’t fake.

Remus grins, and it’s hard to stop.

“Well,” Sirius says, hands sliding behind his back again as he rocks gently on the balls of his feet. The movement makes his skirt sway. “I’ll wait for an answer then.”

Remus shifts where he stands, shoulders rolling unconsciously. “The answer’s yes. I’m sure.” he says, too fast. “I can swing by wherever, pick up the costumes—if you tell me where. Or I can ask Kingsley to—” He stumbles, heart accelerating with every word. “I mean, if you’d rather—if that’s easier—”

“Can I bring them myself?” Sirius cuts in.

Remus blanks. Completely.

“Bring them?” he echoes, stunned, as if he’s never heard the word before.

“I’d like to give them to your mum directly,” Sirius murmurs. “Thank her, if that’s okay.”

There’s a pause, like it’s supposed to be a normal moment, like Remus should nod and say sure, that’s fine and move on with his life.

But instead he blurts, “Come by today.”

Sirius blinks at him. He doesn’t smile, but his lips press together as if he’s holding one back.

“What I meant is,” Remus adds, shifting, tugging at the strap of his work bag. “If you want. Not want, but if you—if you have time.”

Oh god.

“Just—anytime works. I’ll be home all evening, so. Yeah.”

“Mm,” Sirius hums, eyes drifting over Remus’ face slowly, His lashes flutter once. 

Remus bites the inside of his cheek, his tongue pressed tight against his teeth just to do something with the pressure building in his throat.

“Where do you live?” Sirius asks softly.

Remus swallows. “Just down this road. You know the repair shop? With the blue sign, where they fix household stuff?”

Sirius nods. “That’s my uncle’s place.”

“Oh,” Remus says. “Really?”

“Really,” Sirius echoes, grinning.

Remus laughs, embarrassed and charmed. “Wow. Small world.”

Small world. Great. He better shut up or something.

“I’ve got it,” Sirius murmurs. “Down the street from the repair shop.”

“I’ll meet you out front,” Remus says quickly. “If—if that’s okay. I can walk you in.”

“How gentlemanly.”

Remus half-bows, one hand against his chest, playing it off, trying not to combust. 

“My pleasure.”

Sirius laughs again, then lifts a hand and pats Remus gently on the chest, right over his heart, fingers barely brushing the fabric. 

“I’ll be there at six,” he says. “That work?”

Remus nods, wide-eyed. “Yeah. That’s perfect.”

Sirius points to his own jaw, just under the angle of his cheek. “You’ve got dirt. Right here.”

He winks, turns on his heel, and walks away, skirts swishing behind him, hair bouncing with the rhythm of someone who never once doubts they’re being watched.

Which, for the record, they are.

Remus stands perfectly still for several seconds. Then lifts his hand to scrub the spot Sirius pointed at. His palm drags over his skin once, twice.

His ears are burning, and the heat where Sirius touched his chest hasn’t faded. The skin’s still warm. Still aware.

Remus lowers his hand, then—unfortunately—realizes what his face is doing.

He bites his lip, hard, trying to kill the growing smile, but it just turns into a grin. Remus glances over his shoulder once to make sure no one’s watching, then puts his hands into his pockets, spins once—quick, sharp, the strap of his bag swinging with the motion—and heads toward home with that quiet burn still sitting right in the middle of his chest.

Wow.

He loves Thursdays.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Remus heads out just before six, still glowing.

He’s cleaned up, changed shirts, brushed the soot from his boots, and now he’s walking down the familiar path toward the repair shop with a little too much spring in his step. Not enough to be obvious—he hopes—but definitely enough that his curls are bouncing a little against his forehead.

His ears are still warm, cheeks a little worse, and his chest… yeah, still burning. Everything under his skin is too much, as if there’s electricity in his collarbones. 

He kicks a pebble off the path with the tip of his boot. Then another. Then does it again, just to hear the little clack it makes against the stones. It’s stupid. He feels stupid. But also kind of floaty. Like he might start humming.

He tries not to smile, and it doesn’t work. There’s no one around, but anyway, Remus reins himself in. Mostly.

The air’s nice. It’s warm for mid-March, and the path smells like grass and furnace ash. And he is not thinking about much, except—well, alright, he is thinking about Sirius. Specifically, about whether he’ll be wearing another skirt. And whether he’ll bring the fabric neatly folded, or all in a mess. And whether he’ll laugh again like that.

Remus drags a hand down his face, trying to wipe the pink from his cheeks. He’s nearly at the back of the workshop when he hears the shouting.

“Get away from me! I said away! No, no—sweetheart, you’re so clever, aren’t you? You don’t want to—ow! Bad boy! Go! Shoo! Stop—get back, get back—no, no—!”

Remus stops dead in his tracks, frowning. His stomach goes tight.

He veers off the path immediately, ducking through the trees toward the sound, boots crunching over leaves and dry grass.

He’s expecting—he doesn’t know. Trouble. A fight. Someone hurt.

When he emerges from the other side, the sight that greets him is utterly hilarious.

Sirius, in that same dove-colored blouse, skirt flying, arms full of what looks like a bundle of fabric—presumably the costumes—bolting across the field in a half-spin, half-sprint.

Behind him?

A single, furious goose.

The thing is hissing, charging with its neck extended, wings slightly raised. Sirius lets out a small scream as it lunges again, hopping back and nearly dropping the bundle of clothes in his arms. One hand yanks at the edge of his skirt, trying to hold it up as he runs.

“Why are you like this? Why are you like this?” Sirius yells. “Bad boy!”

The goose honks in fury, flaps its wings, and lunges again.

“Remus!” Sirius shrieks the moment their eyes meet. “Do something!”

Remus stands frozen for a half-second, absolutely stunned. Then he huffs out a laugh he can’t hold in, claps a hand over his mouth.

Sirius races past him, skirts flaring. “Stop laughing and help me!”

Remus turns on his heel, jogs after the goose, who’s now pivoted mid-field to follow his target. He lunges, catching the bird firmly around the neck with both hands.

“Buddy. Hey—hey!” he says, crouching slightly. The goose writhes and twists, honking like a siren. “Buddy, calm down, we’re on your side—ow!”

Before Remus can adjust his grip, it bites him. Right on the forearm. He flinches with a hiss, instinctively tightening his grip to keep the thing in place.

“Okay,” he grits out. “Sirius, take his beak.”

Sirius has dropped the fabric in the grass and is hovering nearby, hair in his face, cheeks flushed. 

“Take his beak?”

“Yes,” Remus says. “I’ve got him. He’s not gonna bite you.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Sirius.”

Sirius makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Then he steps forward and gingerly pinches the goose’s beak shut, nose wrinkled in total horror.

Remus sighs, adjusts his hold, then shifts to grab the bird firmly under both wings. He tightens his grip—not enough to hurt, just enough to let it know who's boss. Enough to say, I'm bigger than you. Back down. His dad used to say you have to out-alpha them to win. So, well. He’d better not take any steps back now.

The goose flaps, thrashes once. Then it lets out a wild, offended honk.

Sirius yelps and jumps back. Remus lets go at the same time, nudging the thing away with his boot. It glares at him, huffs once more, then waddles off, muttering honks trailing behind it as it disappears into the high grass like a bitter little stormcloud.

Remus straightens, brushing off his arm. There's a dark red welt where the goose got him. Sirius gathers the fabrics from the grass and tucks them back under his arm.

It takes only a second for him to throw his arms around Remus in one swift, ungraceful motion, hugging him tight—tight enough to make Remus lose his breath.

“Oh my god,” Sirius says into his neck. “You’re a hero. I owe you my life. I was about to die.”

Remus’ arms hover for a second in the air, and he simply stands there—quietly, stupidly—with goose-shaped dirt on his boots and Sirius’ hair in his mouth.

Then he smiles—full and foolish—and wraps his arms around Sirius in return. His eyes flutter shut for one beat. The smell is the same as before: almond, warm and soft. It sticks to the back of Remus’ throat and lingers.

The hug only lasts a moment. Sirius pulls back first, muttering, “Sorry. Sorry. Thank you so much.”

Reluctantly, Remus lets go. His arms drop with hesitation, and everything inside him dips for a beat. The warmth lingers, and worse—so does the smell. He feels like his eyelids are suddenly heavier. Like the sun got brighter. He is so dizzy it’s unfair.

“It’s nothing,” he says, voice a little too low. He nods toward the fabric draped over Sirius’ arms. “Here—let me carry that.”

Sirius hesitates, then lets him have it. Remus tucks the fabric under one arm, adjusts it for balance. It‘s soft, still warm from being held. His arm grips it tighter than needed.

Sirius pushes his curls out of his face, but they fall right back. His hair is long, dense, soft-looking, and every time it catches the light, it reflects a hint of black so deep it could be mistaken for dark blue. There’s too much of it to behave. It keeps falling forward like it’s reaching toward something.

Everything else about him is pale today—blouse like dove feathers, corset in soft creams and scattered florals, skirt ghost-light against his ankles—but his presence still hums with heat. His edges burn.

“Oh, shit,” Sirius mutters suddenly. He reaches out and takes Remus by the wrist. “He bit you.”

He frowns, bending slightly to get a better look. His fingers hover just over the reddening skin.

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” Remus says quickly. “No, it’s fine. I—”

Sirius leans in and blows on the scrape gently. The motion is so unexpected that Remus goes perfectly still. His ribs don’t move. His lungs hesitate.

Just like that.

“There’s skin off,” Sirius muses. “Mary has a salve for this. She keeps herbs and paste and all that healing stuff. We could swing by her place.”

Remus shakes his head. “It’s okay. Really. Barely hurts.”

“You sure?”

Remus nods.

Sirius studies his face. “You’re lying.”

Remus presses his lips together, trying so hard not to smile. He shakes his head again, tucks the fabric bundle tighter against his chest.

“How’d that even happen?” he asks, trying to steady himself.

Sirius exhales, waving a hand as they start walking. He keeps close, stepping in time, matching Remus’ pace as though he’s always done it this way. His movements are natural, easy, like the events of Tuesday never happened.

“He chased me,” Sirius says with a dry huff, tossing his hand back toward the field they left behind. “Just charged. Teeth out. I didn’t do anything.”

Remus hums in disbelief.

“They hate me, Remus,” Sirius declares.

Remus glances at him. “Who does?”

“Geese. Keep up.”

Remus snorts. “What’d you do to them?”

“I don’t know.” Sirius kicks at a clump of grass. “Maybe they’re holding a grudge.”

“Over what?”

Sirius flicks a curl out of his face. “I like swans better.”

Remus tilts his head, amused. “You like swans.”

“Yes. They’re beautiful,” Sirius confirms, without hesitation. “I wish we had them in the districts.”

Remus looks down at the path, then back at him. He thinks about Marlene McKinnon’s silver pin. Up until now, it always looked theatrical—some strange hybrid between mockery and performance. But Sirius likes swans, and he knows what beauty looks like. So maybe swans are beautiful too.

They have long necks. So does Sirius. Remus has seen it in the way he turns his head, in the curve of his collarbone, the way his hair shifts when he throws it back.

Swans are graceful. Measured. They move across water without disturbing the surface. Remus doesn’t know what Sirius looks like in water—he’s never seen him swim—but he thinks about it now. He tries not to. He fails.

Swans are also said to mate for life. That’s what Remus remembers, anyway.

Sirius doesn’t seem built for permanence. His pace is too quick. His eyes never linger too long in one place. He doesn’t stay. He drifts. And yet something in Remus wants to follow anyway. Wants to keep walking, just to see if maybe, today, Sirius doesn’t drift quite so fast.

“My sister says the tributes can probably see them,” Sirius murmurs. His voice is softer now, almost hushed by the quiet. “When they’re sent to the Corvium. For interviews, or the Parade, whatever they do there. I think they can even go up close.”

Remus doesn’t say anything. Sirius isn’t really looking at him. His eyes drift past, toward the horizon. The sun sits low, caught in the nets of thin clouds, and the whole road glows gold.

“Swans are the last beautiful thing they get to see,” Sirius muses, gaze drifting to the far edge of the field. “Before the arena.”

Remus presses his lips together, jaw tightening. The image hits too clearly: tributes dressed in borrowed splendor, trying not to shake while they pretend not to see their own funeral reflected in the glass. That’s all they get. A look at the swans, and then the long march toward the end.

“Like escorts to the sweet thereafter,” Sirius adds.

Remus frowns. “The what?”

Sirius huffs a breath through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, but there’s nothing light behind it. “Covey phrase. Heaven. Or something near it. Where we go after death.”

Remus shifts the fabric under his arm. “You think we go somewhere?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t been,” Sirius answers with a quiet laugh, then nudges Remus gently with his shoulder. “But I hope so. Our starlike souls don’t just vanish, do they?” 

Remus smiles. “No,” he murmurs. “I guess they’d need a place. The sweet thereafter sounds good enough.”

Sirius nods. Then his expression shifts.

“I can’t look at it.”

Before Remus can ask what he means, Sirius is already dropping to a crouch, fingers buried in the grass. A second later, he plucks a wide green leaf from the base of a stem, then pulls something from beneath the waistband of his skirt—a small tin flask, dented at the edge. He unscrews the lid, tips a splash of clear liquid onto the leaf.

The smell of alcohol rises sharp in the air.

“Give me your arm,” Sirius says, turning back to Remus.

Remus frowns. “What?”

“Come on,” Sirius presses, lifting one brow. “What’s wrong, forge boy? Scared of a leaf?”

Remus lifts his arm slowly, still watching him. “What is that?”

“Alcohol.”

“You carry a flask of alcohol around?”

“It’s for cuts,” Sirius says, adjusting his grip on the leaf. “My friend falls a lot. Scrapes his elbows constantly. I always keep it on me for him.” He shrugs. “I don’t drink.”

“You don’t?” Remus asks as Sirius gently takes his wrist.

“No,” Sirius confirms.

He dabs the leaf gently over the bite. Remus flinches, hissing between his teeth.

“Shhh,” Sirius murmurs softly, a quiet lullaby of a sound, barely audible over the wind. His gaze is focused, thumb resting just beside the scrape. Something about it punches low in Remus’ stomach.

“In the bar,” Remus says, after a pause. “You always have a glass. I just thought—”

“It’s just water,” Sirius interrupts. He doesn’t meet his eyes at first. He smooths the edge of the leaf against the skin, then finally looks up. “Performing makes me thirsty.”

Remus watches his face. The beauty marks, the flush from running, the way his lashes frame his eyes when he tilts his head like that.

“Your friend.” Remus swallows. “The one you bring this for. He Covey too?”

Sirius nods, glancing down again. “Yeah. Xeno. He’s in the band. You might’ve seen him—white hair, white eyebrows. Nose ring.”

Remus thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He’s brilliant,” Sirius tells him. “We’re close.”

Remus bites the inside of his cheek. There’s a thought—a large one, noisy and bright and impossible to hold quietly. He folds it in half and shoves it as far down as he can.

He doesn’t ask. Not about close. It doesn’t feel like a question he has the right to ask.

And yet, it burns quietly behind his ribs.

Sirius keeps the leaf pressed to Remus’ forearm for a moment longer, steady fingers pinching it at the corners. Then he lifts it slowly, inspecting the skin beneath. A raw patch, pink and tender. No blood.

Remus glances at it. “What is this plant?”

Sirius gives a somber smile, the kind that looks almost like a wince. “Tulsi.”

Remus thinks briefly of the name on the screen. The coffin on the platform. A boy barely taller than Lily, with blood still on his shoes.

He nods once, slow.

“It does help,” he says, voice quiet. “Already feels better.”

Sirius nods. “Tulsi does that. Mary taught me.”

Remus watches him for a second, eyes tracing up to his face—and there it is. Just beneath Sirius’ left eye, smudged where the heat must’ve caught it, the mascara has left a faint black crescent, like the shadow of a wing. The mark is soft but obvious in the gold light.

“You’ve got…” Remus gestures vaguely. “There’s some… under your eye.”

Sirius blinks. “What?”

“Smudged a little. From the heat, maybe.”

Sirius brings his knuckle up to wipe at it, but the smudge has mixed with sweat, and all it does is smear more.

Remus shifts slightly, taking a half-step closer. “No—lower. It didn’t come off. I can…” He stops himself. “It’s—here, wait, may I?”

Sirius frowns. “May you what?”

Remus falters. “Just—touch. To help. I can see the smudge, but it’s—well, I don’t want to just—”

Sirius’ eyes flick from Remus’ mouth to his own outstretched hand, then back to his face.

“You’re asking if you can touch me?”

Remus hesitates, heart skipping. He doesn’t know if he said the wrong thing. His chest feels a little too warm now, all of a sudden.

“Yes,” he breathes.

Sirius doesn’t move. He stares at him for a long moment, and Remus has no idea what he’s thinking. His eyes flick back and forth between Remus’, reading something there that even Remus doesn’t know is written. He tries to keep still, but he can feel his pulse everywhere.

Sirius watches him for a beat, then nods. He leans in slightly, angles his chin up just a little, offering his face to Remus. The sun touches the edge of his cheekbone. His lashes flicker, glinting faint gold.

Remus reaches out and touches him just below the eye, finger light, soft enough to trace skin without pressing. The mascara smudge lifts under the pad of his finger. He strokes once, then again. Three, four times. Each movement matches his heartbeat.

He pulls his hand away. His fingertip tingles.

Sirius speaks. “All good?”

Remus meets his eyes. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, feeling his heart thudding loud enough to drown out the wind. ”It’s gone.”

Sirius glances down, then lets go of Remus’ wrist where he was still half-holding the leaf. 

“We should go,” he says quickly. “Sun’s gonna start setting.”

He turns and walks ahead without waiting. His skirt flutters behind him, soft in the breeze.

Remus exhales hard, pressing the heel of his hand to his chest for a moment, like that might help.

Please, he thinks. Please get me through this day. Just this one. And whatever comes next.

He follows.

Chapter Text

They passed the repair shop a few minutes ago, barely pausing by its crooked door and the hanging chain of windchimes Sirius often sets ringing with his elbow, but he doesn’t think he’s properly touched the ground since.

Remus walks like a boy with nowhere to be—hands in his pockets, long strides steady, head tilted slightly down. His eyes are fixed on the road, watching for nothing in particular. A calm kind of focus. His shirt’s clean, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His pants are mended neatly at the hip, but his boots are always dirty. Caked with dust and ash and forge soot, like they’ve walked through every fire in District 9.

Sirius can’t match that pace. He tries for three whole seconds before the stillness coils in his legs and he has to move.

He twirls past a thistle, snags a bloom of some orange roadside thing between two fingers. Spins around a tree trunk once, fingers brushing the bark, skirts swinging with the motion. Then falls back in step again, but only for a second, because then there’s a dandelion, and that’s a new distraction. Sometimes he jumps ahead. Sometimes he drags behind. He doesn’t know how to just go straight. 

There’s a low hum in his throat. It’s not even conscious. It bubbles up without warning.

Remus glances sideways. “I think I know that one.”

Sirius half-turns to him, hands laced behind his back, walking in an exaggerated tiptoe. “You do?”

“Is that...” Remus trails off, kicking a pebble from the path. It bounces forward with a soft clack. “‘Sing, sing my mockingjay’?”

Sirius perks up immediately, twirling again, walking backwards now. “Yes! How do you know it?”

“Heard Kingsley humming it at the forge. When the dawn begins to roam…”

Sirius lights up. “Sing me safe, and sing me home! Yeah. That’s the one. Sybill probably taught him.”

“It’s a good tune.” Remus gives a small smile. “Did Covey write it?”

“Mm-hmm.” Sirius hops a step ahead of him, then falls back in line. “It’s really old. My uncle used to sing it to me when I was little.”

Remus glances at him, then away again. “Tobi or Alphard?”

Sirius frowns. He didn’t expect him to remember.

“Tobi,” he answers anyway. 

Remus nods, eyes still cast downward. “That’s nice.”

Sirius studies the line of his jaw, the length of his neck, the uneven stitch on the thigh seam of his patched pants. He doesn’t mean to keep staring, but something about the way Remus refuses to meet his gaze makes Sirius want to catch him just once. Just one second of full eye contact. Just one second of burning, because that’s what it would feel like. 

Sirius is used to eyes that linger and hands that don’t ask, but Remus never lingers. When he does look, it’s fleeting—fast, reverent, almost like it hurts to do it. And that’s maybe the worst part, because for the first time Sirius catches himself thinking about what it would be like to slow down and lock their eyes.

“Sirius?” Remus calls.

Sirius stiffens slightly, almost trips on a clump of weeds. “Yeah?”

Remus keeps walking. “How’d you know I get off early on Thursdays?”

Sirius turns his face sharply away. Lie? Tell the truth? 

Suddenly his tongue is dry and his chest’s too hot and he’s not sure what kind of lie would even sound right. He’s not practiced at this—at saying things that aren’t half-teased, half-bitten truths. 

So the only option is to deflect. Definitely deflect.

“I have my ways.”

Remus exhales through his nose, flat, not buying it. Sirius glances at him, but Remus doesn’t call him out, doesn’t ask again, doesn’t say that i have my ways is not even a reasonable answer. He keeps walking in silence, saving Sirius the embarrassment, and with him, that silence isn’t empty. Remus’ silence is watching. Listening. Measuring.

That’s the thing about him, apparently. If you dodge a question or make a joke, most people chase you instinctively. They dig. They poke and pry and try to catch you on a contradiction. But not him. If Sirius swerves, Remus just steps aside. He lets the space open.

It’s maddening, but it’s beautiful all the same.

“Can I ask you something?” Remus says, quiet enough that it almost disappears under their footsteps.

Sirius smiles. “Now you’re playing shy? A second ago, you were all in.”

Remus chuckles under his breath, a short, sheepish sound. Sirius is pleased with it.

“Well?” he prompts.

Remus clears his throat. “What’s your color?”

Sirius slows. Turns. “Hm?”

“I heard you all have colors,” Remus says, eyes forward again. “Your names. First one’s just a name, second one’s for the color.”

Sirius scrunches his nose. “The first one’s not just a name.”

Remus turns his head a little. “It’s not?”

Sirius shakes his head, drops down and plucks two tiny violet flowers from the edge of the path. Their stems bend too easily, petals trembling in his hand.

“What does the first name mean, then?” Remus presses.

“It’s from a poem.”

“Oh,” Remus breathes, like it’s only just occurred to him. “You have your own poem?”

Sirius shrugs with one shoulder. “I’m Covey, aren’t I?”

Remus is quiet for a stretch. Long enough that Sirius risks another glance to see if the silence is irritation or disinterest. 

He does that just in time to catch the question as it lands.

“Can I hear it?”

Sirius squints at him, the corners of his mouth twitching as he rolls a tiny flower between his fingers. “You want to hear my poem?”

“Yes.” Remus nods once. “Please.”

Maybe it’s the way he says please. Maybe it’s the way he’s asking at all, after Tuesday, after the whole flower mess and the way Sirius couldn’t even look him in the eye. Maybe it’s the fact that Sirius came here at all, that he crossed whatever invisible line separates them—between Covey and not, between performer and worker, between free spirit and kind heart. Or maybe it’s that the lover is a fool wasn’t such a bad draw after all. So many maybes.

But the answer is already there, shaped in memory, soft on his tongue:

Rest, my love, and close your eyes,
Look above where Sirius lies.
Far away, yet burning clear,
He holds the dark, he draws us near.
Though they say his glow is cold,
His fire’s warm, his heart is bold—
Brighter than the stars we see,
He shines for you, he shines for me.

Sirius is barely halfway through when Remus begins to slow his steps. The rhythm of his boots against the dirt softens, then fades. He stops walking. Sirius does too, though not quite beside him. There’s space between them, as there always is. Just enough to feel it.

Not of frost, nor stone, nor shade,
But of light that does not fade.
Blue and white, his embers gleam,
Lighting up our darkest dream.
He was once a shepherd flame,
Calling sailors home by name—
Now he hums a softer tune
Underneath the silver moon.

Sirius watches his own hands, the way they toy with the edge of his skirt now instead of the flowers. The words feel strange coming out here in the open. Not on stage, not under a painted ceiling or candlelight, but here—raw sky above, Remus watching with his whole face.

Sirius doesn’t know what to do with that kind of attention. He’s had hundreds of eyes on him. But never this.

Let the dark come, soft and slow,
There are paths the stars still know.
Even when the night grows long,
Sirius sings a silent song—
Guided not by map or chart,
But by memory and heart.
Shining still, and shining true—
He stays alight to carry you.

Sirius dares a glance. Remus is staring at him, still and careful and quiet. His eyes are twinkling, full of gold light. Sirius breaks the eye contact fast, dropping his gaze to the flowers in his hands.

Wordlessly, he offers one to Remus.

Remus frowns slightly. Takes it.

Sirius tucks the second one behind his ear.

Close your eyes and drift below,
Sailing where the starlights flow.
Hearts that wander far and free
Still belong where love can be.
Little star, you need not fear—
Someone kind is always near.
There, beyond the midnight sky,
Sirius watches, burning high.

Remus shifts the flower between his fingers, then—awkward, unsure—mirrors the movement and slides the stem behind his own ear. He doesn’t meet Sirius’ eyes when he does it. 

Sirius bites the inside of his cheek, not trusting his mouth. Remus' hands go back into his pockets, and there’s that same small, slightly crooked smile on his face. It seems like he doesn’t know what to do with it, but it’s there anyway.

“Very beautiful,” he murmurs. “It suits you.”

“Well,” Sirius drags out playfully. “I am named after it.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Sirius rolls his eyes, fighting back a smile. Remus is so damn cautious—which is, well, fair. He has every right to be, after what happened on Tuesday, because he has no way of knowing Sirius won’t push him away again. Not unless Remus gives him a reason to, and turns out to be just like everyone else.

“So,” Remus says slowly, shifting beside him once more, “Sirius is a name from a poem. What’s the color?”

Sirius bares his teeth in a grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know, forge boy?” He starts walking again, deliberately light on his feet. “What would you guess?”

Remus thinks, catching up to him, then shrugs. “I don’t know. Blue, maybe. Or silver. Like stars.”

“Are stars silver?”

“I don’t know,” Remus replies. “I’ve never been to space.”

Sirius laughs. It’s loud and real and echoes a little in the quiet. Remus doesn’t push for more, and it makes Sirius want to give everything anyway.

“What about me?” Remus asks.

Sirius looks over.

“If I were Covey,” Remus clarifies, “what would my color be?”

The sun paints long golden lines across the road, washing the trees in amber, catching in the curls of Sirius’ hair and the curve of Remus’ cheekbone. Sirius looks around—at the moss, the bark, the wild grass—then back at him.

“Amber,” he says.

“Remus Amber.” Remus makes a face. “Sounds tragic, doesn’t it?”

Sirius shakes his head once. 

“No,” he murmurs softly. “It sounds like you.”

Remus turns his head. Their eyes catch, like fire.

For three full seconds, Sirius holds the gaze. Then he swallows hard and looks away, staring at the path instead. He hears Remus exhale, a little shaky.

“That’s my house,” Remus informs.

The Lupin home is small but solid. The white paint is chipped in places, but the boards look freshly brushed. A woven mat lies by the door, flanked by two clay pots with sprouting green. The roof is the color of rich earth, and it’s quieter here than anywhere else.

It looks lived in. Soft, just like Remus.

Sirius brushes his fingers along the stem of the flower tucked behind his ear and follows Remus to the front of the house.

They reach the porch steps, small and chipped and painted the same flaking white as the siding. Remus pauses first, stepping a little to the side.

Sirius takes a half-step back in confusion, not quite bumping into him but near enough. “What, are we stopping now?”

Remus scratches at the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “I just—I was gonna let you go first.”

“Oh.” Sirius softens. Bites his lip. “Right.”

His heart does this stupid thing again. That soft skip-jump-stutter it’s been doing all day. The anticipation of company, maybe. Of being seen by someone who doesn’t already know every inch of him, someone who doesn't already expect him to sparkle.

He’s missed this—real connection outside the safety net of Covey. He’s missed the small talk, the giddy awkwardness, the way Remus tucks his hands into his pockets like he’s afraid they might betray him.

It’s not that Sirius doesn’t love his people—he does, very much—but sometimes, amid the noise of tambourines and laughter, he forgets how much he aches for this: a little stumble, a breath in between. A boy with hands too big and a face full of freckles.

People in the districts… they look, and they assume. And that’s fair. Sirius built the stage, dressed himself in glitter, and climbed up on it. What he sells, they buy.

Remus’ friend from the forge, for instance. Classic. Charming on second one, smirking on second two, flirty on second three. There’s always a checklist with people like him. It’s like they all carry the same damn script titled How to Win Sirius Over and have memorized every line.

But Remus isn’t like them. Remus stammers. He hesitates. He looks away mid-sentence and says please when he doesn’t have to. Sirius hasn’t had that in a long time.

He drops into a theatrical curtsy. “Thank you kindly.”

Remus laughs, and Sirius steps lightly past him, climbing the three small steps up to the porch. Something makes him turn his head over his shoulder halfway up—a twitch in his chest, a little tug on his ribs. A flicker of that same impulse that made him come here in the first place.

Remus is still standing there, looking at him with those massive eyes—hazel and gold, backlit by the orange edge of the sun. So open. So startled and soft, as though he hasn’t quite realized he’s being watched. His hands are in his pockets again, shoulders hunched slightly, bathed in soft amber.

Sirius’ gaze drops to his mouth.

“Where’s it from?” he asks.

Remus exhales a sound that’s barely a word. “What?”

“That scar.” Sirius nods slightly, eyes caught on the tiny split at the curve of Remus’ mouth that tugs slightly when he smiles. “On your lip.”

Remus swallows, then laughs under his breath, almost just a puff of air. “Forgot.”

“Forgot where it came from?”

“No, no, just—” Remus lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Forgot it was even there.”

He’s still watching Sirius. Sirius watches back. His own smile melts slowly—sticky, impossible to stop.

“Fell off a swing,” Remus adds. “The kind with two seats? One on either side. There were some behind our school. You didn’t…” He trails off. “I don’t remember seeing you there. I guess. You didn’t go to—”

“No.” Sirius’ smile fades gently. “I didn’t go to your school.”

There’s no bitterness in it—only a matter-of-factness that closes the door softly. Remus goes quiet.

It’s not his fault, of course. He doesn’t know the details—why Sirius never went to school here, why no one remembers him from anywhere. He doesn’t know about the things Sirius doesn’t talk about: District 1, the people he left behind, the name he tore in half.

Now he’s Covey. Now he’s District 9. And the past stays buried.

From somewhere inside the house, there’s a shuffle and the creak of wood. They both turn.

The curtain in the front window sways back into place, but not before Sirius catches the silhouettes. The figures are blurred by evening glare, but the outline is unmistakable. One of them clearly has hair just like Remus’ wild nest of curls.

“Is that—” Sirius starts.

“My parents,” Remus says flatly.

Sirius presses his lips together and tries not to laugh. “Are they spying on us?”

Remus sighs. “They… do that.”

Sirius glances at him. “They’re sweet.”

He shifts slightly, reaching out to brush his hand lightly along Remus’ sleeve.

“Come on,” he calls. “Introduce me?”

Remus swallows. Nods. “Yeah. Sure.”

They make it up the stairs side by side. Sirius just a step ahead, glancing back over his shoulder with a slight grin.

“So you really got a scar from falling off a swing?”

Remus exhales through his nose. “Sort of. Landed on the metal crossbar. Split my lip. Chipped a tooth.”

“Mmm. Baby tooth?”

“Permanent.”

Sirius halts halfway across the porch. Spins on his heel, eyes narrowed. “Show me.”

Remus squints. “Sorry?”

“Your tooth. Is it still chipped?”

Remus rubs the back of his neck. “Well—yeah. Dentists aren’t really in the cards.”

Sirius steps closer, peering into Remus’ face. “Where is it?”

There’s a beat of hesitation. Then Remus sighs and gives in. He stretches his mouth into an awkward grimace, baring his teeth. Sure enough, just under the scar on his upper lip, the edge of one incisor is chipped at a diagonal.

Sirius makes a soft noise. 

Remus immediately lets the grimace fall, fishing for keys in his pocket. “Yeah, it’s not exactly charming.”

“No, it’s—” Sirius lifts his chin, still watching him. “It’s cute.”

“Cute?”

“Yeah. Your teeth. They’re cute.”

A breath of laughter escapes Remus. His eyes crinkle, and the dimples appear. 

“Yours are cute too,” he says quietly, unlocking the door while still balancing the stack of fabric under one arm.

Sirius preens at that. He physically can’t help it. His chin lifts, shoulders roll back. A flash of pride flits across his face before he catches it and smooths it away, brushing a curl from his forehead.

Inside the house, he hesitates.

It’s clean, first of all. The entryway is small, but it’s surprisingly tidy. A row of jackets hangs from mismatched pegs on the wall. There’s a bench below them, a little chipped at the edge, and on it is a jacket Sirius recognizes. The one Remus wore Tuesday night.

He hesitates on the threshold, still clutching his skirt. Remus hangs the keys on a tiny hook by the door just as Sirius hears a shuffle.

From around the corner, two heads peek. He catches a blur of curls and a broader frame before the figures emerge fully. The man is tall—absurdly so—and Sirius immediately sees it: that’s where Remus gets the height, the shoulders, the stern brow.

But the rest is his mother. The softness, the freckles, the tender gold in his eyes. Her smile, when it appears, is shaped exactly like Remus’—a little crooked, all warmth. 

“Well, well,” the father—must be Lyall—drawls, leaning into the doorframe. “And who’ve we got here?”

Sirius straightens. “Good evening, Mr. Lupin.”

Remus turns his head sharply, brows lifting. Because—right. He never told Sirius his surname.

Damn it, Tobi.

Lyall, undeterred, grins wider, eyeing the flower tucked behind Sirius’ ear. “Evenin’, evenin’.”

“Dad,” Remus warns.

“Well don’t just stand there, son,” Lyall says, clearly unbothered. “Bring your guest in, introduce us proper.” He doesn’t wait for Remus, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. “Lyall. Pleasure to meet you.”

Sirius places his hand in his. “Sirius. Nice to meet you too, sir.”

Lyall whistles under his breath. “Would you look at those earrings.”

Remus groans. “Dad, please.”

“Lyall,” comes a softer voice. “Let the boy breathe.”

The woman steps forward now and stretches out both arms without hesitation. Her smile is warm, her energy radiant, like she’s been waiting to do this all day.

“Welcome, sweetheart,” she greets. “I’m Hope.”

Sirius reaches out to shake her hand, but she takes both his and pulls him gently into a hug.

It happens too fast to process. Sirius makes a strange, quiet sound—half breath, half stammer—and before he knows it, he’s being held. Held softly.

There’s a sting in his throat he doesn’t want to name. So he just raises his arms and hugs her back. For a second, he closes his eyes.

Hope lets go gently, her warm palms still resting lightly on Sirius’ arms. Sirius blinks, a little dazed, and catches Remus’ eyes just beyond her shoulder. He can’t quite read the expression there, but whatever it is makes his heart stutter. Remus softens into a smile when Sirius meets his gaze, and Sirius swallows it quietly.

“What's that in your hands, Remus?” Hope asks, nodding to the bundle of fabric still pressed under his arm. “The costumes?”

“Oh—yeah.” Remus adjusts his grip and lifts the stack, presenting it. “Sirius wanted to bring—”

“Let me,” Sirius cuts in, stepping forward quickly. He looks at Remus’ parents, feeling a little too seen in the entryway but oddly wanting to be seen right. “I, um—Mrs. Lupin—”

“No ‘mister’ or ‘miss’ here!” Lyall interrupts brightly.

“Lyall and Hope,” Hope corrects with a playful tilt of her head. “We’re not that old.”

“Not that old, eh, Sirius?” Lyall grins.

Remus sighs deeply, mortified. Sirius laughs at that, unable to help it.

“Hope,” he tries again, braver now. “I… wanted to ask you if you could do me a favor—”

Lyall claps his hands. “Oho. That sounds like serious business. Off with the shoes, boys. Remus, get Sirius some slippers, would you?” He gives Sirius a comically solemn look. “Floors are murder on bare feet.”

Sirius snickers, leaning down to undo the buckles on his boots. Remus does the same—effortlessly, without using his hands—and disappears down the hall to dig through a drawer.

While Sirius nudges his boots neatly to the side, Hope leans in with a smile just for him, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “It’s lovely to finally meet you, sweetheart.”

Sirius looks up, startled. 

Finally?

“You too, ma’am,” he says anyway. “I, uh, wanted to bring the costumes myself, but I figured I should ask first…”

She shakes her head gently. “I’m not talking about your performance.”

Sirius frowns. The words don’t process all at once. “You’re… not?”

“No,” Hope says, still smiling. “But I promise, Remus has only said kind things.”

Sirius’ eyes widen, and his ears flush pink. The heat rises down his neck, into his chest. So Remus told her about… right. Right, right.

Her hand touches his shoulder lightly. “Go on in. Make yourself at home.”

Sirius gives a quick, jerky nod, unsure where to put his hands, and ends up gripping the sides of his skirt again as he follows the sound of Remus rummaging deeper down the hallway.

He finds him crouched in front of a cabinet, pulling slippers from a drawer. Remus glances up, his curls falling into his face. 

“Oh. You’re here already.”

“Your mum’s very sweet,” Sirius says quietly. “And your dad.”

Remus sets down a pair and gestures for Sirius’ foot. “Yeah, he’s always like that.” He lifts one of Sirius’ legs without thinking, slots the slipper on gently. “Thinks he’s funny.”

Sirius exhales a sharp breath, heart lurching.

“Remus,” he whispers.

Remus glances up again. “Yeah?”

“I could’ve…” Sirius swallows. “I could’ve done that myself.”

Remus freezes, like he’s only now realizing what he did. His gaze darts from the slippered foot to Sirius’ face, and Sirius is trying not to laugh—but the moment’s already cracked open.

A loud snort escapes before he can stop it, and with it, the roughest, mortifying bark of laughter.

Remus’ eyes fly wide.

Sirius slaps both hands over his mouth, horrified. “Oh shit. I’m sorry.”

Remus laughs. “It’s fine.”

“No, no—really, that was—”

“It’s fine, Sirius,” he says with a wide grin, and Sirius finally lets his hands fall, grinning helplessly.

They both laugh again, softer now, and when it fades, they’re left looking at each other for just a little too long.

Remus clears his throat and breaks the gaze, nudging the second slipper toward him. “Here. Other one.”

Sirius nods, slipping it on. When he straightens, Remus is already standing to his full, unfair height. All the way up. He towers.

“Sorry about all this,” Remus murmurs, glancing down at his fingers, fidgeting with them. “They just… they act that way because...”

Sirius frowns. He’s seen that kind of wrinkle in a brow before. That reflexive shame. He doesn’t like it.

“Hey,” he breathes, stepping in a little closer, catching his eye. “What are you on about?”

Remus glances at him from beneath his lashes.

“You have wonderful parents, Remus,” Sirius reassures. “They’re lovely.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” Sirius hesitates, then tugs lightly at the hem of Remus’ shirt, fingers brushing soft cotton. “Hope is very kind. And Lyall—he’s a charmer.”

Remus’ mouth tugs up. “You really mean that?”

“Of course.” Sirius smiles back, more lopsided now. “Your family—”

“I can hear just fine!” Lyall calls all of sudden, coming closer. 

Both boys jump. The man leans into the hallway, one eyebrow raised and grin firmly in place. “If you’ve got something to say about this family, Sirius, say it in the living room. Preferably while telling me what all those costumes are for.”

Hope’s voice floats in from the other room. “I already told you!”

“I want to hear it from Sirius!” Lyall points directly at Sirius and winks. “Don’t listen to her, she never tells the good parts.”

“Dad,” Remus groans.

Sirius bursts into another laugh.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

“And what, it just lunged at you like that?” Lyall laughs from his armchair.

“Yes!” Sirius insists, standing by the window near Hope’s worktable as she adjusts her glasses to inspect the seams and stitches and worn threads. “Full attack. Wouldn’t stop chasing me until Remus came to my rescue. He’s a hero.”

Remus, lingering at the edge of the room deliberately farther from Sirius, shuffles his feet. “Come on. I'm not.”

Hope handed him a bandage earlier, and he wrapped it carefully over the salve she’d rubbed on the bite. The goose mark still aches if he moves just wrong, but he’s used to aches. What he’s not used to is Sirius standing next to him in his floral corset.

Nothing really prepared him for this. Not even the miracle of Thursday.

When they got back from the hallway and his mother saw the welt, she launched straight into treatment mode. Lyall, naturally, had the time of his life mocking Remus for letting Sirius nurse him with alcohol. The man had apparently spent his entire life waiting for the moment he could unleash full snark mode on the unfortunate child who happened to charm his only son.

Hope, meanwhile, hadn’t kept a single thing from her husband. She spilled everything—flowers, pretty boys, chocolate drops. So now, Remus gets to enjoy the aftermath.

“What’s with you and geese?” Lyall asks from his throne of amusement, steepling his fingers under his chin. “First, you say they ripped your skirt. Now they’re out for blood.” He squints playfully. “Is the skirt okay this time?”

Sirius does a little twirl, hands flicking the light-colored fabric at his hips. “All intact, sir.”

“Attaboy,” Lyall says, grinning.

Remus doesn’t smile. He’s barely listening, to be honest. His head’s loud with static: Sirius is in my house. Sirius is in my house. Sirius is in my house. Nothing really penetrates beyond that. 

After Tuesday night it all feels slightly detached, like sound through water. Sirius is here, laughing with Remus’ dad and twisting his hands nervously when his mother looks at the pile of clothes he brought. Sticking around even though, three nights ago, he made it very clear he wanted nothing to do with Remus outside of stage lights and crowded bars. 

Hope lifts a soft cotton top from the table, holds it up to the light. One of the stitched flower patches is hanging off at an odd angle. “Sirius, darling, these are simple enough to mend.” She tilts her head, motioning him over. “I can fix up the hems and resew the ruffles where you asked. It’ll take a few days, but I’ll have them ready for your performance.”

Sirius steps forward, light on his feet, already focused. “Thank you so much. Really. This helps us more than you know.” He reaches under the waistband of his skirt, fumbling. “Let me—let me pay you up front—”

Hope tuts, placing the top down and catching his hands. “Ah-ah. Payment after. I trust Remus’ friends.”

Remus stumbles. “We’re not—” He glances at Sirius. Sirius glances back, equal parts surprised and blank. “We just… know each other.”

Lyall lets out a hearty “ha!” that echoes off the walls. Remus shoots him a warning glare.

Technically, it’s true. They aren’t friends. Two shows, one failed flower delivery, a chocolate offering, a goose attack, and a walk to his house. There’s nothing binding them but a handful of shared moments. That’s barely a beginning.

Remus, truth be told, can feel an ugly thought creep into his chest—wondering if Sirius only came for help, if none of this was about talking or connection, but just a neatly crafted apology in exchange for assistance. Maybe he’s only here to ask a favor, his mind insists. Maybe it was guilt or obligation. Maybe Sirius just knew Remus couldn’t say no if he asked nicely.

But it fades quickly. It gets drowned out by the memory of Sirius dabbing his wound with tulsi, murmuring soft shhhs. By the way he speaks to his parents with kindness in every line of his voice. By how he now looks down at Hope’s hands, as if trying to figure out how to not insult her craft by not offering her money soon enough.

Lyall leans back, hands behind his head. “So what’s this big performance? You packing a full house?”

“Yes,” Sirius answers. His fingers twist in his skirt again like he’s afraid to overstep. “It’s for the Aurors.”

Hope glances up. “Oh?”

Remus frowns. “Aurors?”

Sirius nods, teeth grazing his bottom lip. “They’re big fans of Covey. Entertainment, mostly. They booked a whole section of the bar. Good pay.”

Lyall whistles. “This’ll be at the Hub?”

“Yes, same as always. Just… this time it’s ticketed. Usually people just toss in whatever they can.”

Remus nods to his father. “The money rolls in. I’ve seen it.”

“Shut up,” Sirius mutters, rolling his eyes.

“Get him, Sirius,” Lyall says with a smirk.

“I am your son, you know,” Remus reminds. 

Lyall waves a hand. “Allegedly.”

Hope folds another skirt neatly. “Can other people attend?”

Sirius nods quickly. “Yes, absolutely. We’re controlling numbers for once. If someone has a ticket, they’re in. We just want it full.” He glances between Hope and Lyall. “Actually—I don’t know if it’s… appropriate to offer, but I’d love for you both to come. If you’d like.”

Remus’ head whips toward him.

“You mean it?” Lyall asks.

“Of course. I’d be happy to see you there.”

“How much is a ticket?”

Sirius is already shaking his head. “No, no. Please. Don’t worry about that. I’ll have you on the list.”

“Darling, that’s sweet, but you’re performing,” Hope says gently. “You shouldn’t give away your work.”

“If you buy drinks at the bar, they’ll profit.” Sirius shrugs. “We’re covered. Please. I insist. Especially after Mrs. Lupin agreed to help with the costumes.”

“Hope,” she corrects, wagging a finger.

“Hope. Sorry,” Sirius says with a sheepish nod. “Getting used to it.”

Hope hums. “Well, I am taking money for the work. So we’re even.”

“Let us buy tickets,” Lyall offers again.

“Not up for debate,” Sirius says brightly. 

Lyall chuckles. “Fire in you, huh?”

Sirius lets out a light snicker, and Remus finds himself biting the inside of his cheek, face turned toward the floor, eyes glued to his feet. Slippers. Right. He’s wearing slippers. Nice ones, they are.

A quiet voice floats beside him. “Will you come?”

He looks up. “Hm?”

Sirius leans in, a little breathless. “The show. Will you come?”

Remus’ face flushes. Don’t flutter. Don’t flutter. Don’t flutter.

His voice is embarrassingly soft when he speaks. “Do I… need to buy a ticket?”

Sirius smiles, exhaling a quiet laugh. “No. You’ll be my special guest. I’ll sneak you in.”

Remus smiles back. Sirius’ teeth peek through the curve of his lips—just a glimpse of sharp white. He tilts his head, and Remus catches his father’s gaze from across the room.

Lyall is watching them. Beaming. All squinted eyes behind glasses and a grin that says I know everything. Absolute betrayal.

Remus shifts his eyes to Hope, and yeah, exactly the same.

They’ve made up their minds already, as parents do, adding color to things that aren’t even drawn yet. Whatever they’re seeing, they’ve imagined.

Remus clears his throat. “Yeah, um… sounds nice. If work allows.” His voice drops further. “I mean. If I’m not too tired.”

Sirius’ smile falters. “Oh. Okay.”

“Thank you,” Remus adds. “For inviting me.”

Sirius nods, eyes lowering slightly. “Right. Of course.”

The silence that follows is painfully loud. Remus’ palms sweat; he feels Lyall’s eyes burning holes in the back of his skull but refuses to look. Sirius doesn’t press further, politely—apparently, he’s already done reaching out. And Remus didn’t say yes.

Remus knows he didn’t say yes.

He knows Sirius knows he didn’t say yes.

And it’s stupid. It’s all stupid. It’s just his parents being ridiculous, and him being ridiculous for letting it affect him. Trying to prove something.

“Will you stay for dinner, Sirius?” Hope asks, glancing up from her sewing.

Remus’ eyes go wide. His chest suddenly feels too big for his ribs. 

“Oh, no!” Sirius says. “That’s too kind, really—thank you, but I couldn’t—”

“Stay!” Lyall calls from the chair.

“Yes, do,” Hope adds cheerfully. “Listen to the old man. I made soup.”

“Soup?” Sirius repeats.

“Ma.”

“I like soup,” Sirius says softly.

Remus looks up at him, heart pounding. They’re going to keep him here, he realizes. Until sunset. They’re going to make Sirius stay, sit at the kitchen table, and eat dinner with them.

He wonders if any part of his body can handle it. He’s probably going to die. His heart can’t take it, or so he thinks.

But then Sirius meets his gaze and shrugs with the faintest curve to his mouth. Remus stares at that smile and just—

Well.

Dinner it is, then.

Hope’s soup is as good as it always is. Potatoes, cheap and starchy, turned somehow into velvet with just salt and butter and the last of the week’s milk. Remus tries to pace himself, but his second bowl is already scraped near-empty, and his fingers keep tearing off quiet pieces of cornbread while no one’s looking.

The table’s small, but they fit just fine, arms brushing now and again, knees nearly touching under the wood. Lyall sits at his usual seat by the window, Hope across from him, Sirius between them, a bit too upright, as if afraid to touch the table with his elbows. Remus watches all of it from the other side, in this strange, warm haze.

Hope sets the pot down in the center of the table. “Everyone good? Full enough?”

Sirius nods with a grateful smile. “This is—” He pauses. “Incredible.”

Hope beams. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s just potatoes.”

“No, honestly,” Sirius insists. “The best soup I’ve ever had.”

“Because you’ve never had my soup,” Lyall says, solemn.

Hope snorts. “You’ve made soup once.” She turns to Sirius. “He almost burned the bottom of the pot.”

Lyall lifts his cup. “Bold flavor profile.”

Sirius laughs, that same high, surprised little laugh that rings like a bell and makes Remus’ chest do strange, fluttering things. He pretends he’s watching the butter melt across his bread.

Lyall, already on his third slice, taps his spoon against the rim of his bowl. “You know, the last time someone praised this soup that much, they ended up proposing to my wife.”

Hope rolls her eyes. “That was you.”

“Well, I was right, wasn’t I?” Lyall gestures around the table. “Look at this fine establishment.”

Sirius snorts into his spoon. Remus chews slowly, eyes on the table, lips twitching. He can’t quite look up. Not when Sirius is here. 

Hope passes Sirius another slice of cornbread from a pan. It’s so golden it almost glows in the lamplight. 

“There you go, dear,” she coos. “Take two if you want. There’s plenty.”

“Thank you,” Sirius murmurs, ducking his head.

Remus watches him smile as he slides it onto his plate, hears the soft clink of cutlery and the faintest tap of Sirius’ rings on the ceramic bowl. The moment feels like it could stretch, waxy and tender, into forever.

They talk, of course. That’s what his family does. Lyall tells a story about one of his students climbing a tree behind the school and refusing to come down unless someone gave him a red crayon. Hope counters with a tale from her sewing co-op. 

“We had one woman try to pass off another’s work as her own. Stole a whole collar and stitched it onto her blouse.”

“No,” Sirius gasps.

“Oh yes. Blamed it on a third girl who wasn’t even there that day.”

“And what happened?”

“She had to unpick the whole thing. Stitch by stitch. I watched.”

“Remind me not to cross your mum,” Sirius whispers to Remus.

“You should’ve known that from the soup alone,” Remus mutters into his bread.

Sirius barks a laugh. Remus laughs along, but his attention drifts—drawn to the way Sirius leans forward on his elbows, visibly relaxed. How he smiles, bright and clear. How he and Lyall trade jabs like they’ve known each other forever.

It hits Remus in a strange place, somewhere old and soft and private. The way it did when he first brought Kingsley home on the rainy day, dripping and limping and furious about a fight at school, and watched Hope hand him a towel and make tea. Or the time he overheard his father give Lily a free pass for borrowing their books and not returning a single one. That’s just how they are. Open. Unafraid of closeness.

Remus kind of hopes Sirius enjoys that. 

He is almost done with his second bowl when he realizes how quickly he’s going and slows down, flushing. He hasn’t eaten since lunch, and even then, only half a sandwich. There is no appetite to spare when you’re healing from rejection.

If Sirius weren’t here, Remus probably would’ve gone for another ladle-full by now. But something about being watched—by Sirius, by his parents, by whatever god decided embarrassment was his dominant emotion—holds him back. 

There’s already too much of him at this table. His long legs knock knees under the wood. His hair is a mess. His bandage itches. And Sirius is here, in his house, offering up his own stories—just a few, light ones, about the twins in his troupe, and the time Xeno tripped mid-verse and pulled half the curtain down with him. Lyall practically howls. Hope pats her chest, wheezing with laughter.

Remus doesn’t miss the way his parents keep watching him, though. Lyall’s been sending smug glances from behind his teacup, and Hope’s got this glint in her eye that she only uses when she’s playing matchmaker inside her head. The look that says she’s already planning a second dinner, just in case.

Parents know things, apparently. It’s infuriating.

Remus pretends not to notice. It’s just dinner. He’s just sitting here eating soup. With his family. And with Sirius. Sirius, who sings like a bird and moves like a tide and talks like everything on his tongue is holy. Sirius, who is sitting in Remus’ chair, eating Remus’ mother’s soup, and looking more like a star than a boy.

Just a Thursday, yeah?

A magical Thursday, that’s all.

Lyall leans back in his chair, balancing his spoon against the edge of his bowl. “So, Sirius, you live with your family, then?”

Sirius straightens slightly, wiping his mouth on the edge of his napkin. “Well—sort of, yeah. I live with my uncles.”

“Ah,” Lyall nods. “Brothers of your parents?”

Sirius shakes his head once. “Not quite, they’re… life partners. Been together nearly thirty years now. They raised me.”

Hope perks up immediately, laying her spoon down. “That’s lovely. They Covey as well?”

“Yeah,” Sirius answers. “One of them wasn’t, at first. Just lived in the District. Met his partner and kind of… fell into it.”

Hope hums, reaching for the bread knife. “How wonderful,” she says gently. “And do you have any siblings?”

Sirius nods. “A sister. Technically my cousin, but we grew up together. So—sister. She’s Covey too.”

Remus notices a strange rhythm now, as if Sirius is speaking more carefully.

“And her name is?” Lyall asks.

Sirius smiles. “Andromeda.”

“Andromeda,” Lyall repeats, setting down a fresh slice of bread on Sirius’ plate. “Quite the thing your family has with stars, huh?”

“They do, yes.”

“Beautiful name,” Hope says. “Just like yours.”

Sirius murmurs a thank-you, shifts slightly in his seat.

“And your parents?” Lyall asks curiously, pouring a little more tea into his wife’s cup.

The shift is small, but Remus sees it instantly. Sirius’ shoulders draw in, the corners of his mouth tuck tighter. Something instinctive braces his body for the answer.

Remus glances across the table. “Hey, you don’t have to—”

“It’s alright,” Sirius says quickly, though his voice is quieter now. He offers Lyall a small smile. “My parents... we’re not in touch. My uncles are my family.”

Hope’s face softens. “Hard times?”

“Ma,” Remus warns gently, frowning.

But Sirius shakes his head. “It’s fine. Really. They’re not… part of my life.” He turns back to Lyall and Hope. “It’s been years. Couldn’t tell you what they look like now. We’re just… very different people. We figured it’d be better if we stopped pretending otherwise.”

Lyall nods, apologetic. “I shouldn’t have asked. Forgive the old man.”

Sirius smiles, and this time it almost reaches his eyes. “It’s alright. I’m not fragile, promise. No harm done.”

Hope reaches over and slices another piece of bread. “Well, we’re glad you’re here, Sirius.”

Sirius gives her a small, grateful smile. “Me too.”

The last of the soup scrapes softly from the ladles of their spoons. Lyall’s third story derails halfway through when Hope suddenly gasps about her burnt sleeve patch job, and then Sirius is laughing again—head tipped back, eyes squinting shut. Remus listens to the soft clink of metal on ceramic, the scrape of chair legs against the floor, the way Sirius’ fingers tap a rhythm along the rim of his bowl when he listens. When he reaches for water, he uses both hands—delicate fingers wrapped tight around the glass. And when he laughs, he still glances at Remus, as if checking it’s okay to be this relaxed.

It’s a strange thing, watching someone learn how to breathe in your house. Remus keeps thinking he’s forgotten how to do it himself.

Sirius finishes his second bowl slower than the first. The inside of it is streaked with broth; crumbs of cornbread cling to the curve of his plate. His posture’s relaxed now, arms finally resting on the table, not hovering awkwardly in his lap like when they’d first sat down.

When Hope reaches for his bowl, Sirius catches her wrist gently, glancing toward the sink. Then he looks at her.

“I can help clean,” he offers.

Hope’s brow lifts, amused. “Absolutely not, dear, you’re a guest.”

“All the more reason.”

“Darling, I won’t—” Hope starts, but Sirius is already stacking plates, gathering spoons, napkins tucked between his fingers.

“Please,” he insists. “I’d love to.”

That quiet, beautiful voice of his. It’s hard to argue with.

Hope relents with a laugh, nodding toward the sink. “Then I rinse, and you’ll dry. That’s the rule.”

Sirius nods solemnly. “Understood.”

Remus watches from his seat, elbows on the table, chin in hand. Sirius moves with an almost unnatural elegance, and Remus knows it’s the performer in him. Even here, with his sleeves rolled up and his bangles clinking softly with every gesture, Sirius is all rythm. Light from the stove lamp cuts across his face, catching the curve of his cheek and the soft shimmer of his blouse. The tips of his hair brush the elbows, and Sirius keeps tucking the strands behind his ears with wet fingers. His rings meet his earrings with a quiet clink.

Lyall wipes his mouth with a napkin and pretends not to smirk at his son.

“Helpful one, this,” he says to no one in particular. “You could learn a thing or two, Remus.”

Remus groans under his breath.

“Yeah, Remus.” Sirius grins over his shoulder. “You better learn while you can.”

“Hilarious,” Remus mutters, smiling anyway.

“Seriously,” Sirius jokes, looking at Lyall. “Adopt me anytime. I can also fix water pipes.”

Lyall winks. “Now that sounds like a promise.”

Sirius and Hope fall into a calm rhythm: she washes, he dries, she stacks. Sirius is a little awkward here and there, careful in a way that says he’s guessing his way through, but it doesn’t matter. He moves like he’s determined to do it right, taking each clean piece from Hope with an automatic, quiet got it, and Remus can’t stop staring at him. He’s not sure what’s making his chest tight—the fact that Sirius is still here, or the quiet ache that soon he won’t be.

Hope finishes drying the last spoon and nudges Sirius with her elbow. “You’re hired.”

Sirius laughs, wiping his hands on the front of his skirt. He glances toward the window, where the sky has slipped fully into the night—indigo and deep bronze pressed along the grass. Slowly, he steps over to it, arms crossed gently in front of him, looking out. The glass reflects the soft kitchen light, but beyond that it’s just darkness and the faint glimmer of streetlamps through fog.

“It’s late,” he says, almost to himself, brushing his fingers along the hem of his blouse. “I should probably head out.”

“You’re welcome anytime,” Lyall says, waving his mug toward Sirius. 

He ducks his head, a bit shy. “That’s dangerous to say.”

“Still true,” Lyall insists. “Don’t be a stranger, Sirius. We’ll always save you a seat.”

Sirius smiles at him. “Thank you again. It was... really nice.”

“The soup?” Lyall quips.

“The house,” Sirius says, eyes flicking to Remus, then away. “The dinner. The company.”

Remus feels his throat close. He sips water to distract himself. His mother doesn’t say anything, but he sees her smile quietly at the sink.

“We’re glad you came,” Lyall tells him, and he means it. “We’ll see you soon, right?”

Sirius tucks a curl behind his ear and nods. “Yes. You’ll be on the guest list.”

“And you’re absolutely sure we don’t need to pay?” Hope asks.

Sirius shakes his head. “Absolutely I am.”

“Then we’ll drink enough to make up for it,” Lyall grins.

“Please do,” Sirius replies, a little breathlessly.

Remus finishes his glass of water and sets his cup down. He stands.

“I’ll walk you?” he suggests, the words more question than offer.

“You don’t have to,” Sirius says quickly. “It’s not far, I can—”

“It’s late,” Remus interrupts, picking up his jacket from the bench without looking at his parents. “I’d rather know you got home safe.”

Sirius hesitates, eyes flicking between Hope and Lyall, then back to Remus. That small, tight smile appears again—the one he wears when talking to Remus in front of his family. Remus returns the same one.

Sirius shrugs nonchalantly, voice dropping. “Alright. If you want.”

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

They leave when the moon’s risen high enough to make the road look silver.

The night smells faintly of wet grass and cold stone. Behind them, Remus’ house glows with lamplight through the curtains, and the sounds of glasses clinking together echo faintly in the kitchen. Lyall waved them off with another joke of his—“Try not to let another goose eat our starboy on the way home,” he said to Remus—and Hope once again promised to finish fixing the costumes as soon as possible.

Now they walk the narrow road, not saying much. Sirius starts just a step ahead, his skirt brushing his ankles in the breeze, then slows to fall beside Remus. Their shoulders stay apart. Their arms don’t touch. But there’s something new in the quiet.

Remus kicks at a stray rock on the path. It bounces once and disappears into the grass. 

“I don’t live far,” Sirius says after a while. “Just past the grocery shop. Then a little down, toward the lake. Near the meadow.”

Remus nods. “I know the area. It’s quiet over there.”

Sirius hums in agreement. “Yeah. We like it. Not many people wandering around. Less noise.”

Remus glances over. Sirius walks slower than usual, without his normal spring—maybe full from soup, maybe because it’s night.

“You all live there? All of your people?”

Sirius shakes his head. “Not all of us. Most of the older Covey have homes spread across the lower northern edge. But we had to settle in Nine.” He pauses, thoughtful. “The Corvium didn’t want us in the center at first. Said we’d draw too much attention and distract people from their work.”

“Did they really think that?”

Sirius smiles faintly. “Not everyone’s as trustworthy as your mum.”

Remus risks a look, heart thumping.

“I think she really likes you,” he blurts, too fast.

Sirius huffs a soft laugh. “That obvious, huh?”

“She didn’t even try to hide it.”

Sirius kicks his own stone. “She’s amazing. And your dad’s great. He reminds me of Tobi. Just, um. Louder.”

Remus snorts, biting the inside of his cheek to stifle a grin. “Yeah. He’s a lot.”

“Good kind of a lot,” Sirius counters, twisting the hem of his blouse. “So you… told them about me?”

Remus falters, voice catching in his throat. 

“When I asked Ma if she could help with the costumes, yeah,” he answers sheepishly.

“No, I mean…” Sirius glances at him briefly. “Before that?”

Remus stiffens. Takes a deep breath. Swallows. 

“Maybe,” he manages, hoping Sirius can’t see how much he’s lying. “Here and there. I don’t really remember.”

“Mm.”

They walk in silence for a few steps. Sirius tilts his head up, watching the moon just beginning to rise over the tree line. The path crunches under their feet.

Remus clears his throat. “So. Big show.”

Sirius hums without looking at him. “Big show.”

Remus kicks another stone. “You get nervous?”

“Sometimes. Not like stage fright. Just… it’s hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

Sirius pauses. “It matters to us. To Covey. When we perform, it’s not just for show. It’s proof.”

“Proof of what?”

“That we’re still here, and there’s nothing they can really take from us.”

“And if they can?” Remus asks.

Sirius shrugs. “Then it was never worth keeping.”

Remus looks up. The moon casts a pale light over Sirius’ hair, turning it silver. He watches the line of his jaw, the cheek turned toward the moonlight, the way his fingers tug at the edge of his sleeve. Remus keeps his own hands in his pockets. They tremble slightly, though he doesn’t need to guess why.

“At dinner, you mentioned one of your uncles lived in the District before joining Covey,” Remus says carefully. “Was that about Alphard?”

“Yes.” Sirius nods. “Tobi’s the one who’s Covey by blood.”

“Must be something, living with him.”

“It really is,” Sirius admits. “He has the best stories about old traditions. The dances, the songs. How weddings aren’t just celebrations, but full-on family gatherings. And family’s what we are. Not District, not Corvium, not Auror, just us. Pretty birds, all.”

Remus hums, smiling at the sudden reverence in Sirius’ voice.

“Tobi sounds like a very smart man.”

“He is!” Sirius agrees, brightening. “But he’s down to earth, too.”

“How do you mean?”

“He always has a simple answer for everything. Says the first thought that comes to your mind when making a decision is probably the right one. And he’s always going on about how the best meals come from scraps—stews with wild herbs, roots you dig up, whatever meat you can hunt or trade for.”

“Do Covey hunt, too?”

“No, but we know hunters,” Sirius replies, glancing at him with a grin. He lowers his voice. “Don’t tell the Aurors.”

Remus laughs softly, raising his hands in mock surrender.

Sirius keeps going. “Tobi never bothers with fancy,” he tells Remus. “Which honestly drives Alphie up the wall, but somehow they make it work. Match made in heaven, I guess.”

“In the sweet thereafter, more like,” Remus says, giving him a sidelong glance.

Sirius whips his head toward him. His face splits into a wide grin.

“Sounds about right.”

By the time the road curves away from the last row of lit houses and the dark surface of the lake begins to flicker, the air has cooled. It’s just a thin breath off the water, cold around the ears, creeping in over the rocks and through the low grass, curling at their ankles like fog. 

Sirius walks in that loose, buoyant way he has—coatless, only the dove-colored blouse against his arms and chest, pale fabric catching what’s left of the light. He doesn’t flinch, but Remus sees him fold his arms, one elbow tightening over the other. The sleeves of his blouse are too thin for this time of night. 

Remus doesn’t think much about it until a breeze picks up. Then he notices the goosebumps on Sirius’ arms, the little twitch of his fingers when he rubs them against his elbows. 

He slows a little. Thinks. 

Then, like pulling off a bandage, Remus stops walking altogether and shrugs his jacket down his arms.

Sirius notices a second later. “What's wrong?”

“Just—” Remus clears his throat, not looking directly at him. He holds the jacket out. “You’ll get cold.”

Sirius’ eyes widen. “Oh, I’m—no, it’s fine. You don’t have to—”

“It’s nothing.” Remus shakes the jacket once, a soft rustle of fabric. “Take it.”

There’s a pause, long enough for Remus to start regretting the entire thing. But then Sirius steps closer and lets Remus drape it around his shoulders. He slips one arm in, then the other, careful with the sleeves, as though the fabric might tear if he pulls too fast. It hangs a little loose on him—wider at the shoulders, sleeves long enough to cover the tips of his fingers. Sirius looks oddly endearing in it. Warmed up. Tucked in.

Remus watches him tuck a curl behind his ear and glance down at himself. The faint glow of his earrings winks through the dark. 

“You’ll freeze,” Sirius mutters.

“I won’t,” Remus argues immediately. “The air’s just how I like it.”

Sirius looks up, mouth soft, hands buried in the jacket’s hem. His eyes flicker—up, down—like he wants to protest again, but for some reason, he doesn’t.

“Thank you,” he whispers instead.

Remus nods once. His heart beats hard behind his ribs.

Sirius tugs the collar up around his neck, fingers catching on the frayed seam. “Smells like smoke.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“No.” Sirius smiles. “It’s nice.”

Remus breathes once through his nose and tries not to trip on a root in the path.

“Will your uncles be worried?” he asks, eyes on the dirt now. “That you’re out late?”

“Nah. Andromeda will cover for me.”

“She lives with you?”

Sirius nods. “She and Ted have a room upstairs. They’re saving up to buy a house—just need a bit more money.”

“Ted’s her...?”

“Husband,” Sirius explains. “They bonded last summer. He’s Covey too. Name’s Ted Tawny.”

“She older than you?”

“Just a few years. But she acts like she’s sixty.” Sirius laughs. “She’ll probably be standing at the door with her arms crossed when I get back. Ask me if I got in trouble.”

Remus huffs a quiet breath through his nose, the closest he gets to a laugh. “She seems nice.”

“She is,” Sirius says. “Terrifying. But nice.”

Remus smiles at that.

They reach the old post that marks the footbridge across the narrow inlet—the one Remus and Kingsley used to dare each other to leap across when they were kids. Sirius stops just beside it.

Remus, not entirely sure why, stops too.

It’s not far to the edge of the Covey area—just past the bend, where the trees grow thicker and the lights thin out. The grocery shop is already behind them, its windows shuttered for the night. Remus knows Sirius’ place can’t be more than a few minutes off.

Sirius rests his hand on the wooden post that marks the foot trail toward the lake. It’s damp with river air. He doesn’t turn to face Remus, just glances sideways and says, “You don’t have to walk me the rest of the way. I can take it from here.”

Remus stands a little closer than he means to, maybe, but not enough to crowd. Close enough to see how Sirius’ curls catch the orange streetlight from across the river. Close enough to notice he’s still wearing Remus’ jacket, too big across the shoulders and slouched around the elbows.

Remus nods, making no move to leave. “I bet you can.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “I do this all the time.”

Remus looks at the trail, then back at Sirius, then down at his boots. He scuffs the toe against the gravel.

“Surely you do.”

The thing is, he knows how to hold a hammer. How to thread iron through a spindle. What he does not know is how to say what he means without sounding like a complete idiot.

Still, Remus tries.

“I just want to make sure you get home safe,” he mutters.

“You don’t have to,” Sirius says again.

“I know I don’t have to.” Remus almost smiles. “But I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, you’ll be fine?” Sirius turns his head, slow, his mouth tugging into a half-smile. “You’re that sure I’m gonna get jumped by another goose?”

Remus shrugs. “You never know.”

Sirius tilts his head slightly, eyes searching his face. There’s nothing in his expression except quiet surprise, and maybe something else that’s harder to name. The shadows make it difficult to tell.

“And what about you?” he asks. “You’ll walk back alone?”

Remus nods, same cadence. “I do this all the time.”

That earns a soft laugh. Sirius glances away, then starts walking again. He reaches up to touch the pendant resting just below the hollow of his throat, caught where his blouse doesn’t quite close. It’s shaped like a star.

Remus notices it for the first time. Maybe he was too distracted by the motion of Sirius’ hands, or the arch in his back, or the curl of his voice.

“That a star?” he asks, nodding toward it.

Sirius rubs his thumb along the charm’s edge. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “My uncle gave it to me for my sixteenth. Said I should always have a piece of the sky with me, wherever I go.”

Remus hums, charmed. He watches Sirius roll the pendant between his fingers, silver catching in the moonlight.

“It looks good on you,” he compliments. “Really. It’s nice.”

“You can say beautiful,” Sirius says, smirking. “I won’t mind.”

“It is,” Remus breathes, before he can think better of it. “It is, Sirius. It’s beautiful.”

Sirius lets go of the necklace. It swings once, then stills against his chest. He looks over, eyes catching in the dark.

“Thank you, Remus.”

The river murmurs beside them, brushing against the trail’s edge. Crickets have started up somewhere in the tall grass. Ahead, the lights of Covey houses are faint and golden, tucked behind the trees and clustered past the grain path. Remus sees rooftops, the soft flicker of a porch lamp, the sway of someone’s laundry line in the breeze. From an open window, there’s the faint sound of music—laughter, a guitar, the soft strum of strings.

“Well,” Sirius mutters when they stop just near the meadow.

“Well,” Remus echoes.

“This one’s mine.” Sirius points to a red-painted house with chipped shutters. “Just past the fence.”

“Right,” Remus whispers, not moving.

Sirius turns toward him. “You’re not gonna walk me inside, are you?”

Remus shifts his weight. “Would that be weird?”

Sirius grins. “Yeah, a little. My uncles are gonna ask questions.”

“Then I’ll stop here,” Remus concludes.

The wind pulls at Sirius’ hair, tugging it loose at the temples. It stirs the fabric of the jacket, making it billow slightly. He pulls it closed, fingers curling at the collar.

“I should go in,” he muses. “Thank your parents for me again?”

“I will,” Remus promises. “I can send the costumes with Kingsley when they’re ready.”

“Or you could just come by,” Sirius offers.

Remus is a hundred percent certain he’s just died one of his tiniest death. Again.

“I could, yeah,” he manages to breathe, hoping Sirius can’t hear the absolute emotional stampede happening in his brain.

You could come by. Who says that? Who says that and looks like that and wears your jacket like that? 

Sirius takes a step back. The porch light catches in his hair, making it shine almost white at the ends. 

“I meant what I said, by the way,” he murmurs. “I’ll put your name to the list, too. You won’t need a ticket. Just show up.”

Remus nods. “I’ll try.”

You won’t try, you idiot. Just admit you’re already planning your outfit.

Sirius watches him for a beat longer. Then he reaches up, undoes the jacket’s top button, and starts to shrug it off his shoulders.

“Keep it,” Remus blurts.

Sirius pauses.

“I mean—” Remus rubs the back of his neck. Great. Now he’s doing nervous hand choreography. “Just in case it gets colder.”

That does it. Sirius’ ears flush pink, and he dips his chin like he’s trying to hide a smile. He glances down at the jacket, then back up at Remus through his lashes.

“Oh,” he whispers. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Sirius exhales, just the barest puff of breath. He presses the collar up toward his chin and mumbles into it, “You’re—um. You’re really nice.”

Remus’ heart stumbles, just a little.

He clears his throat, softly. “Get inside safe, yeah?”

“I will.” Sirius steps back a pace. “You too.”

“Yeah.”

“Goodnight, Remus.”

Remus swallows. “Goodnight.”

Sirius turns. The gravel shifts under his feet as he starts up the sloped path, jacket flaring a little at the edges. Just before the bend in the trees, he stops, turns his head, and calls back—

“I’ll bring it to the show!”

Remus frowns, shouting back. “What?”

“The jacket!” Sirius gestures to it, sleeves flying. “I’ll bring it with me. Next time!”

Remus can’t help it—he laughs, low and quiet.

“Don’t lose it!” 

Sirius flashes a grin over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t dare!”

And then he’s walking away again, disappearing into the soft light of the Covey lane.

Remus watches until he’s gone, until the soft rustle of his skirt fades into the dark, and only then does he let himself smile—hands still in his pockets, mouth tilted toward the stars.

Chapter Text

Every bite of sandwich feels like the clouds part above Remus’ head.

It’s as if an invisible choir belts out a triumphant chord, and a golden staircase descends directly from the sky, lined with velvet and small winged flutes. That’s how good it is. That’s how hungry he is. That’s how violently he sinks his teeth into the ham and cheese smushed between two uneven slices of bread, both edges crushed from how tightly he stuffed the whole thing into his bag this morning.

There are still thirty more minutes of lunch left, and Remus intends to savor every last morsel like it’s the last one on earth, because next time he eats anything will be hours from now, back home and barely conscious. He’s more than happy to take what the universe offers and draw it out for all its joy.

“Honestly,” Kingsley says, chewing through his bite of roasted yam, “it’s kind of impressive how every one of your relationships lasts, what—three days?” He gestures loosely toward Wade, who’s slumped beside him on the wooden bench along the back wall of the forge. “And that’s being generous.”

Wade shrugs, lazily. 

“I’m just not into commitment,” he says, punctuating the sentence by waving his fork. “Prefer not to ruin my life with emotional nonsense.”

Remus snorts, mouth still full. He swallows. “Yeah. Wanting a stable, mutual connection is such a bizarre concept. God forbid.”

Wade shovels another scoop of stew into his mouth. “Look around, man. You see anything stable about this world?”

“There’s such a thing as trying,” Kingsley says. “Y’know—what most people call effort. Rings a bell?”

“Effort,” Wade mutters. “Right. As if I’ve got time for that.”

Kingsley turns to look at him full-on. 

“You should be studied,” he declares, shaking his head. “Like, in a lab. As a living exhibit of zero fucks given.”

“Alright, Mum, lecture me more, won’t you?” Wade says. “Come on, I’m starving for your sweet maternal guidance.”

He bats Kingsley away with the back of his hand, as if swatting a fly. Remus takes another slow bite of his sandwich, chewing deliberately, watching them from the corner of his eye.

“Watch your own love life,” Wade adds, popping another bite into his mouth.

“Mine’s fine, actually,” Kingsley informs. He leans back a bit, speaking through a grin. “I’m very much in love.”

“Yeah?” Wade drawls, digging around in his food. His voice comes easy. “You fucking her yet?”

Remus’ head snaps up.

Across the bench, Kingsley chokes slightly on his lunch. They share a quick, loaded look, and Remus doesn't have to guess what it means. Sure, Kingsley spills him every detail with dramatized reenactments and mimed gestures, but Wade? Wade is not on the list of people either of them would choose to discuss their private lives with.

Wade lifts his head too, brows drawn in confusion. “What?”

“Do you even know what a filter is?” Remus asks.

“What are you on about?” Wade blinks. “I just asked.”

“Maybe mind your fucking business.”

“Wow. Such a filthy mouth on you, Lupin.”

“That’s none of your concern,” Kingsley says flatly, full of that edge he gets when he’s not even trying to be polite anymore.

Wade clicks his tongue. “Don’t answer then. Just a question.”

“And why the hell would I want to? You’d broadcast it to the whole forge the second I turn around.”

“Bullshit.”

“Oh really? Then how come every single person in this building knows Remus lost his virginity to Charity Burbage?”

Remus sighs, not even bothering to look up anymore. He stares at his sandwich, chewing slower now, the bread suddenly tasting a little too dry. At least Kingsley’s defending him. That’s something.

He doesn’t have long to savor the silence, though. The peace lasts a whole three seconds before Wade turns to him.

“Remus.”

Remus closes his eyes for a moment. Maybe he can ward him off with sheer force of will. 

He opens his eyes again, and no. No such luck.

“If not him, then it’s me, yeah?”

Wade gives a low chuckle. “Just wanted to ask something, that's all.” He hesitates, which is unusual for him, and that alone makes Remus tense. “That friend of yours. Sirius.”

The air in Remus’ lungs turns sticky. His jaw tenses mid-chew. “What about him?”

“He performs at The Hub, right? With Kingsley’s girl?”

“She has a name,” Kingsley grumbles.

Wade waves a hand. “Yeah, Sylvia, I remember.”

“The hell you do, dumbass,” Kingsley fires back, flicking something green and unidentifiable from his lunch directly into Wade’s lap. “It’s Sybill.”

“Right, Sybill, that’s what I said.” Wade turns back to Remus. “So? What nights?”

Remus lifts a brow, deliberately stupid. “What nights what?”

“Come on, man,” Wade whines. “What nights does Sirius perform?”

“Why do you care?”

“Thought I’d swing by,” Wade says, shrugging. “Talk to him.”

“He’s taken,” Remus blurts before he can think better of it.

Kingsley jolts. “Actually, he’s single.”

He stiffens from pure regret instantly. His face says shit, because he knows exactly what he just did. Remus turns and shoots him a look so venomous it might’ve melted steel. If he had a personal collection of death glares, this would be his prized exhibit.

Wade, unfazed, sets his container aside and claps his hands once. “Well, that’s just brilliant.” He starts patting his pockets, probably for cigarettes. “Honestly, haven’t stopped thinking about him.”

“Fantastic,” Kingsley mutters. “Keep it to yourself.”

But Wade doesn’t. He pulls out a half-crushed pack and a matchbook, already preparing for a whole monologue.

“No, seriously,” he begins, lighting up. “Those eyes, that goddamn skirt swishing around his hips like that? Come on, Kings, you saw his waist the other day, right? Cinched in that lacy little corset thing?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Oh wait, no, you’re the loyal type, I forgot. My bad. Anyway—I saw it, and let me tell you—”

“Would you stop saying it like that?” Remus snaps.

Wade looks up, confused. Eyebrows drawn, as though he honestly doesn’t get it.

“Is your dick,” Remus says, loud enough for the yard to pause just a bit, “the only thing you think with?”

Wade snorts, then shrugs. 

“Mostly, yeah,” he admits, flicking ash lazily onto the dirt. His eyes skim over Remus. “What, I can’t appreciate someone beautiful now? Honestly, you two act like I committed a crime.”

Kingsley doesn’t even look up from his food. “Somehow your version of appreciating beauty always circles back to asses and tits. So yeah, maybe we should reflect on that.”

Wade doesn’t answer, but he keeps staring at Remus while still smoking his cigarette. Remus can practically feel him looking, like a weight against his temple.

“What is it?” he bites. “Appreciating my beauty now?”

Wade raises his hands in surrender and lets out a slow stream of smoke. “Damn, relax, man. You’re jumpy today.”

Remus stares at the dirt by his boots. One of the laces is fraying again, and it’s starting to unravel. He should fix it tonight. Or just burn the whole boot. Or maybe move to a different district entirely. Change his name. Start fresh as someone who doesn’t get secondhand humiliated for just sitting within earshot of Wade West on a Friday lunch break.

“Wait,” Wade drags out. He peers closer, then whistles. “Wait a second. He’s not your thing, is he? ’Cause like, if he is—I’ll back off. Brotherhood first, or whatever.”

Kingsley lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Wow. You do have some decency buried under all that filth.”

“I’m serious,” Wade says, finally looking at Remus with something that might actually pass for curiosity. “You into him?”

The sandwich hovers halfway to Remus’ mouth.

The world feels louder now—the birds overhead, the clinking of tools from inside the forge, the faint creak of the back fence in the wind. Somewhere behind them, someone’s hammering in a rhythmic beat that syncs a little too well with his pulse.

It would be easy to lie. To shake his head. To play dumb and pretend Sirius hasn’t been taking up more and more of his brain lately, one hair toss and side-smile at a time. To act like he doesn’t still remember the smell—almond, soap, smoke—that lingers on his clothes long after Sirius is gone. Like he didn’t spend the whole walk home Thursday turning every moment into some kind of fantasy. Like he doesn’t still carry the shape of that soft thank you, the sight of his jacket hugging Sirius’ frame, the look Sirius gave him when Remus offered to walk him home.

Lying is easy. Honesty is not.

That’s what makes up his mind.

“No,” he lies, shrugging nonchalantly. “I’m not.”

Kingsley watches him—one beat, two—then looks away. Remus doesn’t return the glance. He focuses on his food, the peeling edge of his bread, the way the cheese has gone stiff at the corners.

Wade takes another drag. His eyes shift past the yard, through the trees, toward the scrap line and fences and beyond.

“Well,” he mutters, exhaling a slow ribbon of smoke, “in that case, I wouldn’t mind checking out a Covey show with you guys sometime. Bet there’s plenty of eye candy to go around.”

Remus finds some relief—thin, barely there, but real—in the knowledge that Wade isn’t fixated on Sirius. He’s not really fixated on much of anything, and for once, his inability to stay committed—to one person, to one anything—for longer than a long blink works in Remus’ favor.

He glances at Kingsley again. Their eyes meet, but Kingsley’s stare is too confused to bear, and Remus drops his gaze quickly. 

There’s no doubt he knows. Remus told him everything himself, that day on the playground. And it’s pointless, really, to keep denying it now. But what other choice does he have? What’s he supposed to do, let Wade parade that information around the district until it lands right at Sirius’ feet?

The idea of being laughed off by the most mesmerizing boy he’s ever seen—yeah. Not exactly an appealing prospect.

Wade stubs out his cigarette, brushing the ash from his fingers against already-filthy pants. “Anyway,” he says, standing with a grunt, “I better head back in. My station’s a fucking mess. If Rhubarb sees it, he’ll have me scrubbing slag for the rest of my life.”

He scoops up his container, catches his fork before it falls, and to Remus’ enormous relief, walks off, followed by the soft jangle of the tools on his belt and the fading echo of his boots on the gravel.

Kingsley tosses a dry “Don’t trip” after him, and Remus adds a nod of parting that Wade doesn’t see.

Wade’s not a bad guy, exactly. He’s just built different. He sees the world skewed—at an angle that rarely lines up with how Remus sees things—but that doesn’t make him evil. There are people out there like him, and somehow they always find others who echo their wavelength. The odd thing is, Wade never seems to gravitate toward those people. He prefers his careless, childish games where someone always ends up bleeding while he walks away clean. Heartbreaking for sport.

Perhaps that’s the part that gets to Remus most: Wade doesn’t really care about people who just want something good. People who maybe want things they’re not even sure they understand. People who read too much into looks and kindness and you’re really nice whispered in a hushed voice.

It’s not like Remus gets a say in what Sirius wants, either. Sirius is a grown man, with his own mind and preferences and feelings—probably complicated ones—and if he did ever go for someone like Wade, Remus wouldn’t have the right to judge that. Wouldn’t even be surprised, really. Maybe Sirius would be fine with someone like Wade. He’s fun, he doesn’t ask for things, or press too hard, or feel too much. 

Sirius could handle chaos. He could make anything look like art, even heartbreak.

And yet, there’s a sour little thing lodged between Remus’ ribs. It’s the size of a cherry pit, and just as sharp, bitter and cowardly and small, dragging his bones together and whispering things he doesn’t want to hear.  He probably knows the name for it. He would admit it if he could stomach the truth, but he can’t.

Remus prefers to tell himself it’s righteousness. He tells himself he’s a good guy who doesn’t decide things for other people and definitely doesn’t lie to himself every night when he goes to sleep.

Because, end of the day, he’s nothing to Sirius. No matter how warm that Thursday night had been, no matter how much of it lives rent-free in his mind, this is Friday. And Remus’ life has every intention of snapping back to normal like a rubber band.

Unfortunately, Thursday magic only works on Thursdays.

As soon as Wade disappears around the corner of the forge, swallowed by the rust-colored building and the shouting metal inside, Remus can hear Kingsley exhale and scuff his boot against the dirt.

Here we go.

“King,” he warns, already tired, already bracing. “Don’t start.”

Kingsley, of course, starts anyway. “Why the hell did you tell him Sirius doesn’t do it for you?”

“Please, I’m begging you,” Remus groans, “just let me eat my lunch in peace.”

“So that’s the plan now? Just hand Sirius over to that vulture on a silver plate? You want me to braid the roses for the tray or you’ll manage?”

Remus rolls his eyes and bites into the last corner of his sandwich. “First of all,” he mutters through a mouthful, “Sirius isn’t a thing I can hand over. He’s a person. He decides for himself.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And second of all,” he adds, wiping his fingers on his pants, “you and I both know Wade can’t keep his mouth shut. If he spreads it around, it’s only a matter of time before it ends up in Tobi Cardinal’s lap. And guess who Tobi is?”

Kingsley doesn’t even try to answer, just as Remus doesn’t need to say the next part.

Kingsley sets his lunch container aside, all composed again. “Okay, fine. But just—theoretically—would you want Sirius to know?”

Remus snorts under his breath. “Yeah, dreaming of it nightly.”

"I’m serious," Kingsley presses. "What’s the worst thing that happens? He finds out?"

"Best case, he just ignores me forever,” Remus muses. “Worst case, tells me to fuck off again.”

He picks at the crumbs in his palm and reaches into his pocket for the crumpled cigarette pack. He offers it over wordlessly.

Kingsley takes one, grateful, and leans in for the light. “But Thursday went well, didn’t it? I mean, you said he hugged you.”

“Because he was hopped up on adrenaline. He’d just been chased by a goose.”

“Or maybe,” Kingsley says, lips quirking as he exhales, “he hugged you because he likes you. He stayed for dinner. He wore your jacket. That’s not nothing.”

Remus shrugs. “He’s just polite. Polite and charming.”

Kingsley’s quiet for a while, watching the wind spin the dust across the empty lane, some old half-broken hauler cart creaking down the road kicking up dry weeds. 

“You’re too hard on yourself, Remus.”

“I haven’t even said anything about myself.”

“You don’t have to.” Kingsley flicks ash off the end of his cigarette. “I’m your best friend. I’ve known you long enough to hear what you don't say. You’ve decided, somewhere deep in that guilt-riddled head of yours, that Sirius is too good to look twice at you. And I don’t know where that came from, but I’m here to tell you it’s bullshit. You’re more than worth looking at.”

Remus groans. “Please stop talking.”

“I’m just saying—if I were a girl… or a guy—well, I am a guy, but you know what I mean—”

Remus finally laughs, rolling his eyes, which makes Kingsley smirk harder.

“Alright,” Remus says, hand lifted in warning. “You’re digging your own grave now.”

“Fair. Sorry. Got carried away,” Kingsley laughs, palms raised in surrender. "But seriously. Don’t write yourself off just because Sirius sparkles like a star. I thought I didn’t have a chance in hell with Sybill either, remember? She seemed way out of my league.”

“You didn’t have a chance,” Remus mutters. “She just got weirdly obsessed with your sense of humor.”

Kingsley shrugs, pleased. “Well. There you go. Point is—sometimes the universe surprises you. If something’s actually yours, it’ll find a way.”

Remus chews that over. It sits, prickling a little.

Eventually, still afraid to name it aloud, he says:

“I really want it to be mine.”

Kingsley grins. Nudges his shoulder.

“Then it will be.”

The cigarette burns slow in Remus’ hand, smoke curling in lazy spirals, and there’s still that little draft somewhere under his ribs, the one that makes everything feel slightly off.

“I just…” Remus pauses, picks at the fraying hem of his sleeve, watching the thread peel back. “I think I keep waiting for the moment he decides I’m not worth it.”

Kingsley doesn’t interrupt, shaking ash off the end of his cigarette. Remus watches it fall onto the dusty ground between his boots. 

“It’s like I have this countdown clock inside my head, you know? I mean, okay, maybe he’s being nice now, maybe he laughed at dinner, maybe he even smiled when I gave him the jacket, but that’s all temporary. That’s just—” he snaps his fingers, sharp and empty, “—spark. No staying power.”

“You don’t know that,” Kingsley says gently.

Remus shrugs. “But what if Thursday was just a fluke? I mean, what if it only felt soft and… I don’t know, full, because I wanted it to feel that way?” He chuckles. “You didn’t see how he looked at me that evening. After the flowers. Like I was fucking pathetic.”

“And you’ve never looked at someone differently after getting to know them?”

Remus stays quiet. The wind picks up the ashes from the ground and carries them into the sunlight.

“He came to you, Remus,” Kingsley adds, softer now. “He didn’t have to. That wasn’t politeness, that was choice.”

Remus takes a drag, exhales through his nose. It stings a little.

“I don’t want to misread anything. I don’t want to be that stupid person who builds a castle out of a smile and then blames the other person when it crumbles.”

"You’re not," Kingsley says. "You’re not stupid. You’re just scared."

Remus looks at him sideways.

Kingsley shifts a little beside him on the bench, one foot braced against the wood, elbow slung across the backrest. "So was I, with Sybill. Terrified. She sees through everyone. I thought if I let her look at me too long she’d figure out all the cracks. But she didn’t run. And neither will he, if he’s anything like I think he is."

Remus sighs. “It’s dangerous, King. Letting yourself imagine that kind of thing. That someone like him could want to be part of… whatever the hell this is. Me. My life.”

“Why is it dangerous?”

“Because people like Sirius belong to movement," Remus murmurs. "To music—I don’t know—to noise and heat and rhythm. To people who can keep up with all that. I can’t shine back at him, not like he does.”

“You’re so full of shit, it’s actually impressive.”

Remus’ brows pull together. He turns.

“I mean it.” Kingsley huffs. “That whole monologue? Pure crap.”

Remus chuckles bitterly. “Well, thank you very much, best friend.”

“Sirius came to the forge, Remus,” Kingsley continues. “He sat at your dinner table. He told your mum her soup was the best thing he’s ever tasted—"

“Which is probably true,” Remus cuts in, automatic, quiet-smiling.

Kingsley ignores him. “He let your dad tease him about the goose thing, and he liked it. He laughed, and did the washing up, and took up space in your house. And then he let you walk him home.”

Remus says nothing.

Kingsley leans forward. “You’ve got it all twisted in your head. You think you have to be shiny to matter to someone like him, but you don’t. You just have to show up. Be the same Remus you were on Thursday night. The one who offered his jacket. The one who made Sirius laugh and actually let himself be happy, for once.”

Remus bites the inside of his cheek. “What if that’s not enough?”

Kingsley levels him with a look. “Then he’s an idiot. But you won’t know unless you try. Don’t write yourself off, Remus. Don’t expect the world, but don’t hide from it either. Let things unfold. One moment at a time.”

Remus nods once, then again, slower. He finishes the last drag of his cigarette and lets it fall. Stomps it out gently.

Kingsley does the same, then leans back against the bench and looks up at the sky. “If he’s too blind to notice what he’s got in front of him—”

Remus looks at him.

“—then he needs to buy a pair of fucking glasses. You’re good, mate.”

Remus smiles, lips twitching upward. He snorts despite himself.

“Thanks, King.”

“Anytime.” Kingsley smirks. He nudges him with his shoulder teasingly. “Forge Boy.”

Remus actually laughs this time.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

When the sun kisses Sirius through the glass, it doesn’t ask permission. It slips in across the sheets on his bed, across his knees where his skirt has ridden up, across the sharp ridge of his cheek and the soft dip of his collarbone, across his knuckles, warm and pale and relaxed against the thin fabric of his blouse. It slides over his eyelashes and gets caught in his smile, because yes—he’s smiling. Horribly. Stretched wide in a grin so bright and unrepentant, it might blind the moon if she looked too closely.

Sirius pulls one arm overhead, the other falling limp across his stomach, fingers twitching against the soft hem of his blouse. His whole body feels loose. Softened. Glowing from somewhere inside out.

His thoughts, for two days, have followed the exact same trail. A loop. A carved-out track with Remus Lupin at the center. He doesn’t mean for them to, but his brain is a stupid thing, and it has decided that the most interesting thing in the world is a boy with a chipped tooth and a mouth that only smiles in quiet, careful corners.

Sirius should be embarrassed, probably. If his brain weren’t currently a cotton-stuffed void, he might be.

“I’m talking to you,” Pandora says.

Probably to Sybill. They’re in one of their weirdo twin-speak moods again. It’s just that Sybill speaks in hushed tones, and Pandora swears more.

“Sirius!”

He jerks and lifts his head with a frown, aiming it toward Pandora where she’s perched cross-legged near his hip. “What?”

“Stop smiling like that. It’s terrifying. What’s gotten into you?”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Nothing.”

Which, of course, is a lie. 

“Look at you, birdboy,” Mary sings from the old armchair, sprawled across Andromeda’s lap, tracing slow spirals on her forearm. “You’re head over heels for him.”

“I don’t even know him,” Sirius sings back in perfect pitch.

“You’ve been smiling for three days,” Mary counters. “Like your face got stuck mid-swoon. I don’t even get how you’re into boys. You literally have free will and you chose them.” She flicks her eyes briefly at Andromeda. “No offense, Andy.”

“None taken.” Andromeda laughs softly. “I married one. Regrets are expected.”

Sirius stares off at the opposite wall, a sleepy, weightless curve tugging at the corners of his mouth again.

“I don’t like him,” he argues. “I just think he’s… sweet.”

Sybill hums from the floor, flat on her back on the patchwork rug. “A few days ago, you fake-gagged when I called Kingsley sweet. Hypocrite.”

Sirius grins into his hand, bites his knuckle, turns his head to the wall to hide it.

“He can’t even control what he’s doing,” Pandora observes, flipping her hair out of her face as she rights herself on the bedframe. “Look at him. Fully gone.”

“He doesn’t care,” Sybill declares.

“He’s not even listening,” says Andromeda.

“And he’s smiling again,” Mary supplies.

Sirius buries his face into the pillow. “Alright, enough.”

They honestly are revolting. Sirius would tell them that, but he’s just too busy feeling things right now—which, by the way, is scary as hell.

“I feel bad for him,” Mary informs no one in particular.

“Feel bad for yourself,” Sirius mumbles into the fabric.

“If it feels like a trap,” Pandora says in that usual strange, softly sinister tone, “it’s because you’re already in one.”

Sirius lifts his head. “Can you just speak like a normal person for once?”

Sybill stretches her arm lazily. “And what would be the fun in that?” 

“No one called for a lawyer,” Sirius says. “Keep scratching at the rug.”

“You’re so mean when you’re in denial,” Mary croons.

“I’m not in denial,” Sirius counters, drawing the words out like honey. He stretches out on the bed again, and Pandora’s fingers skim his hair. “You can’t deny something that doesn’t exist.”

Andromeda tilts her head. “So the forge boy doesn’t do it for you.”

“And you don’t blush every time someone says his name,” Mary adds.

“I’m just hot,” Sirius says. “March is sizzling this year. The whole district’s boiling.”

Andromeda sighs. “You won’t catch him, Mary.”

“Nope,” Mary agrees. “Stars are beyond me.”

Sirius flips over with a groan, face half-buried in the pillow. It’s better this way with his cheek all squished. If he keeps it like that, maybe they won’t notice that stupid smile crawling back onto his lips. He glances at the drawer where Remus’ jacket is still tucked away, smelling like smoke, woodsy cologne, and him, then closes his eyes.

Every day since Thursday, he’s stared at the door. He tells himself it’s about the costumes and logistics, but every time there’s a knock, Sirius finds himself hoping. Every time he hears boots hitting stones outside, he sits up straighter.

Because Remus is still out there. Somewhere. Maybe already done with his shift at the forge, maybe halfway across the square.

Sirius just… kind of wants to see him again.

That’s just normal, isn’t it? Remus is a nice person to want to see. He’s polite. He doesn’t say much, but somehow makes the silence feel safe. 

And he smells really good, too.

“Why can’t I perform with you tonight?” Sirius groans, rolling onto his back and glaring at the ceiling. “This is stupid. I want to get on stage.”

“I’ve told you five times,” Sybill answers. “You need to rest your voice before you screech it raw in front of Aurors. Unless you want to get pelted with tomatoes and rotten eggs?”

Sirius clicks his tongue. “That has never happened in the history of the Covey. Ever.”

Sybill shrugs. “It’s a visual metaphor.”

He picks a stray bit of thread off the blanket and tosses it in her direction. Pandora rises to her knees beside him and keeps playing with his hair, twirling one of the curls around her finger. Her nails are freshly painted a soft, pale pink. It looks good against her tan skin.

“Did you invite Kingsley, Sibby?” she asks.

“Of course I did.”

Sirius lifts his head so fast he nearly smacks Pandora’s chin. “Is Remus coming too?”

Pandora flicks him lightly on the back of the head, coaxing his cheek back to the pillow. “See? Weakling. Knew it.”

“That why you asked her about Kingsley? To trap me?” Sirius glares at her sideways. “Manipulator.”

“Oh, watch it,” Andromeda mutters from the corner. “She asked because she’s nosy.”

“Nosy about whether Kingsley’s redhead friend is coming,” Mary quips.

Sirius’ grin returns on cue. How had he forgotten?

“Oh, that’s right,” he croons, eyes flicking toward Pandora. “You’ve got a thing for Lily.”

Pandora shrugs, eyes flicking away. “She’s got a nice aura.”

“You say that about Xeno.”

“Xeno is the other half of my soul,” Pandora replies serenely. “That’s different.”

“Yeah,” Mary chimes in, “and Lily’s the one she’d like to bang.”

“Mary!” Pandora scolds.

“What?” Mary lifts both hands. “Clementine’s helping her aunt today, so I’m filling in. None of you is leaving this room emotionally intact.”

Sirius rolls over onto his back, arms folded behind his head. “Well, actually, Remus said something.”

That gets Pandora’s attention. She leans forward, dark eyes narrowing with focus.

“He might’ve mentioned,” Sirius says, keeping his voice light, “that Lily is interested too.”

Pandora stares at him, hands still in his hair.

“So. You know.” Sirius grins. “Shoot your shot. If she shows up.”

Mary gasps. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. Remus told me.”

“And now you hang on every word that boy says,” Andromeda murmurs. “You’re smitten, my star.”

Sirius narrows his eyes at her. “Must you ruin everything?”

Mary swings her legs lazily over Andromeda’s lap. “Are you gonna see him again?”

Sirius presses his fingers to the center of his forehead, right between his eyes, and lets out a breath.

It’s not his fault that he keeps glancing at the door, just in case. Hoping, against reason, that he’ll hear a knock. That Remus will show up with the costumes. That he’ll look as startled and gentle as he did by the fence, saying, I just want to make sure you get home safe.

It’s not Sirius’ fault, either, that Remus happens to say please in a way that echoes for hours, that he listens attentively, or averts his eyes like it hurts to be looked at too long.

It’s not his fault that Remus makes him want to smile like this.

All the damn time.

“I need to pick up the costumes,” Sirius answers. “He’ll probably reach out through Kingsley.”

“Or just show up,” Andromeda offers. “Seeing as he walked you all the way to the gates on Thursday.”

“He won’t,” Sirius blurts out. “He’s not—he’s not that type.”

Sybill tilts her head. “What type?”

“Not a fool,” Sirius says without thinking. “Like Panny said.”

Pandora pauses mid-twist. “I never said he was a fool.”

“Yes you did,” Sirius insists. “When you read the cards. You said the lover is a fool. He’s not.”

Mary and Andromeda both make an awful, affectionate little cooing sound.

“Don’t you dare,” Sirius growls, pointing at them.

Pandora hums thoughtfully, her fingers slipping through the strands near his temple. “Then maybe you’re the lover and a fool.”

Sirius glares up at her.

She smiles. “Just a thought.”

“Why don’t you think about asking out the girl you like,” Sirius snaps, “instead of sitting here being useless with your useless theories.”

“He’s back to being rude,” Mary chirps. “We’ve broken him.”

Sirius huffs and flops forward, pressing his face into Pandora’s stomach in a silent, sheepish apology. She smooths his hair back with one hand and lets it go.

The sun catches the back of his neck, warming the skin where his collar dips low. His fingers find the edge of Pandora’s frilly blouse, and he toys with a ruffle absently while the girls shift around him.

“It’s just…” he starts, voice muffled, “His family was—nice. I mean, really nice.”

Andromeda glances at him. “They sound it.”

“It reminded me—” Sirius hesitates, nose brushing the cotton ruffle of Pandora’s blouse. “Of this. Right now. All of us. His parents are great people. I liked them.”

Mary hums. “You would. They fed you.”

“It wasn’t just the soup.”

“They make good soup?” Pandora asks.

“Amazing soup,” Sirius replies solemnly. “But it was the way they were. They made space for me. Treated me like I’d been coming there every week for years. Not like a stranger.”

“That’s a rare thing,” Andromeda says. “Not everyone gets that. Ted still sneaks into the house like a mouse when he thinks Alphie might be home. Poor bastard.”

Sirius chuckles into Pandora’s stomach because, yeah. Alphard is not casual when it comes to the topic of dating in the family

Despite all his teasing, Alphard is viciously protective. If it weren’t for Tobi softening him at every turn, Andromeda might’ve never made it down the aisle. Alphard probably would’ve locked the doors and sent Ted packing.

He means well, but he’s also borderline obsessive about who gets let in. All bark and half a bite, but the bark’s loud enough to shake anyone’s confidence. Andromeda’s first boyfriend barely lasted past dessert—didn’t pull out her chair at dinner, poured his own tea before hers. Gone before you could say misstep.

Sirius shakes his head into the pillow. “I mean, Ted has grown on him. It just took… several interrogations. And proving seventy times over that he’d choose you over himself.”

Andromeda snorts. “Alphard is such a hypocrite. He moons over Tobi like it’s a performance piece but wants my husband to prove his soul is pure before he can touch the doorknob.”

“Be glad he let you marry him at all,” Sirius murmurs. “You’re soul-bound now. Nothing can tear you apart.”

At once, like clockwork, four hands lift into the air. Mary, Pandora, Sybill and Sirius all point their bare ring fingers to the ceiling.

“Forever,” they chant.

Andromeda rolls her eyes, but she’s laughing too.

“And speaking of gentlemanly behavior,” she says slyly, “didn’t the forge boy make sure to keep you warm the other night?”

Ah, that. 

Pandora bolts upright beside him. “What do you mean?”

“Mm, he offered Sirius his jacket,” Andromeda tells them, fully thriving. Evil, evil woman. “Peak Gentleman Behavior.”

There is a full gasp from Sybill.

“You didn’t tell us that!” she accuses, looking at Sirius.

Mary grins. “He told me.”

Sirius groans, shooting her a betrayed look. “I did not tell you. You interrogated it out of me. I had no choice.” He points at Sybill next. “You I didn’t tell because you’d blab to Kingsley, and then Kingsley would tell Remus, and then Remus would know I occasionally, slightly, think about him.” Then he swivels, aiming a finger at Pandora. “And you would tell Xeno and Clem, and they’d crow about it every day for the rest of my life. I’m tired. Let me live.”

Mary lets out a low whistle. “That’s a whole soliloquy. We should stage plays at The Hub. You’d draw crowds.”

Sirius throws a cushion at her. “You say that like it’s not already my job.”

The girls laugh.

Sybill’s voice lifts, easy and dreamy from the floor. “Do any of you want to take a walk? The weather’s beautiful and we’ve got hours before the performance. We could gossip about the forge boy and swing by Clementine’s, see if she’s done helping Taffy.”

Mary slaps her hands against her thighs and pushes up off Andromeda’s lap, drawing a dramatic groan from her.

“Brilliant idea. Sirius did say March is a scorcher this year.”

She reaches for Sybill’s hands and pulls her up off the rug in one fluid, overexcited yank. Sybill goes, laughing, skirts catching in the tangle of limbs.

Andromeda stretches, yawning. “And that’s what makes his cheeks so red.”

Sirius levels a finger at her. “You’re supposed to be my sister, and yet here you are, actively plotting my downfall.”

“Oh, hush,” Andromeda says. “Such drama. Mary was right about you.”

Suddenly, Mary gasps and throws a hand toward the window, her expression twisted in pure delight.

“Oh my god, look!” she shrieks. “It’s Remus!”

Sirius jerks so fast the mattress whines. He scrambles upright, pushing Pandora out of his way as he flings himself toward the window, ready to see him.

Two meters of gangly awkwardness. Frayed seams. Those perpetually scuffed boots. The crooked smile. Sirius knows he’ll immediately melt into a puddle when he sees Remus standing there under his window, in those familiar patched trousers and a face dusted with freckles.

But when Sirius peers out, the street is empty.

He frowns.

No Remus. Not even a shadow.

Mary cackles. Pandora nearly doubles over laughing, and Sybill presses a hand to her mouth, eyes wide with joy. Only Andromeda stays quiet, coming up behind Sirius to wrap her arms around his waist in apology.

Oh, that’s just charming.

“Don’t mind them,” she murmurs against his shoulder, then kisses it. “They’re just mean. You’re allowed to like someone. I’m sure he likes you back.”

Sirius wiggles out of her grip with a grumble. His joints pop as he stretches, then he stands, hands planted on his hips.

“He doesn’t,” he mutters. “And I don’t like him, either.”

Mary wipes under her eye, still breathless. “Yeah, yeah, the performance was convincing. We’re all fooled.”

“We all saw your face, starlight,” Sybill sings.

“Drop the act,” Pandora grins.

“Let’s walk it off,” Mary suggests. “Come on. Sirius needs to cool down.”

Sirius flips her off. That only makes them laugh harder.

They storm the entryway like a small, ill-organized procession. Shoes are flung. Mary shoves Pandora, Pandora knocks into Sirius, Sirius nearly takes Sybill out by the waist, Sybill catches herself on Andromeda’s dress and nearly pulls it down, and Andromeda yelps as the fabric stretches far too low across her chest, shouting curses while batting everyone away.

But eventually, miraculously, they all make it out the door, laughing too loudly and tripping into the soft gold light of late afternoon.

When Sirius steps outside, the late March air hits his face all at once. Crisp. Golden. Edged in the first breath of real spring. He tilts his head back and lets it pour over him, eyes closed. 

The sun’s been flirting with him all evening.

Finally, it gets its kiss.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Remus walks past the lake and immediately regrets it.

His boots catch on the uneven path, toes nudging loose pebbles into the water one by one, like he’s sending offerings to some ancient spirit of stupidity. Because that’s exactly what this is. Stupid. A slow-motion bellyflop onto the jagged rocks of rejection, and for what? So Sirius—boy of a thousand skirts and one million expressions—can look at him again and politely say, no thank you?

Tuesday’s rejection wasn’t enough, apparently. No, of course not. Because why stop at once when you can hurl yourself chest-first into humiliation twice? Maybe even three times—if the stars align and your tolerance for shame holds out. Which is very likely, considering Remus Lupin has absolutely no concept of emotional self-preservation.

Because here he is. Again. Two days later. Walking the same path, over the same worn grass and scattered river stones, toward the same cluster of brightly colored rooftops near the Covey’s meadow. The sun’s sinking to his left, drawing long gold lines over the ground, and Remus is headed straight into them, like he’s trying to martyr himself for the sin of one too many thoughts.

He kicks another stone. It bounces twice and lands in the reeds.

If this were a story, he thinks, a real one—the kind people wrote books about—maybe Sirius would be standing outside when he arrives. Maybe he’d already have the jacket in his hands, ready to give it back. Maybe he’d smile and say something funny, or soft, or both.

But this isn’t a story. This is real life. And real life doesn’t make room for boys like Remus, not during the endless reaping season.

There are only five months left.

Five months, and if his name is pulled, that’s it. The end. He’ll die before he ever knows what it feels like when Sirius takes flowers from him, or says yes to a walk after work, or meets him at the door with that lopsided grin and says, I was hoping you’d come by. Before anything but the Games begins, really.

And that’s the kicker, isn’t it?

This whole thing—the dinners and the jacket and the laughing at the goose and the too-long stares in the hallway—could dissolve as easily as it started. Like fog in morning heat. Like a dream Remus will barely remember when the blood starts to dry on the arena grass.

He drags a hand through his curls and huffs a breath that’s more frustration than air.

It is a little pathetic. Okay, it’s a lot pathetic. Showing up like this, uninvited, half-hoping Sirius isn’t even there to see it. Pathetic and a little deranged, honestly. He knows that Emmeline would absolutely say it’s born-under-Pisces behavior, and Remus still isn’t sure what that’s supposed to mean, but she’d deliver it like gospel, so he’d have no choice but to accept it.

He shuffles his feet again. Slower now. The houses are closer than they were five minutes ago.

Deep down—under the nerves, the self-directed judgment, the part of Remus that keeps whispering turn back, turn back—there’s a tiny flicker of hope. A childish, idiotic thing, but there nonetheless, because Sirius did show up to the forge. And he did stay for dinner. And he didn’t give the jacket back. That’s what Kingsley kept repeating, at least.

None of that was obligation. Not even Lyall can force someone to eat Hope’s soup and listen to his stories if they don’t want to.

So maybe… maybe Sirius really wanted to.

Remus thinks about the way he laughed with his parents. The way he looked in the candlelight, curls soft, eyes warm. How easily he slotted into their house, as though he wasn’t a guest at all.

Sirius doesn’t seem like the kind of person who lets the world push him, so maybe he meant it. Maybe he says yes when he wants to say yes, and doesn’t when he doesn’t. Maybe he came because something in him chose Remus, and there’s a slight chance Remus is allowed to choose him back.

That would be even braver than kissing—wandering toward a boy who already said no once, hoping he might say yes. Like admitting I’m thinking about you without trying to say the actual words.

They could try to become friends, to begin with. Friends are good. Friends can make dinner together. Friends can hug too, which is honestly excellent, because hugging Sirius is objectively pleasant.

Remus got to do it once, and he hadn’t fully processed the moment at the time because it was immediately eclipsed by a goose bite to the arm, but he remembers it now. The almond scent, sharp and dizzying, which felt insane, truly, like drinking a whole jug of home-brewed spirits through his nose. The arms, solid from all that broken drainpipe fixing and stage-leaping and whatever else he does to make a living. Who smells like that and is built like that, naturally?

Honestly, Sirius has a very lean body. Compact. Broad in the chest. Solid in the arms. Hands that—

A pebble clicks sharply under his boot, and Remus stumbles forward, nearly kissing the ground. He just barely catches himself, arms flailing, breath stuttering in his throat. By some miracle, he doesn’t eat dirt.

He straightens fast, heart hammering, and glances around to make sure no one saw. The road is empty. Still, it feels like the trees might be laughing at him. 

Right. No more thinking about biceps while walking.

The Covey houses look different in daylight. Less mythical. Sirius’ house, in particular, is startlingly vivid now, with its red trim and sunlit siding. The roof had looked dull on Thursday night, washed in moonlight, but now it gleams cherry red in the late afternoon sun. The chipped paint on the fence is visible too, a whole constellation of missing flakes curling up from the wood. A patch near the gate looks like it was kicked. Possibly by Sirius.

Remus stops across the street, hands shoved deep in his pockets. 

This is it. He came all this way. The house is right there, and it’s very much real. So is he. So is this.

Excellent.

Now what?

He scuffs his boot against the earth once, making a half-circle in the gravel. The dirt puffs up around it immediately. Whatever. What’s one more layer?

Remus lifts his eyes to the front windows and stares at the red paint, suddenly aware of how sweaty his palms are inside his pockets.

“But she was woven out of red,” he mutters under his breath, barely louder than a whisper. “A color kissed by love and death.”

It’s been following Remus since the night of the Great Rejection, post-hub, post-humiliation. He picked up Lyall’s book again on Thursday night, after walking Sirius home, flipped through the pages with shaking fingers, chose that merciless, unnamed verse scrawled by someone decades ago—anonymous and heart-sick and probably dead now—and memorized it without meaning to. As if one dinner and a jacket were enough to rearrange the stars.

What a foolish, tender, cosmic heart he has. Arrow-shot. Star-split. 

Deep down, Remus wishes he’d memorized Sirius’ poem too.

He’d only had one chance to hear it. One precious window into the name that shaped Sirius, and Remus wasted it—too focused on how the sun lit up the edge of Sirius’ curls to properly catch the lines. Not all of them, anyway. They slipped through his fingers like water, like starlight, like the fluttering end of a ribbon caught in the wind. 

A color kissed by love and death, that’s exactly what Sirius is. A lovely star you can never catch.

This whole idea, coming here, was a colossal mistake. The only thing Remus can hope now is that Sirius isn’t watching him through one of those glare-bright windows that reveal nothing—no silhouettes, no curtains, no movement—while laughing at the way he stands out here in front of a maroon fence, face just as red, hands buried deep in his pockets.

He’s already rehearsing his retreat when girls’ laughter echoes, bright and layered, a burst of windchimes through the late-afternoon air. A raspier one follows it, but this one’s closer to a bark than a chuckle.

Remus knows it instantly. Knows it by vibrations in his throat alone.

And just like that, the orchestra in his chest begins. If he was still before, now it’s the opposite. Everything inside him erupts at once. Drums in his lungs. A tambourine in his stomach. His pulse crashing like cymbals in his ears. He’s not even sure if he’s breathing right anymore, and if he wasn’t already blotched with nervous heat, he definitely is now.

Sirius rounds the corner just ahead and steps out from behind the fence, girls in tow.

He’s laughing, half-twisting away from someone’s teasing hand, skirts swaying around his knees like a ripple of moonlight. Around him is color, movement, silk and cotton. The girls are practically dancing down the walk. Bright tops, breezy sleeves, earrings catching the sun. One of them—the one in trousers—twirls as she walks, her hair a halo of curls.

Birds, Remus thinks. Always birds, when it comes to the Covey. Singing, flapping, pecking, perching. Feathers in their blouses, music in their voices. Pretty birds, all—just like Sirius said.

“Oh,” says the girl in trousers, slowing to a stop when she sees him. 

Her voice is smooth, but she tilts her head curiously, brushing thick dark curls off her shoulder. Her blouse hangs off one side, revealing the sharp slope of her collarbone, skin sun-warm and gleaming. 

Remus swallows. There it is. The nightmare. He’s here, he’s been seen, and there’s no backing out now.

His eyes flit over the rest of them, scanning through the blur of motion and sound until he starts picking them out, trying not to stare but staring anyway. He recognizes Sybill, her blonde hair tied with ribbons. He picks out Pandora too, because Lily hasn’t stopped talking about her since the day they met.

The last girl he doesn’t recognize immediately stands between Pandora and Sirius. Her auburn hair is gathered in a thick braid, and she watches Remus with narrowed eyes and a sly tilt to her smile.

That’s the exact part of her face that catches him.

She looks like Sirius, almost painfully so. Same bone structure, same high cheekbones. Her features are softer, with rounder cheeks and warmer coloring, but the resemblance is uncanny. There’s even a matching beauty mark above her mouth, just on the opposite side, mirroring the one above Sirius’ lip. She must be Andromeda.

“Remus,” Sirius breathes, eyes wide as he looks at him.

The girls—possibly his sister among them—start murmuring, jostling him with elbows and sideways glances, tugging playfully at his sleeves. Remus notices the black skirt first, then the sheer navy corset, then the gauzy blouse tucked beneath it. If Sirius was a mockingbird on Thursday—soft and pale, all light skirts and dove-white fabric—then tonight, he’s a jabberjay. Dark kohl smudged around the eyes, thick lashes curled high, a shadow of deep blue smoke catching at the crease. 

A night bird, startled mid-dream.

Remus swallows hard. He pulls himself together just long enough to rasp out, “Hi.”

He scans the group. Sybill gives him a lazy wave. He lifts his hand in response and gives her a weak little twitch of his fingers. Embarrassing.

“Hi, Sybill.”

The girl in the trousers cocks her head. “And me? You remember me?”

Remus frowns, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He barely remembers Friday at all, just Sirius, his voice, his boots, and the line of bare skin where he’d hiked his skirt up. But he hazards a guess.

“…Mary?”

It comes out halfway between a statement and a question. But her face lights up, and she beams. Thank God. One less humiliation to shoulder tonight.

“And me?” asks another voice—dreamy and low, the tone almost lilting.

That one he does remember. 

“Pandora.”

She smiles. Easy win.

“Won’t even bother testing me,” the girl with Sirius’ face says cockily, tilting her head.

Remus takes a breath, flicks his eyes back to Sirius, who’s watching him with a strange expression.

“I’m going to guess…” he starts, his pulse in his throat. “Andromeda?”

She gives a low whistle and elbows Sirius in the ribs. “Well, damn. He’s a smart one.”

Remus tightens and untightens his fists inside his pockets. His palms are drenched. 

If anyone’s wondering, this is hell. Frankly. Standing here like this, under the full weight of the Covey flock’s attention—of Sirius’ attention—while they whisper and nudge each other, dazzling and humming and magnetic in their movements. Trying not to fall over your own shoelaces or say anything stupid in front of the boy who’s been living in your head for days.

Everything reduces to nothing the second Sirius smiles.

It curlis slowly at the corner of his mouth as he shrugs off the poking and prodding of his friends and takes a few quiet steps forward. Closer. The crowd fades a little. The edges of the world blur. All Remus can hear is the sound of his own heartbeat and the soft fall of Sirius’ shoes on the gravel.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. His voice is a murmur now, quiet enough to land only on Remus.

Somehow, despite the knots twisting up inside him, Remus smiles back. It’s crooked and shy and a little breathless. He can feel all four girls watching. Doesn’t matter. He can’t help it.

“I just… I don’t know.”

Sirius bites down on his lower lip, still smiling. Remus watches it happen like it’s a solar event, brief and blinding—his teeth catching on red skin, his mouth twitching with amusement. It’s the most dangerous thing he’s ever seen.

“Well,” Sirius breathes. “Costumes possibly aren’t ready yet. It’s only been, what, three days? Unless your mum’s a machine.”

Remus keeps smiling. He thinks vaguely that his face might be stuck that way.

“She’s not,” he replies, his cheeks slowly going numb. “My mum’s not a machine.”

Sirius titters softly. “No?”

“No.”

Sirius tilts his head, playing with the hem of his corset ribbon, the gesture so casual it shouldn’t make Remus’ mouth dry. Still, it does.

“You look lovely,” he blurts before he can stop himself.

Sirius straightens up. “Yeah?”

Remus nods, quickly, twice. “Yeah. Really—really lovely. You—”

A sharp whistle cuts him off.

Sirius turns slightly, tossing his hair over his shoulder, and a wave of scent hits Remus like a sucker punch—almond, tobacco, a whiff of dye. He breathes it in, quick and greedy, rolling his eyes behind his eyelids.

Behind them, Mary calls out, “Starlight, weren’t we going for a walk? Or do we need to give the lovebirds some space?”

Remus nearly chokes on air. Sirius turns back to him slowly, frowning just a little. He blinks a few times, lashes like feathers, and Remus sees the line of muscle through the thin black sleeve of his blouse. There it is again, the treacherous thought: his arms. His shoulders. His smile.

“So,” Sirius says, “you’re here… for something?”

Alright. You only live once. Be bold, be reckless, whatever it is people say when they’re about to set themselves on fire. It’s now or never.

“I was just wondering—“ Remus inhales nervously. “I was just wondering if you’d like to go on a walk with me.”

Sirius narrows his eyes. “Why?”

Remus blinks. Frowns. What kind of question is that?

Because you’re beautiful. Because you’re clever. Because you smell like almonds and smoke and it’s driving me mad. Because I’m twenty-one and I’ve never liked anyone like this.

Instead, his mouth says, “I really liked walking with you on Thursday.”

“Why?” Sirius asks again, same quiet tone.

Remus shifts his weight, heat blooming behind his ears. “I like talking to you.”

There’s a moment after that—too long to be casual, too short to answer. Sirius goes quiet. The girls behind him have folded in on themselves like petals, whispering into one another’s shoulders, elbows in ribs, barely stifling their laughs. Remus can feel every single glance like the tip of a match pressed to his neck.

“We’re different dances,” Sirius mutters finally, voice hardly louder than the wind.

Remus tilts his head toward him. “What?”

“You and me,” Sirius explains, though it does little to help Remus.

His words don’t sound like rejection. Not exactly. More like… a sad observation. A quiet, heavy one, dropped between them with the implication that something that hasn’t even begun yet might already be over.

Remus frowns deeper. “Different… dances?”

Sirius looks a little apologetic, eyes flicking down to his hands. He runs a thumb across his nail—blue polish chipped and flaking near the cuticles. Cheap lacquer, but lovely. Like midnight sky.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “We’ve got different rhythm.”

Well. That makes sense. Sirius, who spins like melody pours from his lungs and lights him from the inside out. Remus, who counts his own steps even when he’s alone. Who sings only when no one’s listening. Who forgets the words and steps and all the right things to say. Sirius is one-two-three-four, Remus is a stuttering march—two-one, back-step, heel-toe—awkward and offbeat and born of dirt. 

A swan and a goose. That’s what it is.

And yet, if there’s one rhythm Remus knows by heart, it’s stubbornness.

“I’m a quick learner.”

Sirius lifts his gaze. “Sorry?”

“I can learn the steps,” Remus says, a little too certain.

Sirius stares at him for a long time. Long enough that Remus wants to fold in half, disappear into the grass, crawl under the ground and make a home there. He nearly forgets to breathe. And just when he’s about to take it back, Sirius steps away.

Remus watches him turn and walk back toward the girls. The sound of his steps does that too-soon, too-foolish thing to the lining of Remus’ chest. He feels it. Right under the ribs, there’s a bruise waiting to form.

Of course that was all he could hope for. A brief conversation. A compliment. A breath of Sirius’ scent.

What was he thinking?

He hears Sirius say, “I’ll catch up to you later,” and frowns toward the flower meadow, bright with color, dizzy with green and orange and violet, as if all the pigment in the world had spilled out at once and stained the earth.

He comes back to himself only when the girls make a sound, a delighted flock of whistles and chirps and exaggerated farewells.

“Bye-bye!” Mary sings. Remus can’t tell if it’s meant kindly or not, but he still watches them melt into the path, all glitter and limbs and laughter.

“Treat him gently!” Andromeda calls over her shoulder.

“Make sure he doesn’t get in trouble!” Sybill adds.

Remus blinks, unsure how to interpret their words. It’s only when he sees that Sirius isn’t leaving with them that he realizes the purity of his luck.

When Sirius returns to him, it’s quieter now. The music has stopped.

He stops in front of Remus, standing face to face in the leftover sun. A jabberjay in black eyeliner and glittering shadow, bold and sharp. A creature pulled from dusk and stitched into shape.

Relief crashes over Remus like a wave. He nearly collapses with it, gripping the edge of his sleeve to keep from punching the air in triumph.

“You,” Sirius says, poking a finger gently to Remus’ chest, “are strangely persuasive.”

He smooths down a button on Remus’ shirt, knuckle brushing lightly against his collarbone.

Remus swallows. “Is that… bad?”

Sirius lifts his gaze. Always with that single flick, lashes thick and heavy, as if they’re made of ink.

“I find it endearing.”

Oh, okay. That’s it. Launch the boy into orbit. Remus is going to burn up on entry.

“I’m glad,” he croaks, somehow managing not to levitate while his pulse drops straight to his knees.

Sirius chuckles under his breath, shaking his head, then catches Remus by the sleeve and tugs.

“Come on. I’ll show you our meadow.”

Remus lets himself be pulled. Right foot, then left. One, two, three, four.

His heart follows in time.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Sirius laughs so hard he nearly drops the flower crown in his lap, lying flat on his back in the grass. His ribs hurt from it, his stomach curls with it, and his face has gone warm in the way it only ever does when he's with people who catch him completely off guard.

Which, apparently, Remus Lupin does.

It’s the tone, Sirius realizes. Remus’ humor isn’t in the jokes themselves; it’s in the timing. In the way he deadpans through things that should never be funny and somehow makes them hilarious. He’s the most quick-witted person Sirius has ever met, and it’s honestly unfair.

“Stop—” Sirius gasps, his voice all breath, “I’m going to explode—”

Remus squints a little against the sunlight, sitting nearby in the grass, long arms stretched behind him, holding his weight. 

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” he says, mock-solemn. “Too pretty of a field for an explosion.”

Sirius lets out a snort of laughter through his nose, still fiddling with the flowers. His legs twitch in delight. The sun spills down over his face, finds the curve of his shoulder under his blouse, the edge of his skirt, the underside of his chin. It’s laughing along with him, and Sirius feels soaked in it. 

He glances up, still catching his breath, and asks, “Do you wanna go to the show tonight?”

Remus tilts his head without lifting it, rolling it lazily onto one shoulder to look at him. His eyes are honeyed over by the setting sun.

“Sybill said she invited Kingsley,” Sirius adds. “Did he say anything to you?”

Remus nods. “He mentioned it.”

“And?” Sirius plucks another blue daisy from beside his knee. “Did you say yes?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Remus shrugs and looks away again. “He said you weren’t performing.”

Sirius bites his cheek, trying not to smile. “Ah.” He rolls a flower between his fingers. “The girls are on tonight. They told me to rest my voice for the Auror performance.” He glances at Remus through his lashes. “I don’t sit in the crowd much, but it’s… actually kind of nice, sometimes.”

Remus turns his face toward him, just a little. “You wanna go together? As… spectators?”

Sirius’ lips curve. “Sure. Why not? Your friends will be there, right? We could meet up with them. Sit together.”

Remus nods, a little slower this time. “Yeah. They should be.” He folds one knee toward his chest. “Lily likes getting out, Emmeline basically lives at The Hub, and Amos…”

He trails off. 

Sirius, without thinking, fills in gently, “He’s a bit odd.”

That makes Remus laugh, low and husky, like it snuck out against his will. “He’s just… yeah. He’s trying, I think. They’ve got a lot of kids. His dad’s a drunk. He shoulders a lot.”

Sirius hums sympathetically, fingers busy threading another daisy onto the chain. “Poor guy. What does he do for work?”

Remus drops his voice slightly. “Bootlegs liquor.”

“Oh.”

“He also unloads train stock for shops, helps with moving furniture when the factories change inventory. Tries anything, really. He even tried to get into the forge once, but our boss wouldn’t take him.”

Sirius glances over. “Why not?”

“He heard Amos was selling to Aurors,” Remus explains. “Not something anyone wants connected to their name.”

“Really?” 

Remus nods once. “But you can’t tell anyone. Please.”

“Promise,” Sirius says, threading two flower buds together and carefully pressing the new loop into the growing crown.

“How do you do that?” Remus asks, leaning closer to watch Sirius’ hands. “Lily’s always making them, but I never got the hang of it.”

Sirius brightens immediately.

“Believe me, it’s dead simple,” he says, already scooting forward.

He shuffles forward in the grass, slipping closer until their knees are almost aligned, and pushes the half-finished crown into Remus’ hands. The boy holds it like it might fall apart with one wrong breath, his fingers ginger on the stems. Sirius tucks himself behind him, pressing his knees to the ground on either side and reaching around, carefully taking Remus’ hands into his own.

“Here,” he murmurs. “You twist the stems like this.”

Remus’ hands follow the motion. Sirius moves in closer, leans in, and his chest presses lightly to Remus’ back.

He mostly smells like smoke and laundry powder, but underneath that there’s heat. Remus burns through his shirt, a furnace in human form; there’s skin and sun and the faintest trace of his cologne mixed up with sweat. Sirius inhales without thinking. It might be his imagination, but for a moment it sounds like Remus does the same thing. Hard to tell with the way his heart’s drumming in his ears.

Remus flinches, just slightly, and Sirius pulls back without thinking, but then Remus’ shoulders loosen again. He exhales through his nose.

Green light, maybe.

“Is that right?” Remus asks quietly.

“Yeah.” Sirius clears his throat, speaking too softly for how fast his pulse is racing. “Now slide that stem through the loop—yeah, just like that. It’ll hold them in place.”

He guides Remus’ fingers, their knuckles brushing, his palms a little sweaty from the heat and the contact. It’s strange how easily their hands move in tandem. Like a small rhythm all their own.

“I didn’t know how either,” Sirius admits, adjusting a petal. “Clementine taught me.”

“Clementine?” Remus echoes.

“One of my girls.” Sirius lets his chin rest gently on Remus’ shoulder, watching his hands move. “She wasn’t with us today. She’s helping her aunt fix up the kitchen.”

Remus smiles faintly. “You’ve got a lot of friends.”

“Just my birds.” Sirius shrugs. “And Ted and Xeno. Well—mostly Xeno. He’s great to mess around with. Funny as hell. You’d like him.” His fingers keep moving, never pausing, even as he talks. “Ted’s… a lot. Big brain. Encyclopedic. Knows everything about everything. We get along, but he’s more Andromeda’s speed.”

Remus’ breath brushes just below his jaw. The sun climbs lazily above, and Sirius thinks he could stay like this all day.

“There’s Bobby Jay and Billie Teal too,” he continues. “They’re twins. Glued at the hip. Mostly hang out with each other, but they’re good guys.”

Remus makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat. Sirius feels the hum of his voice travel through his shoulderbone when Remus speaks.

“And this friend of yours—Xeno—are you…”

“What?”

“I mean—” Remus shifts, his voice flattens with awkwardness. “Are you two… something?”

Sirius laughs outright. “Where’d you get that idea?”

Remus sounds sheepish now. “I know you said you’re not really into romance, but you talk about him so warmly—”

“I talk about all of them warmly,” Sirius says, smiling. “They’re my family. Xeno is like a brother to me.”

“Oh,” Remus murmurs.

Sirius hesitates, then adds, “Besides, he’s not… He doesn’t experience romantic attraction. To anyone.”

Remus frowns a little. “Why?”

Sirius shrugs against his shoulder. “It’s just how he feels. He’s all heart, but it’s different. He’s… deeply platonic. He’s got this really intense bond with Pandora, but there’s never been anything romantic there. That’s just not how he’s wired.”

“And you?” Remus asks. “Do you like him?”

Sirius grins. “No. He’s an idiot.”

Remus chuckles under his breath. “Got it.”

Sirius smiles into his shoulder. Whatever this rhythm is between them, he wants to keep dancing to it, even if the steps don’t always make sense.

They finish the crown together. Remus’ hands grow steadier with every twist and knot. He starts to get the feel for it—bending here, twisting there, pinching the buds into place. A quick learner, indeed. The whole thing ends up a little crooked, sure, but it’s charming, in a lopsided sort of way. Sirius has seen a hundred of Clementine’s perfect wreaths and none of them make him smile the way this one does.

“See?” he murmurs, chin still hooked over Remus’ shoulder. “You’re getting it.”

Remus squints down at the circle of woven greens. “It’s a little off.”

“You’re learning.” Sirius shifts slightly, helping tie off the last knot with a strand of daisy. “I think it looks great.”

Remus turns his head to him. “Yeah?”

Sirius meets his eyes. “Yeah.”

Suddenly, Remus’ face is too close. His mouth is too close. That tiny scar above his upper lip is too close. Sirius can see the slant of the chipped tooth beneath it, can track the softest patch of freckled skin on his nose, and he has the strongest, most inappropriate urge to reach forward and trace his fingertip just there, where no one else ever would.

Sirius drags his eyes back up, and Remus is already looking at him. There’s green in his eyes, tiny flecks inside the amber, just enough to catch the light, which they do now, perfectly, in the low-slanted spill of the evening sun. Big eyes. Wide. Like those nuts Tobi brought once from some backlot market that they had to crack open with hammers.

When their eyes lock, Sirius hears the click. It’s as though something just slotted into place in his chest. A quiet gasp of recognition, hinge locking shut, followed by the sudden, terrible fear of it.

He pulls away quickly, chin lifting from Remus’ shoulder, breaking the closeness. The half-finished flower crown ends up fully in Remus’ hands. Sirius clears his throat, fingers twitching against his thigh as he shifts back in the grass.

“Do you, uh—” he asks, reaching for anything, anything else, “do you have the time?”

Remus startles slightly. He checks his wristwatch. “Quarter past eight.”

Sirius swallows. “Oh wow. We’ve been here that long?”

“Yeah,” Remus whispers.

“Show starts at nine.”

“We’ll make it,” Remus promises, fiddling with the half-circle of blue daisies, turning it this way and that. Then he lifts it gently. “Want to wear it?”

Sirius glances at him. “Me?”

Remus gives him a small, boyish shrug. “The blue matches your corset.”

That makes Sirius smile despite himself.

“Alright,” he says quietly, scooting forward again. 

Remus lifts the crown and gently places it on Sirius’ head, careful with the stems, careful with his touch. A strand of hair catches in the weave and flops forward into Sirius’ face. He reaches for it, but Remus is faster.

The pads of Remus’ fingers brush along his brow, tucking the strand behind his ear. Sirius freezes under the touch, watches as Remus studies his face—those long lashes casting shadows on his cheek, his mouth slightly parted, the kind of focus Sirius wants to drown in.

His gaze is gentle. Sirius’ eyes dart across Remus’ face, trying to keep up.

“You look great,” Remus murmurs softly.

Sirius says the only thing he can think of.

“You made a great crown.”

Remus drops his hand, and Sirius catches it halfway, thumb grazing the cracked face of his watch.

“How’d you break it?”

Remus huffs a laugh. “Sat on it.”

Sirius chuckles. “You’re clumsy, huh?”

“A bit,” Remus admits, and he doesn’t pull his hand away. “Especially when I’m nervous.”

Sirius looks up, smile ghosting. “You’re nervous now?”

Remus hesitates. Then nods.

“Yeah. Very.”

Sirius lets go of his wrist, nudging his knee playfully. “Don’t be. We can’t risk you sitting on it again.”

That gets a laugh. Sirius grins, falling back onto the grass with a sigh. The sky above is fading to gray and blush, and the breeze has finally kicked up, cool and teasing around his ankles. For a moment, Sirius wonders what he’ll do when night fully sets in. He doesn’t have Remus’ jacket tonight. Should he go home? Steal something from Xeno?

It wouldn’t smell the same.

Remus shifts beside him, propping himself on his elbows. “Do Aurors come to your shows a lot?”

“Mostly Fridays,” Sirius answers. “Or weekends. They’re scheduled pretty tight.”

“You planning anything special on Friday?”

Sirius shrugs. “Just our best stuff. And we’ll dress up more.” He looks down at himself, then back up, half-smiling. “I was going to wear a suit, but for them I’ll go with a skirt. They like skin.”

As soon as it’s out of his mouth, Sirius regrets it.

Remus frowns. “Skin?”

Sirius keeps his eyes fixed on a distant patch of sky. “Yeah. When I—when I show it.”

“Is that why they come?”

Sirius doesn’t meet his eyes. 

“Some of them, yeah,” he mutters, “Flirting helps. Especially if they’ve got you in Hall of Virtue. You gotta use what you’ve got.”

Remus sputters. “Wait. The Hall?”

“Mm.”

“You’ve been arrested?”

“Couple times.” Sirius smirks, finally glancing up. “It was very charming. They love me.”

Remus gives a theatrical nod. “Of course.”

“Why?” Sirius grins. “That scare you, forge boy?”

Remus makes a show of narrowing his eyes. “No, that’s… incredibly cool, actually. What was the crime?”

“Talking too much.”

“I can believe that.”

Sirius laughs and flicks a blade of grass at him. Remus scrunches his nose and swats it away, smiling.

They sit like that a little longer, shoulder to shoulder, the crown settled lightly on Sirius’ head, rustling whenever the wind slips past. Remus has one knee drawn up and his arms still secure behind his back, and Sirius can’t help thinking how his posture makes him look even taller.

After a moment, Remus clears his throat. “My friend Wade…”

Sirius hums, not looking up.

“…the one you met at the forge.”

Sirius finally glances at him. “I remember.”

“He asked about you.” 

“Right.”

“He said you made an impression.”

Sirius’ mouth tightens with disinterest, but there’s no real heat behind his voice either when he mutters, “Figures.”

“You don’t sound thrilled,” Remus observes. “You didn’t like him?”

Sirius meets his eyes. “Is this you asking, or did he put you up to it?”

Remus shakes his head, a little too fast. “It’s just me being curious.”

“No,” Sirius says then. “I didn’t like him.”

Remus’ brows pull together, faintly. “Why not?”

“Not my type.”

Remus opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens again.

“What is?” he asks.

Sirius smiles crookedly. “You want everything, don’t you?” He turns his head lazily, eyes narrowing, and flicks another blade of grass at Remus’ knee. “I like boys who don’t ask so many questions.”

Remus huffs a soft laugh. He raises one hand, pantomimes zipping his lips shut, then mimics tossing away the key. His eyes crinkle faintly at the corners.

By the time they both run out of words, the sun is clinging to the very last line of the horizon, a deep syrupy orange spilling across the field like honey over a spoon. The wind’s changed too—even cooler now, brushing along the edges of skin where sleeves end and wrists begin.

“We should probably go,” Remus murmurs.

Sirius nods, rising slowly to his feet and dusting himself off. His flower crown slides a little sideways, but he lets it sit there, slightly lopsided, halo-like.

Remus lingers for a beat. His eyes flick to the daisy chain on Sirius’ head, and back to the patch of crushed grass where they’d been sitting.

“You’re… keeping that?”

“I want the others to see it.” Sirius nods, soft. “I like it.”

Remus doesn’t answer, but his ears go pink. Sirius sees it out of the corner of his eye, and smiles to himself. He starts walking down the sloped edge of the meadow, and Remus falls into step beside him. Their arms don’t touch, but they’re close enough for Sirius to indulge himself.

He’s not thinking about the audience that will crowd The Hub on Friday night, or the way the Aurors stare when he arches his back just right, or the exact percentage of his body he can show before it’s no longer artistic. He’s thinking about grass stains and flower crowns, about how Remus’ smile creeps up like a secret, like a match being struck inside a closed palm.

Sirius thinks, quite suddenly, that this might be better than the kisses of the sun.

Chapter Text

The last time Remus went to The Hub, his heart had damn near leapt out of his chest, and the night ended in disaster. This time, on a Sunday evening, the heart part feels not much different, back at its Thursday tempo, but there’s a tiny, fragile thread of optimism curled under his ribs, promising that the night might actually end better. Please, let it end better.

They arrive just after sunset. The air smells like heat and smoke, the windows fogged over from bodies and breath and dim lighting. Kingsley catches sight of Remus almost immediately, leaning against the outer edge of the bar, halfway through what must be a long and animated conversation with Trilly Wellock, who keeps pouring drinks behind the counter. His eyebrows shoot up like they’ve just been yanked by a fishing hook, and he glances at Remus with narrowed, playful suspicion.

“Man,” he drawls, already halfway into a hug before Remus can protest. “I thought you bailed—didn’t you say you weren’t coming? Just so you know, Sirius still isn’t—”

Naturally, he falls silent, because behind Remus, emerging from the slight shadow of the entryway, is Sirius himself. Kingsley’s eyes snap from him to Remus, then back again. His mouth doesn’t say another word, but the look he flashes at Remus is pure red-lettered what the fuck, written in the paint that never comes off your hands.

Remus shrugs a little, subtle, as if to say I don’t know either. Because honestly, he doesn’t.

Thanks to Kingsley, they don’t linger near the bar. He waves them through the crowd, telling them they’ve got a table near the front tonight, with a good view of the stage, and that everyone’s already there: Emmeline, Lily, even Amos and his girlfriend, Carinna—Remus learns her name from Kingsley—the one Amos had taken out the same day Remus had tried to offer flowers to a Covey boy who didn’t want them.

She’s pretty, at a glance. That’s the first thing Remus notices as they approach. Pretty broad shoulders, eyes bright and easy, voice low and musical as she says something that makes Emmeline laugh and Lily reach for her drink with a smile.

The girls only pause their conversation when they realize Sirius is following close behind Remus. Lily and Emmeline glance over at them in perfect sync, identical surprised expressions on their faces—because yes, that is the same Sirius who sent Remus packing in front of everyone just last Tuesday. The same Sirius Remus has been pining over since the day they met. 

To Remus’ immeasurable relief, their surprise melts quickly into smiles. Emmeline quirks a brow, Lily leans forward with interest, and between them is a shared glint that says, well, well.

Carinna, for her part, stays blissfully unaware. She’s been smiling since they walked in and hasn’t stopped, which is actually kind of refreshing. Remus doubts she even realizes that the last time he stood here, his dignity crumbled on the floor and nearly got swept out with the dust.

It’s a relief that Sirius already knows most of the table, and only Carinna is new. To be honest, Remus doesn’t think she and Amos will last more than two weeks—statistically, not likely—but tonight she seems easy enough to talk to, and that’s hardly Remus’ business. She seems nice. The ends of her hair curl like little crescents around her cheeks and bounce when she laughs, just like Sirius' waves; only hers are light and short, and his are dark and long, like a tide rolling in.

Emmeline, in true Emmeline fashion, is delighted with Sirius being here. She immediately steals a chair from a nearby table, not even glancing at Remus, who was, mind you, her original friend, and plops Sirius right between herself and Lily. 

"I am parched for brew and people-watching," Lily declares, and Sirius grins, shoulders relaxing.

They fawn over his makeup. Emmeline toys with one of his earrings, saying something that makes him press a hand to his chest and throw his head back. His bracelets catch the light when he does it, flaring gold and red and green like melted stained glass. Carinna reaches for his wrist to inspect them, asking him about the flower crown. Lily’s got one elbow on the table, chin in her palm, watching him with the fascinated look, offering praise for his corset.

Remus doesn’t know what is this weird feeling settling uneasily in his stomach right now, but it definitely has something to do with the fact that Sirius is here beside him, sharing space with his people, fitting in. He wonders if, maybe, his girls remind Sirius of his own flock. They haven’t taken the stage yet, but at least Sirius isn’t stranded. He’s among people who get it.

Remus hesitates by the table for a moment, then politely asks a nearby couple if he can borrow one of their chairs. They hand it over without any trouble, so maybe the stars really are kind tonight. Maybe they’ll let him have one night where Sirius doesn’t send him back into the shadows.

He steps to the table, sets the borrowed chair down beside the others, and leans toward Sirius.

“Can I get you something?” he asks.

Sirius looks up at him, coming to full stop, into full focus. The laugh dies on his lips but the smile lingers, and he turns his whole body toward Remus. For a second, Remus forgets how to stand.

“Juice,” Sirius says.

Remus nods quickly, the heat already rising up his neck. “Juice, sure. Uh—what kind?”

“Anything but apple. Can’t stand it.” Sirius scrunches his nose, the little thing that makes Remus’ stomach drop straight into the floorboards. “Cherry, if they’ve got it, please?”

That one please, thrown so casually into the air, knocks Remus sideways in a way no one should ever be knocked sideways in a room full of people. If someone stepped on him right now, he’d thank them for the honor.

He forces himself to nod, smiling as if he’s not about to pass out. “Back in a sec.”

“I’m coming with,” Kingsley chimes in immediately, standing.

“Me too,” Amos adds, already sliding his chair back. Probably eager to escape the table of those people, none of whom have looked at him in the last five minutes. Even Carinna’s more interested in Sirius than she is in her own date.

Remus heads toward the bar, Kingsley and Amos in tow, trying not to think about the way Sirius’ laughter follows him across the room. They weave through scattered tables and a couple of half-drunken men who’ve already started on their evening pints. Remus keeps his eyes forward. 

The moment he reaches the counter, he asks for a plum mead and a cherry juice. Trilly gives a curt nod and turns away. While they wait, Kingsley and Amos immediately start staring at Remus; not quietly, either.

“Man,” Kingsley drags out, syllables long and lazy. “How the hell did you pull that?”

Remus exhales and turns slightly, pretending the chipped lacquer on the bar is suddenly fascinating. “Pull what?”

Amos barks out a laugh. “Mate, are you serious? Did you not see who walked in with you?”

“Yes, Amos, I saw,” Remus mutters.

“Didn’t he, like, reject you right here earlier this week?”

Kingsley elbows him hard in the ribs.

Remus shoots him a sharp look. “You told him?”

“Not me.” Kingsley lifts his hands in surrender. “Emmeline did.”

Amos shrugs innocently. “We’re tight.”

Remus raises an eyebrow, lips curling faintly. “Can’t figure out what she sees in you.”

Kingsley snickers. Amos jabs him in the ribs this time.

“No, seriously,” Kingsley says, turning back to Remus. “How’d you make that happen?”

Trilly returns, placing the drinks on the counter: one tall glass of cherry juice and a short, shining mug of plum mead. Remus nods his thanks and curls his fingers around the cool glass.

“I didn’t make anything happen. I just… went to his place.”

Amos whistles low. “You mean like, you got inside?”

“No,” Remus replies, lifting the drinks. “I stopped at the gate. He came out with his girls. Timing, I guess.”

Kingsley lets out a low, awed hum. “That’s fate, right there.”

“You’re meant to be,” Amos declares, leaning an elbow on the bar. “It’s written in the stars, Lupin.”

“How about both of you don’t?”

“Hey, no need to get prickly,” Kingsley grins. “We’re rooting for you.”

“I’d really appreciate it,” Remus says through gritted teeth, “if you rooted for me quietly. I mean, extremely quietly. Maybe so quietly you forget I ever told you anything.”

Amos opens his mouth. “Well, from what I heard—”

“Shut up, Amos,” Kingsley cuts in. He glances over at Remus and raises a hand to his heart. “I solemnly swear I won’t let you make a fool of yourself. In fact, I’m gonna go tell him all your good qualities.”

Remus points a finger at him, half balancing the drinks in one hand. “That is exactly what you’re not going to do. The last thing I need is for him to think you two are trying to set us up. We’re just acquaintances.”

Amos smirks. “Right. And you just happen to blush like a schoolgirl every time he smiles at you.” He jerks his chin toward the juice in Remus’ hand. “You were that color when you walked in.”

Remus takes a breath. He stares down at the cherry juice, then glances between them both, lips pressed thin.

“Okay, fine,” he admits, leaning in. “Yes. I really, really like him. Even if it doesn’t mean anything. He’s—he’s easy to talk to. And I don’t want to lose that. I just want tonight to be normal. Just a night with my friends. So if you two could not turn this into a whole thing, I’d appreciate it.”

Kingsley whistles again, softer this time. “Right. The boy who got rejected on Tuesday, brought him to a bar on Sunday. No drama at all.”

“And he’s a Covey,” Amos adds cheerfully, as if that means something.

Kingsley glances sideways. “I’m dating a Covey, and you don’t act this impressed about it.”

“Nothing to be impressed by.”

Kingsley shoves him. Amos shoves back. Remus rolls his eyes and steps around them, careful not to spill the drinks. The cherry juice is already warming in his hand and he wants to get it back to Sirius while it’s still cold.

“Where are you going?” Kingsley calls. “We’re not done!”

“Oh, we’re done,” Remus tosses back over his shoulder. Then, pointedly to Amos, he says, “Carinna seems really nice. Maybe go talk to her for once.”

He walks off, shoulders squared and cherry juice trembling just a little in his grip.

By the time he gets back to the table, the conversation hasn’t dipped in volume even slightly. It’s still bubbling, warm and nonchalant, with Sirius right in the middle of it, perched between Emmeline and Lily, his hands dancing in the air as he leans forward into the space between them. The table catches the light on his rings and earrings, and even though the room is noisy, Remus swears he hears the sound of Sirius’ murmuring like it’s threaded through the hustle itself.

He sets the cherry juice down in front of him. The glass lands with a gentle tap, and Sirius turns toward Remus immediately, abandoning the conversation mid-laugh.

“What about you?” he asks, glancing at Remus’ own drink.

Remus lifts it a little. “Uh—plum mead.”

“Remus always gets that one,” Lily says. “You don’t drink, Sirius?”

Something subtle tightens in Sirius’ jaw—not quite a wince, but close. Still, his smile is warm, if thinner than usual. 

“Not a drinker myself,” he replies simply, fingers curling around the cool glass of cherry juice. “I’m fine with this.” He glances back at Remus. “Thank you, forge boy.”

Remus forces himself to nod through the burn crawling up his neck. His ears are definitely glowing now, he can feel them, and if Lily notices she’s kind enough not to say anything. He slides into the seat between her and Kingsley, sets his drink on the table and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling like a lunatic.

He watches Sirius in his peripheral, pretends not to while sipping his mead. Sirius is lit up in candlelight and stage-glow, laughing with his whole body. It’s hard not to look. Impossible, really. Remus tracks him the way one might track the arc of a comet: quietly, helplessly, as if a look might be enough to pull it closer. He keeps trying to calculate something in his head; an equation with no real answer, named after a star he’ll never touch. 

This is it, he thinks. This is what people write ballads about.

It’s like watching light curve around a person, as if the gravity in the room shifted when Sirius walked in. As if everything else—the music, the laughter, the drinks, even Remus’ own breath—has moved out of orbit to make space for him.

Remus doesn’t feel embarrassed. Not anymore. How could he be, watching a whole galaxy unfold three seats away? He’s already tied to the mast, after all, with hands bound and heart pulled forward like a ship toward fire. Love is a dangerous thing to play with when the world around you is made of fire and teeth, but what’s Remus supposed to do when the curve of Sirius’ smile steals the words from his throat? Look away? He can remind himself all he wants—you can’t catch a star, you can’t hold fire, you can’t talk to a jabberjay without getting into a trap—but it doesn’t matter. It’s already too late. Remus has already charted a course, and it points straight into Sirius. 

“This is madness,” Emmeline breathes, leaning closer to Sirius. “You smell divine. What is that? Nuts?”

Sirius lets out a breath of laughter. “Almond. Yeah.”

Remus shifts, ears catching every word.

Carinna lifts her nose, curious. “How do you do that?”

Sirius lifts his chin a little, basking. “Bitter almond oil. My friend Mary’s a healer. Has shelves full of soaps and oils. This one’s my favorite.”

Emmeline practically trembles in her seat. “I’d eat you. No joke.”

“Emmeline,” Lily scolds.

Sirius throws his head back, laughing. “She’s performing tonight, by the way. If you want, we can go say hi after the show—she’d love to show you her stash sometime. Oils, balms, whatever you’re into.”

“Promise?” Carinna asks, eyes wide.

“Of course I promise,” Sirius says, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. “We’ll find her after.”

Remus traces the outline of his shoulders beneath sheer fabric. The slope of his back. The soft sheen along his collarbone. The absolute audacity of it, that someone can carry that kind of light in their body and not burn from the inside out. And now he knows the secret of the brightest star in the sky: not just blood and bone and beauty, but oil that clings to skin and collarbones and slips into the fabric.

Remus watches and wants. That scent has already embedded itself in his bones, soaked into the memory of that Thursday night, into the place Sirius leaned close and pressed it against Remus’ neck. He wants it back. Wants it closer. Almond and smoke against heat and metal. Soft skin against calluses. Swan and goose.

Even if he never gets to keep it, even if this is just tonight, Remus needs it. And that need is a quiet thing, steady and devout, rising with every breath, like incense curling from the edge of a flame.

Lily places her elbows on the table, voice lowered to that curious-but-polite register of hers. “Sirius, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Your friend…” Lily hesitates, brushing a lock of copper hair from her face. “Pandora. Is she performing tonight too?”

Sirius’ face softens instantly. His fingers curl gently around the base of his glass, and when he takes a sip, he leaves behind a soft red mark on his bottom lip. Remus stares at it, stares at his mouth, without shame.

“She is,” Sirius says. “Actually, she asked about you.”

Lily sits up a little straighter. “Really?”

“Yeah. I think the two of you should definitely talk tonight.”

“You think she’d want to?” Lily asks. It’s rare to see her so unsure.

“She’ll be thrilled,” Sirius reassures, squeezing her shoulder with his free hand. “Promise. Don’t be scared.” He flashes a wink, then glances back at the girls, lifting his glass playfully. “If it’s alright, I’d love to sit with Remus for a bit. I think he’s getting lonely without me.”

There’s laughter around the table, especially from Emmeline, who does not hide the way she turns instantly to meet Remus’ eyes and smirks at him, clear as day.

“Of course!” she chirps brightly.

Remus pretends he doesn’t see the way she wiggles her eyebrows. He hears Kingsley and Amos returning to the table behind them, voices raised in laughter already, and smiles softly at the familiar rhythm of it. Then he glances back at Sirius, who stands, hooks a hand around the back of his chair, and skirts the table with that same dancer’s grace he seems to carry everywhere. He settles beside Remus, easing the chair in next to his, nudging Amos aside without even trying. He places his glass back on the table.

“Hey.”

Remus smiles. “Hey.”

“Doing alright?”

Remus nods, eyes dropping to the glass in his hand. “Yeah. Fine.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“What?”

“That I sort of hijacked your friends? I didn’t mean to. They’re just…” Sirius gestures loosely. “They’re fun to talk to.”

“You didn’t hijack anything.” Remus says honestly. “I’m glad you’re getting along. It’s great.”

“I really like Emmeline,” Sirius confesses. “I think we’re pretty similar.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Sirius murmurs, eyes flicking toward the table. “Aren’t we?”

Remus gives a slow shrug, eyes darting to Sirius, then back to his drink. “I don’t think there’s anyone like you.”

The words come out before he’s fully processed them, slipping past his internal gate. A small flicker of panic sparks in his chest, but when he finally gathers the courage to look up again, Sirius is smiling.

Remus exhales a slow breath, the corner of his mouth tipping again in something that might be called a smile. Maybe. Sirius shifts beside him, placing his elbows on the table and folding his arms across his chest. His back arches slightly, spine a long curve under the sheer drape of his blouse. It slips slightly at the shoulder, exposing the soft skin. Remus looks anywhere but there.

“You know, she reminds me of someone,” Sirius muses.

Remus glances up. “Hm?”

Sirius catches his gaze, then tips his chin subtly toward Carinna. “Her. She looks like someone.”

Remus furrows his brow. “Who?”

Sirius cocks his head, making the flower crown bob with a motion. “Let me think…” He stares off, tone suspiciously pensive, almost theatrical. “That girl who teaches the little ones at the daycare… What was her name…” He trails off, then turns back, looking Remus right in the eye. His eyes are bright, silver and starlit. “Ah. Charity Burbage.”

It takes Remus a beat.

And then another.

And then he gets it.

He should’ve known. He should’ve known from the minute Sirius tilted his head and pulled that face that he’d walk right into it.

His eyes narrow, a breath of a laugh escaping. “She doesn’t remind you of her.”

Sirius opens his mouth in a silent gasp. “No? Huh. You’re right. Must’ve been the lighting.”

Remus huffs a real laugh now, shaking his head, and Sirius grins, boyish and pleased with himself.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “It just felt like a golden opportunity.”

“Uh-huh. Hilarious. You can tell I’m so entertained.”

That makes Sirius giggle again, biting his knuckle this time as though he can’t help himself. Remus watches with a fond twist in his stomach—dangerous, too fond—but he doesn’t do anything about it.

“…How much,” he starts, slowly, “did you hear that day? Outside the forge.”

Sirius turns his head and scans Remus top to bottom, pinning him in place. That same look again that sees too much and gives too little away. It strikes Remus square in the ribs.

“I heard everything I needed to know,” Sirius answers simply.

Remus tightens his grip on the underside of his chair. He wants to ask what that means. Wants to press for specifics, for clarity, for absolution, but something tells him the answer might be worse than the question. His tongue presses flat against the roof of his mouth. 

He must be red. He must be. Cherry-red. Cherry-juice-red. Exactly as Amos said.

Sirius sees it, of course. He winks, just for Remus, and leans into it lazily, letting the cherry-stained tip of his lip curl upward in the softest, most damning smirk Remus has ever seen. Then he turns his head, hair flipping over his shoulder in a flick, the maddening scent making Remus completely forget what words are.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Sirius is fairly certain he would’ve throttled Kingsley right here in the middle of The Hub if it weren’t for the small, inconvenient fact that Sybill loves him. Not that it’s entirely Kingsley’s fault—to be fair, Wade probably would’ve found his way over eventually. But still.

Their charming little friend from the forge walks into the bar as if he were actually invited, and Sirius watches it unfold in slow motion. Kingsley’s face goes from relaxed to confused to oh fuck in the span of three seconds; he cuts a sharp glance toward Remus, then sighs, then stands. There’s a brief greeting, peppered with faux enthusiasm, and then Wade drags a chair over without asking, scrapes it loudly across the floor, and flops into it without any ceremony.

Sirius tries. He really does. He nods politely, takes strategic sips of his juice, and offers the occasional tight-lipped smile that hopefully reads as I’d rather be anywhere else, thanks. But Wade seems immune to this very transparent dodging of his every attempt at conversation, so the next stretch of the night unfolds in a special brand of hell Sirius didn’t know he’d booked a front-row seat to.

The girls are already on stage, filling the space with sound and fire and color, and Sirius does everything he can to focus on them instead of the guy three seats down, trying to woo him with sheer determination. Not even Sybill’s exaggerated waves help. Not even the way Pandora keeps glancing between Sirius and Remus. Not even Mary’s increasingly obscene gestures, which earn her a sharp elbow in the ribs from Andromeda mid-verse.

Still, none of it is enough to block out Wade’s godawful, high-pitched whistling. That horrible wet ssshhh noise he makes every time someone else talks, as though he’s trying to keep rhythm with their sentences. Sirius’ ears are starting to pulse with it.

Lily, bless her solidarity, groans from across the table.

“Is he going to do that all night?” she says to Remus, not bothering to whisper.

“You say that every time you see him,” Remus murmurs. Sirius watches his lips touch the rim of his glass, watches his throat shift as he swallows, and then forcibly looks away.

“Because every time I see him, he’s still insufferable,” Lily shoots back. She turns to Sirius, who sits quietly with his empty glass in hand, doing his best not to let the night sour on his tongue. “Honestly, when will men learn they’re not entitled to every square inch of airspace?”

Sirius gives her a small, amused lift of one shoulder.

Lily softens instantly. “Sorry. That wasn’t at you.” She takes a sip of her own drink, stares off across the bar. “I just think if women ran the world, we’d all be a lot less tired.”

“Here we go,” Remus mutters under his breath.

Lily glares. “You disagree?” 

“No,” Remus answers quickly, one hand up like a shield. “I’m violently opposed to the patriarchy, I swear. Please don’t hit me.”

Sirius bites the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing out loud. He can feel it pressing hard in his chest, threatening to crack his ribs.

“That’s what I thought.” Lily rolls her eyes, then smacks Remus anyway. “Sirius, you’re in charge of him now. Make sure he keeps that perspective.”

Sirius salutes with two fingers. “Yes, ma’am.”

Remus glances sideways at him, and Sirius catches that quick dart of amber beneath thick lashes; the soft kind, the sweet one. Remus’ face always goes a bit pink when Sirius smiles at him, blooming red in that patchy way that spreads across his cheekbones and throat. Sirius likes watching it bloom—how it stands out against his freckles, against the faded collar of his worn shirt.

Oh, but Remus is so charming. Funny, too. Sharp, dry, careful with his words, but never cruel. He smells like warm skin and soap and faint metal, a scent Sirius hasn’t stopped thinking about since that one Friday. He’s really got it bad. It’s quite humiliating.

Lily taps her glass on the table. “So how exactly did he even get in here?”

Remus shrugs. “No idea. We talked recently, and he said he wanted to check out the Covey show sometime. Didn’t know it’d be tonight.”

“Judging by Kingsley’s face, he didn’t know either,” Lily murmurs, side-eyeing the poor man across the table who looks like he’s being slow-cooked alive. “I would’ve strangled him if I found out it was his idea to invite this jerk.”

“You dislike him that much?” Sirius asks.

Lily lifts her empty glass and gestures in Wade’s general direction. “Sirius, sweetheart, look at him. He acts like a zoo animal. A walking poster for everything wrong with the male species.”

“Tone it down, maybe?” Remus suggests mildly.

“I will not,” Lily replies flatly. “Men like West need to know their place.”

“West?” Sirius echoes.

“His last name,” Lily confirms. “But personally, I think Asshole has a nicer ring.” She catches Remus’ disapproving look, waves it off, and rises from her seat. “I need another drink. Sirius, more juice?”

“Oh, yeah. That’d be great, thank you.”

“No apple, I remember,” Lily says, grabbing his glass with a wink. “Remus? More mead?”

Remus gives his glass a little shake. “Still working on this one.”

“You’re the slowest drinker I’ve ever met,” Lily says fondly, then glides off toward the bar.

Sirius watches her go, then leans back slightly, stretching one leg out under the table. He smiles, mostly to himself.

Lily is wonderful. Fierce and funny and radiant. And honestly, the thought of her and Pandora—the actual possibility of that—makes something in Sirius’ chest light up like a little fuse. They’d be perfect. Lily could brighten Pandora’s shadows, and Pandora could cool Lily’s fire when it burned too hot. They’d balance.

Kind of like Remus and him, maybe. If Remus were willing. If Sirius ever got his shit together long enough to be honest about what he wanted.

He watches Remus take another careful sip of his drink, eyes flickering upward through his lashes. Sirius doesn’t even know what he’s hoping for—just that something inside him wants. Wants more time, more space, more warmth. One more starlike night for himself to keep.

“Hey, Sirius,” Wade calls across the table.

Sirius angles his head a little, polite enough to acknowledge, but keeps his gaze firmly on Remus, still pretending this conversation hasn’t been requested. He’s already spent the entire evening swerving around Wade’s clumsy attempts to flirt. He doesn’t have the energy to be gracious.

Unfortunately, Wade takes even the smallest movement as an open invitation.

“So why aren’t you performing tonight?” he asks, leaning forward on his elbows as though they’re pals, and there’s an invisible thread tying their conversation together instead of a solid wall Sirius would very much prefer to keep standing.

Now, this is a trap. If Sirius says he’s saving his voice, the next question is obvious—saving it for what? Then comes the story about the Auror show. And then the part where Wade gets that look in his eyes, the one that says, I don’t pay for tickets, baby, and I can sneak in anywhere, baby, and your personal space is a suggestion, baby.

If he says it’s sold out, Wade will try anyway. If he tells the truth, Wade will turn up. If he lies… well, Tobi Everyone Deserves a Chance did raise him to be an honest man.

Then again, Alphard I Don’t Give a Fuck raised him to know when to shut the door and bolt it.

So Sirius says, evenly, “I’m resting my voice for the next show.”

“When is it?”

Sirius turns toward Wade now, leans in a little on his forearms, lowering his voice just slightly and giving him a syrupy smile. “Ticketed event. Aurors only. No seats left.”

Wade mirrors the movement, leaning in across the table as if it’s some kind of intimate game. 

“What if I sneak in?” he asks. “Slip past the back.”

Sirius tilts his head, lashes low. “Highly unlikely.” He smiles wider. “I have perfect eyesight.”

“Perfect,” Wade drawls, eyes glinting, “just like the rest of you.”

Sirius fights the urge to groan. His eyes flick upward, the most indulgent eye-roll he’s allowed himself all evening, but he reins it in before it gets theatrical. He breathes through it.

“Now, Wade, that line was painful. Try silence next time.”

Wade smirks. “You remembered my name.”

“Hard to forget when it gets dragged through so many teeth.”

“I wouldn’t mind dragging it through yours.”

That earns him a proper eye-roll. Sirius doesn’t even bother hiding it this time. He exhales, long and slow, and says, “Don’t waste your breath. You’re not my type.”

Wade shrugs, shameless. “Tastes can change. Maybe you just need the right motivation.”

There it is. The root of it, the rot beneath the surface. Sirius has known it since minute one. Boys like Wade never consider the possibility that the answer is no; they assume the dance just hasn’t started yet. While sweet, bashful, aggravatingly good Remus offers to learn the steps to Sirius’ rhythm, Wade wants to change the music altogether and drag Sirius onto his stage.

He pushes a hand gently against the table and leans back. “Thanks, but no.”

Wade lifts a brow. “Why not?”

Sirius gives him the sweetest smile he can muster. 

“I don’t like worn-out things.”

The smile on Wade’s face twitches, falters, tightens. Sirius savors the silence for a moment, and only then does he glance to his left and register that the seat beside him is empty.

How did he miss that?

Lily returns just at the right time, clutching a new drink in one hand and Sirius’ juice in the other. “Here you go.” She sets the glass in front of him and looks over her shoulder. “Where’s Remus?”

Sirius straightens, glancing toward the bar. “I thought he went to find you.”

Lily’s brows pinch together. “No, I didn’t even see him pass.” She gives a half-apologetic shrug. “Maybe he stepped out to smoke? There are a bunch of families in tonight. He probably didn’t want to light up around kids.”

Of course he didn’t. Because Remus is thoughtful, and good, and a hundred other things Sirius barely has the language to admit.

“Want me to go check?” Lily offers.

“No,” Sirius blurts quickly, already rising. “No, it’s fine. Thank you for the drink, Lils.”

Lily grins. “Call me that more often.”

Sirius returns her smile with one of his own. “Noted.”

He leaves the glass untouched on the table and doesn’t spare Wade another glance as he heads toward the exit, trying not to show that his heart is doing that silly, relentless leaping again. Trying not to think about how much he suddenly, desperately needs to see a constellation of freckles in the moonlight.

Nothing else really matters now, does it?

Sirius has a boy to find.

The bar door creaks behind him as he slips into the night, cooler air nipping his shoulders, tasting of smoke and old wood. He tugs the sleeves of his blouse down on instinct, eyes scanning the alley in a moment of quiet, just until he catches the faint trail of smoke, followed by the solid shape of Remus, leaning one shoulder against the brick.

“Hey,” Sirius says softly, coming up behind. Remus half-turns, glancing over his shoulder with a frown that vanishes as quickly as it formed, but not quickly enough. Sirius slows. “Running off without saying goodbye?”

Remus shrugs, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette. “Just went out for a smoke.”

Sirius steps closer, tilting his head with a half-smile. “And didn’t invite me?”

Remus gives another one-shoulder shrug, then tips his head back a little and exhales, the smoke curling in thin, silver lines around the shape of his face. Sirius watches it for a second, then frowns, nudging him lightly with an elbow.

“Your forge friend is absolutely exhausting,” he mutters. His hand slides in smoothly, plucks the cigarette from Remus’ fingers without thinking, and brings it to his lips. “Please don’t leave me alone with him ever again.” 

Sirius takes a drag and tries not to think too hard about the way the filter was just between Remus’ lips. Too late.

“Don’t enjoy his company at all?” Remus asks, a beat slower than usual.

Sirius snorts, catching the odd look in Remus’ eyes. “He never shuts up. I’m amazed his tongue hasn’t fallen off.”

“We talk a lot too. You and I.”

“That’s different,” Sirius says, handing the cigarette back and hugging his arms over his chest. The night has teeth, and they’re biting at his bare neck.

“You cold?” Remus asks.

Sirius glances over, tucking his hair behind his ear. “A little, yeah.”

He lets himself look at Remus properly for the first time since stepping outside—how the smoke softens his profile, how his shirt’s collar still creases from the way it dried on the line, how warm he looks just standing there. Sirius swallows hard.

“Pretty poor planning on our part. I probably should’ve brought your jacket.” He hesitates, then looks away, cheeks beginning to warm. “I just didn’t think—I mean, I didn’t know you’d show up.”

Remus takes a long drag before answering. “Honestly, I didn’t either.”

Sirius shifts his weight from one foot to the other, fingers tapping lightly on his forearm. He speaks without quite looking over. “So… you said that you liked talking to me. Was that the reason why you came?”

“Yes,” Remus replies quietly. “You’re just—you’re great. I think you’re great.”

Sirius smiles faintly at the cobblestones. “Starlike, you meant.”

Remus breathes out a small laugh, low and almost shy. “Yeah. Starlike.” He pauses, ash flicking off the tip of his cigarette. “That was a stupid thing to say, wasn’t it?”

“No,” Sirius says, and this time, when he looks over, he doesn’t look away. “It was a really beautiful thing to say.”

“You often call things beautiful.”

“Do I?”

“‘S what I noticed.”

Sirius considers it, then nods. “They want us afraid all the time, Remus. It’s all noise and patronage most days. People try not to risk it because they’re terrified, and their fear is a perfect little act of defiance. What makes us happy can turn to grief in a single breath, and what shines too brightly immediately means danger. But there are still good things. I am sure of it. I don’t want to blink and miss them just because they made us see beauty as a trap. I know it’s not.” He tips his chin to the sky. “Look at the moon tonight. Look how she glows. Isn’t that beautiful?”

Remus glances upward. “It is.”

Sirius nods, still watching the side of Remus’ face, lit half in gold from a streetlamp and half in grey from the moon. He points to his own waist with both hands. 

“And this skirt,” he says cheerfully. “I love this skirt. One of my favorites. Beautiful, right?”

Remus’ mouth curves a little. He drops the cigarette, crushes it under the toe of his boot. “I think everything about you is beautiful.”

Sirius’ chest stutters, caught somewhere between a skip and a stumble. He keeps his tone light and doesn’t look up to see if Remus meant it the same way he said it.

“Yeah, I really like the way I look tonight too. The girls tried really hard on the makeup. We love doing that for each other, you know, it—it makes us happy.”

Remus shakes his head, jamming his hands into his trouser pockets, eyes still turned skyward. The moon sits fat and silver between the brick alley walls, so bright it nearly bruises the night.

“I’m not talking about your outfit, Sirius,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “Though it is really beautiful. I mean you. Altogether. I don’t think you say ‘beautiful’ all the time for no reason. I think maybe it just comes from within.”

Sirius glances sideways, lips pressing together, because how does Remus say things like that without so much as twitching a muscle in his face? He says it so simply, as if it’s just a fact of the world, no different than weather or smoke or breath. Sirius wants to laugh, foolishly, for no reason other than because that’s the kind of thing that makes his heart feel like it’s about to jump out of his chest. He bites his lip instead, fighting the grin that wants to spill out and take over his entire face.

“You’re so well spoken, Remus,” Sirius murmurs, and catches the furrow between Remus’ brows, so he quickly adds, “No—I’m saying that kindly. You’re a very, very well spoken person. And you’re startlingly clever.”

Remus’ lips twitch. “When we first met, you said that I didn’t know how to talk well.”

Sirius mirrors his smile. “I was wrong.” He takes a step closer, heartbeat ticking up behind his ribs. “I was really wrong about you, Remus.”

Remus breathes in through his nose, audibly. Sirius is close enough now to see the shift in his eyes; they’re darker now, near cherrywood in the dim. Earlier that evening, they were liquid gold. Now, they’re dusk.

“Your eyes are so dark at night,” Sirius mutters. “But in the sun, they’re golden.”

Remus’ eyes widen just slightly. His brows pull together. “Yeah, well, I—”

Sirius closes the gap. He leans forward and presses gently into him, chin tucked as he rests his cheek against Remus’ shirt. He keeps his arms tight across his own ribs, still holding his elbows, but the warmth seeping through Remus’ shirt is immediate. It soaks into his skin like honey, slow and thick. He lets out a soft sigh.

“Sirius,” Remus breathes, not quite pushing him away, not quite pulling him in. “What are you doing?”

Sirius mumbles into the fabric, cheek curved against his chest, bent flower crown pressed against his shirt. “Hugging you.” He glances toward the alley’s edge, where muffled laughter drifts from the bar, and closes his eyes again. “You’re warm.”

Remus’ voice is very, very quiet. “You’ve got really cold hands.”

“Do you mind?”

“No. No, it’s just… it feels funny.”

“Funny?”

“Yeah, like… ticklish.”

Sirius huffs a laugh and tips his face up, chin still resting against Remus, so he’s peering at him from below. 

“You’re a really good person, Remus.”

Remus swallows. Sirius can feel the movement, right beneath his chin. “So are you.”

Sirius looks away, eyes tracing the cracks in the bricks beside them. “You can’t know that.”

“Then how can you know I’m a good person?”

“I can see it.”

“Well,” Remus says, a little lower now, “we get our eyes tested regularly at the forge. Mine are quite decent.”

Sirius lets out a real laugh this time. “Stop it. You’re so—”

“What?”

“You’re really funny.”

“In my childhood, they called it ‘weird.’”

“No, I mean—” Sirius straightens a little, still pressed close, “you’re sharp. You always know what to say.”

Remus glances down at him, a spark of humor in his eyes. “So you’re saying I’m… what? Starlike?”

Sirius beams at that. He lets his head fall back to where it was, safe on Remus’ chest, petals squashed into his shirt.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Starlike is what you are.”

They share another cigarette, lit by Remus with a slow flick of a match and a warm scrape of flame that casts a brief glow across his face. He doesn’t break eye contact, not even for a second, and when he offers the cigarette over, Sirius doesn’t hesitate. He curls his fingers around it and takes a drag, shaking his head when Remus asks if he wants his own. He doesn’t. He wants this; whatever this is, this shared thing that flickers between them with each pass of smoke and glances that go on too long. 

Sirius smokes, holding the cigarette between the same fingers Remus used, lips around the same end. There’s something satisfyingly adolescent about the whole thing that has nothing to do with smoking in general. With Remus, things are simple in the strangest, most terrifying ways. 

Yeah, that’s what it is. Sirius is terrified.

It’s not about Remus judging him. Sirius is starting to understand—no, to know—that Remus isn’t built to judge. It’s about how little Sirius thinks of himself. About the corrosive doubt that lives somewhere beneath his skin, about not knowing how he’s seen. Is he ridiculous to Remus? Decorative? A game? Or worse, just a shallow little thing, dull and clouded?

Everything is easy with Remus, and that, more than anything, is the part Sirius doesn’t quite trust. He’s afraid of what Remus might see once he’s all the way inside. Not ugly things, necessarily, but foolish ones. What if Remus thinks he’s just a collection of poses and eyeliner and stitched-together cleverness? What if he’s looking through lenses tinted grey?

Sirius hopes, helplessly, that Remus’ lenses are clear, because then maybe he can see him for what Sirius really is.

Somewhere between a breath and a heartbeat, Remus’ arm wraps around his shoulders. Sirius melts in almost without thinking, pressing closer into the warmth and quiet of Remus’ chest. It’s comfortable, like pulling a towel from the rack that’s been hanging just long enough to soak in the heat of the room. His entire body sighs into the contact.

“Why doesn’t Andromeda perform with you?” Remus asks, passing the cigarette back.

Sirius inhales, smiling around the smoke. “Oh, she’s shit at it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Total trainwreck. Couldn’t hold a note in a bucket. When we were kids, they wouldn’t even let her near the instruments.”

“You played music as kids?”

Sirius’ smile dims. He exhales slowly before answering. “Our parents made us. They liked pretending we were just as perfect as the Corvium brats.”

Remus doesn’t say anything; he’s good at sensing where silence needs to be and holding it gently in place. Sirius is more grateful for that than he knows how to put into words, because talking about his family feels like fishing bones from his own throat or summoning danger by staring too long in the direction of a feral animal.

The ghosts of his past still sit at the dinner table in stiff-collared shirts. Every time Sirius opens the door, they choke him, so he tries to keep it shut. 

Even now, he can feel it, that nausea curling in his gut at the thought of who he was before and the people he once tried so hard to be good for. Before them, Sirius didn’t know how to feel empty. He was raised in a house of expectations, but even then, he wanted something to give. To be wanted back. To make things better.

He did it first for his mother, when she was still Mum and not Mother. Then for his father, when his approval still mattered more than survival. Then for Narcissa and Bellatrix, when they were still cousins, not cautionary tales. And always, always for Regulus, who, somehow, never stopped being Reggie. The only one whose absence still guts Sirius in the middle of the night, the only one who exists now only in a pain Sirius refuses to unbox.

Sirius has always had his hands too full of something. Duty. Rebellion. Love. Anger. Now, there’s nothing. No fury, no attempts to be a troublemaker or a good son. No purpose to impress or resist. 

The teachings of District 1 are rotting quietly at the base of Sirius’ throat. He doesn’t spit all of them out yet, because he’ll probably never be ready to, but they’re sour now, not layered in want to impress anyone anymore. He doesn’t want to prove himself worthy of love, or respect, or attention. He just wants to rest. Wants to lay down his warpaint and sleep on a warm couch with music coming from the other room and Tobi’s stew waiting on the stove. Wants the sounds of footsteps on porch wood and the buzzing of crickets to be the only thing he hears before sleep.

This new kind of detachment doesn’t feel like numbness. It feels like the end of the longest day, after a hot shower and a reheated meal. It’s a distant memory of survival, the emptiness that comes after cutting off the rot, after clearing out every old drawer of letters and ruined things you thought would mean something forever. It’s leaning into a boy who hands him the shared cigarette without a word, who says nothing when Sirius’ hand shakes just a little, who holds him in a way that says it’s okay. It's okay. You’re safe now.

Even though Sirius stopped looking for love, acceptance, and tenderness; even though he stopped expecting conversation, kisses, and embraces—because letting go of hope meant letting go of the rot—here, under a borrowed moon and between narrow walls, he still feels no urge to bolt, for the first time in years.

Remus tips his head toward the wall behind them, blowing out a thin stream of smoke.

“What instruments do you play?”

“Tambourine,” Sirius answers with a smile. “You’ve seen me on it. Bit of piano too, though no one around here really has one, so we make do with strings. A bit of harmonica as well, but that’s just to annoy Tobi.”

Remus snorts. “I bet he loves that.”

“He puts up with me. We put up with each other. It’s a good thing,” Sirius admits, taking the cigarette from Remus’ long fingers. “I play guitar most of the time. That’s what I write on.” He shrugs. “I could play for you sometime, if you wanted.”

“Just for me?”

Sirius tilts his chin, almost flirtatious, almost shy. “Of course. On the condition you bring chocolate drops.”

Remus places a hand to his chest. “Deal.”

“You know, forge boy, I’ll tell you a secret.”

“What kind?”

“I really want you to come to the show for the Aurors. With your parents. I’d love to see you there.” Sirius pulls away and steps back a little, eyes scanning Remus’ face. “I know you can’t promise, with work and all. And I know it’s probably not even your kind of thing, but it’d mean a lot to me. To look out into the crowd and find your face there.”

Remus’ brows furrow slowly. “You mean that?”

Sirius nods. “I wouldn’t lie to you.” He takes another step back, fingers brushing the fabric of his skirt where it rests against his thighs. His hands tremble slightly, probably from the chill. Probably. “I want you to see me in the clothes your mum is fixing for me. I’ll spin like this.” He twirls once to the left, once to the right, turning a little clumsily in his boots. “And then like this, and then even better.”

Remus laughs. “I’d pay to see that.”

Sirius drops the hem of his skirt and angles his head. “Then come see it.”

Remus grinds out the last of his cigarette and toe-taps the ember into ash. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

Remus tucks his hands in his pockets. 

“I’ll come,” he says simply. “And I’ll see it.”

A loud pang resonates in Sirius’ chest. He takes a step closer again, watching Remus carefully. Their eyes lock. The alley’s just dark enough that the shadows eat away at Remus’ outline, but Sirius can still see the small crease between his brows which suggests he’s thinking hard, probably about nothing at all.

“Hey, look right here,” Sirius says, pointing toward Remus’ collar. Remus frowns, glances down instinctively, and Sirius clicks him lightly on the nose. “Gotcha.”

He’s already laughing, already turning on his heel toward the bar before Remus can retaliate. The door creaks as he pulls it open, letting the warmth and music and chatter wash over him. He closes his eyes for one brief moment before stepping in.

Behind Sirius, the night is navy blue and sugar-white, a soft bruise of a sky that stretches from the rooftops to the stars. The silver moon hangs above the horizon like it was placed there just for tonight, just for this.

Sirius knows exactly what’s happening.

The silver orb is rising over his head, but he’s sinking, deeper and deeper into Remus, into the gravity of him, into the soft-spoken way he looks at Sirius. He’s being pulled, dragged down gently into a tide he has no hope of resisting.

At first the sun had been bloodred on the horizon, setting low and slow, bleeding out into the sky. Now it’s gone. Now the blue-black night has taken hold, indigo ink poured over the edges of the world; not a fire stoked, not embers burning. This is what it must have looked like on the day the world cracked open and spilled stars across the sky.

Sirius gets back into the bar just as the last of the crowd claps for the final song. The lights are warmer here, glowing like low lanterns from the ceiling, and the air is thicker with perfume and sound. The girls are off-stage now, flushed and radiant, and people are already leaning in to tell them how stunning they were. A few heads turn toward him when he passes, a few people smile or call out his name, but Sirius is not paying attention.

His fingertips still tingle where Remus pressed the cigarette into them. His shoulder still remembers the shape of Remus’ arm around it, the warmth of his chest, the steady cadence of his breath. Sirius has no idea how many more nights like this he’s allowed—how many times the stars will align just enough to let him press in without consequences—but he’s greedy for them now. Greedy enough to start walking straight into danger, to say something stupid, or worse, something honest, like you smell of safety or I want you in every room I enter from now on, and he’s not sure if Remus would understand that. Sirius is not even sure he understands it himself, but he wants it so much it burns his skin.

He heads for the girls who are now wiping sweat off their faces and laughing loud enough to bring him down to earth. Mary’s hair is stuck to her temple in loose curls, and she’s fanning herself with her hand while Sybill tries to tug her sleeve down from where it’s caught on a sequin.

Pandora looks up when Sirius approaches. Her smile is immediate and very much knowing.

“So,” she murmurs. “You’re glowing.”

Sirius arches a brow, half-laughing. “It’s stage light and sweat, Pan.”

“Oh no,” Mary coos, leaning into his side and wrapping her arms around his middle. “That’s not sweat. That’s something far more dangerous.”

“Leave it,” Sirius grumbles, but he’s still grinning.

Sybill squints. “Do I smell smoke? My star, have you been outside smoking with your lovely boy again?”

Sirius snorts, but it’s too late; they all burst into laughter, crowding him in a loose semicircle. 

Above the Hub, the moon hangs full and high, and down here, the moon wears a loose collar and a patchy shiner of freckles across the bridge of its nose. It has dark eyes in the shade and golden ones in the sun. It has a scar on its upper lip and the worst posture Sirius has ever seen. Its shoulders are broad, its hands calloused, its laugh half-caught in its throat. Sirius can’t stop tilting his head up to see it.

Oh, oh—

But the beauty, indeed, comes from within.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Remus isn’t sure if it’s the magic of smoking with Sirius, or if Thursday’s spell has stretched all the way into Sunday, or if his mother simply wished him a good night under her breath before he left, but the evening, Wade aside, is going so well it almost feels suspicious. Sirius hasn’t drifted far from his side once. He only occasionally turns toward his or Remus’ friends, always circling back, like gravity.

Lily is now fully swept up in a conversation with Pandora, who’d joined them after the performance and seemed, quite frankly, to be having a ball—talking to Lily with little bursts of “No, wait!” and “You too?”, leaning in deep with her, nearly head-to-head. Mary, Carinna, Emmeline, and even Wade are wrapped up in their own tangled conversation—and thank the stars for that—while Sybill, Kingsley, and Xeno hover at the end of the table, talking loudly and sharing drinks.

Remus still glances at Xeno every so often with carefully rationed curiosity. Jealousy, his father once said, is a vicious thing. Now Remus understands what he meant.

To his surprise, Sirius has spent a good amount of time talking to Amos, which would have felt weird if Remus hadn’t been the one to tell him, earlier in the meadow, about Amos’ drunk of a father. Something in that story must’ve resonated; Sirius has a face for empathy, even when he doesn’t admit it. Remus wants to ask what exactly it was that struck him, but he doesn’t dare.

Honestly, it’s oddly enough to just listen from his seat at the edge of the group. Remus has learned that Sirius helps Alphard in his repair shop—he’s especially good with paint and furniture assembly—and, apparently, has a knack for machines. He fixes systems in trucks and transport engines, knows how to get a stubborn ignition to spark.

Remus closes his eyes for a blink, just enough to imagine Sirius, bent over the open hood of a truck, hair swept over his shoulder, cheeks streaked with grease and sweat beading at his hairline, rings stacked on fingers that are twisting wires together. It’s an obscene vision, frankly.

Remus forces himself to keep breathing evenly, but his stomach is already on fire. Right. He reaches for his glass of water and takes a sip. Enough of the mead for tonight; if he embarrasses himself in front of Sirius, especially now that the luck is on his side, that would be the end of him. He casts a glance at Sirius' glass, and it’s still full of cherry juice. Good.

Across the table, Sirius keeps talking, leaning forward toward Amos, “Remus told me you’re pretty handy. Thought maybe…” He flicks his eyes toward Remus with a quick grin, then back to Amos. “You could do me a favor?”

Amos frowns. “What kind of favor?”

“Alphard’s been needing a second pair of hands at the shop. I’m good with the furniture side of things, and I help fix engines, but the whole district comes by and with shows coming up, I barely have time. Could use another set of capable hands. You any good with repairs?”

Amos rubs his neck. “Depends on the stuff. But if the tools are decent, I can figure it out.”

“Oh, Alphie’s got everything,” Sirius replies with a smile. “Every wrench, every type of bolt. He's sort of obsessive.”

“I don’t know…” Amos glances at Remus, as though he’s expecting him to weigh in.

“You could swing by on Tuesday, maybe?” Sirius insists. “Take a look, see if it’s for you. Alphard pays decent and doesn’t breathe down your neck. Not that I told you that.”

Amos stammers, surprised. “Yeah, alright. I guess I could stop by. Thanks, Sirius. That’s… really kind of you.”

“Amos!” Carinna calls from the other side of the table, her eyes wide. “You have to hear this story, I swear—”

Sirius gives him a cheeky wink as Amos turns back to his girlfriend, and then finally looks at Remus, who’s already watching him with a small smile.

Remus lowers his voice. “Why’d you offer him the job?”

Sirius tips his head. “What, you need one too?” He bumps their shoulders together. “I could set you up.”

“Yeah? What would I be?”

“My personal assistant,” Sirius says, far too fast.

“Oh, what, bring you juice after shows?”

“And what’s wrong with that? Not appealing enough for you?”

Remus inhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “No, I love it, actually. I’d kill at that job.”

Sirius grins, looking down at his glass, swirling it gently. He doesn’t say anything after that, and Remus finds himself stuck in the space between was that flirting and don’t be so naive. Sirius doesn’t give himself away. Just a soft inhale, and then he brings the glass to his mouth and looks somewhere else, as if nothing happened.

Which—fine. Maybe it didn’t. But if stealing hearts is a crime, Sirius is already up to his ears in felonies.

Remus would ask. He wants to ask if Sirius is serious, if there’s anything behind the way he glances, touches, leans close. But he doesn’t want to risk it. He’s not ready to swallow a spoonful of false hope; too sweet, too much, choking him with the possibility of it all.

There is no feeling more vivid, more blood-hot and unbearable, than what Sirius stirs inside him. It’s red and bleeding into maroon, like dried blood on skin: dark and crusted and permanent. If you pick it off, you bleed again. If you leave it, it hardens. Then it cracks. Then you bleed again.

It’s that hot. It’s that dangerous.

Still, Remus doesn’t look away.

Sirius adds casually, with a shrug, low enough so Amos can’t hear, “You know, working for Alphard is better than messing with bootlegging and living an inch from arrest.”

Remus’ thumb drags slowly along the rim of his glass. “I told you he sells to the Aurors, too. He’s covered.”

“Yeah, but what about Greyback? Is he on Amos’s client list too?”

“Don’t think so. No one goes near him unless they want their tongues tied to the ceiling, and even Amos isn’t that reckless.”

Sirius’ lips pull down at the corners. “Greyback locked Xeno up in the fall for a bar brawl he wasn’t even in. Guy’s a complete asshole. Can’t stand him.”

“Xeno was just in the wrong place?”

“Wrong time, more like,” Sirius mutters, brushing the topic away almost too quickly. Remus narrows his eyes, curious, but Sirius is already pivoting back. “Point is—if Greyback catches wind about Amos, it won’t matter who’s buying. Poor guy would be the one paying.”

Remus nods. “We wouldn’t want that.”

“That’s what I’m saying, Remus,” Sirius mutters. “People talk, whispers turn to shouts, and the Hall of Virtue is not exactly a dream place.”

Remus glances at him sidelong. “You’d know.”

Sirius chuckles, his lashes low. “Even my connections with Aurors wouldn’t help pull your boy out of that place.”

“Why would you want to pull my boy out?”

Sirius grins, but it’s soft and honest. “Because I know you’d worry about him.” He turns his head, glancing toward the girls; his face shifts, folds in on itself for a second, and Remus feels it like a ripple. “And Amos… it’s not his fault he’s got a father like that. Working himself raw just to keep everyone else fed. We don’t get to pick our parents, do we?”

He says it so gently, so matter-of-factly that something inside Remus pauses. What happened to you, starlight? his heart asks. Who made you carry all this?

There’s too much sorrow in Sirius’ eyes for someone who laughs so big and sings so sweetly. Remus had thought, at first, that Sirius was all glitter and dazzle, performer to his bones, but he’s not. He’s a heart on a hinge, wide open. He’s good in a way that feels frightening to touch; for all the lace and sharp eyeliner, the sway of his skirts and that gleam of defiance in his voice, he doesn’t seem to be proving anything with Remus. He just is.

“No,” Remus murmurs. “We don’t.”

Sirius turns back to him. His voice is gentle. “Your parents are amazing, Remus. You’re very lucky.”

“Stop by more often,” Remus offers. “They‘re absolutely smitten with you.”

“I will, thank you. I’m pretty smitten with them too.”

“That’s great. My mum could use a dishwashing assistant.”

That makes Sirius howl, and Remus swears there is no more beautiful sound than his laughter, aside from Sirius singing. It bursts out of his chest, bright and raw, and quickly turns into this delighted bark that makes Remus laugh too, helplessly.

“You know,” Sirius says between breaths, “sometimes with you, I feel like I’m gonna burst from laughing.”

“I’ll try not to push you over the edge.”

“Maybe it’s what I deserve for making you rescue me from that goose. Just don’t ever tell the girls about that, alright? I’ll never live it down.”

“They don’t know?”

“Andy knows, because she’s my sister. Mary knows, because she’s relentless. And Pandora knows, because she—” Sirius pauses, tapping a finger to his temple. “—sees things.”

Remus furrows his brow. “Sees things?”

“Yeah. Like Sybill.”

“Like—what do you mean, like Sybill?”

Sirius raises a brow. “Kingsley never told you? They get visions. Not crystal-clear or anything, but they can tell you if trouble’s coming.”

“Should I warn Lily?”

Sirius hums. “Let her figure that out herself. I bet Pan would love the chance to impress her with some card reading. She predicted every one of my arrests.”

“And yet you still got arrested.”

Sirius flashes a brilliant, reckless smile. “I like giving Aurors a hard time. They’re hilarious when they try to reason with me, like I’m going to care about what comes out of the mouth of a government dog.”

“I should be careful with you,” Remus teases. “You’re all fire.”

Sirius leans closer again, lips moving but no sound coming out. Remus frowns, leaning in until their faces are far too close, heart hammering so hard he’s surprised the table doesn’t rattle.

“What?” he breathes.

“Black,” Sirius murmurs again, now right by his ear.

“Sorry, I don’t—”

“That’s my color,” Sirius explains, straightening just enough to look him in the eye. “You asked, remember?”

Remus remembers. Oh, he remembers.

Sirius’ lashes flutter heavily over those silver eyes, and his voice is like velvet and static. “For the hour before dawn. The sky at its blackest, with a star in the middle of all that.”

Remus tries the words in his mouth. “Sirius Black.”

Sirius nods, grinning. “Sirius Black.”

Remus doesn’t get another second to hold onto the name, because Mary and Emmeline sweep in, pulling Sirius into a flurry of conversation about oils and scents and everything else Mary hoards in her cabinets. Sirius goes easily, talking with his hands, his laughter lighting the table like fireflies. Remus watches him from the edge, moth-like, shadow-bound, drawn to his softest flame.

He smiles to himself, knowing without question now, that the stars are gracious tonight.

Chapter Text

“No, come on, Lyall, that’s cheating.”

“There’s no cheating here, Sirius, stop talking nonsense. I’m an honest man!”

“Hope, tell him he cheated. Remus, you saw it, why aren’t you saying anything?”

“Sorry. He’s my dad.”

“Traitor.”

Another card slaps down on the table, and Sirius flops back in his seat, scowling at Lyall first, then at Remus. He never looks at Hope like that—no, there’s too much softness in her to be on the receiving end of a Sirius Black sulk. Remus doesn’t really blame him for sparing her.

Hope sets her cards aside and asks with that usual warmth in her voice, “You two staying for dinner?”

“No,” Remus says. “We’re heading to Sirius’ friend’s.”

“Yes, to Clementine’s,” Sirius confirms, sliding a card down. “She invited everyone. Her aunt loves to cook, so there’ll be plenty.”

“Lily and Emmeline are coming with us,” Remus adds, pulling a card from the deck. “And Kingsley will be there with Sybill.”

Lyall plays a card of his own. “What about Amos?”

“He hasn’t left the shop since he got that job with Sirius’ uncle. I don’t think he believes his luck yet.”

Sirius laughs under his breath as he tosses down a card. “Alphard said he’s taking on extra repairs. Wants to save up a bit now that he’s working properly.”

“Good lad,” Lyall nods, matching him with a grin.

Sirius gasps. “You beat me again!”

Lyall fist-pumps the air. “Ha!”

“That’s it,” Sirius grumbles, dragging the paper bag of chocolate drops to his side with exaggerated offense. “No more for you, cheater.”

He gives the bag a little playful shake, and Remus chuckles quietly. It’s absurd how easily Sirius and Lyall find the same rhythm. They joke like equals, not like one is over forty and the other barely into his twenties. Not like Lyall is Remus’ father, and Sirius is… well. Whatever Sirius is to Remus.

Lyall laughs heartily, pointing a triumphant finger at Sirius. “Hey, starboy, don’t forget whose house you’re in!”

“Don’t forget who fixed that rattle in your engine!” Sirius fires back. “I was under there for two whole hours!”

“And then smelled like grease for two whole days,” Remus quips.

Sirius turns to him with a grin so fake it’s practically a grimace. “Thank you, Remus.”

Remus shrugs and tilts his head—happy to serve—and Sirius reaches across the table to flick him on the shoulder.

“Boys, hush,” Hope hisses, half-laughing, tossing down her own card. It sweeps the table—beats Lyall’s and Sirius’ plays in one go. “And that’s how it’s done.”

Sirius sits bolt upright, popping a chocolate drop into his mouth. “Absolutely not.”

Lyall laughs, clapping his hands. “Look at that! She crushed us!”

Hope beams as she collects the cards, then holds out her hand to Sirius and flexes her fingers, expectant. “Pay up.”

Sirius, still reeling, places the paper bag in her palm.

Hope tips a few of the drops into her mouth. “Thank you for the game, gentlemen.”

“I’m never winning anything in this house,” Sirius sighs.

“Unlucky in cards…” Lyall teases.

Remus ducks his head, cheeks going hot. He looks down at his hands, breathing slowly through his nose. When he sneaks a glance across the table, Sirius is doing the exact same thing—staring at the table as if it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“Could you pass the teapot, Sirius, my dear?” Hope asks, calm as ever.

Sirius is up in a flash, reaching for the pot and filling her cup instead of just handing it over. 

Hope’s been calling him my dear for days now, Remus noticed. When he asked her why, she just smiled and said, Because he’s precious. 

Not something Remus had an argument for. Sirius is, in fact, very precious.

“Thank you,” Hope says, accepting the cup.

Lyall leans back in his chair, looking at his wife cheekily. “Thank you won’t buy us anything, honey. I think you owe our boy here a fitting reward—didn’t you promise to let him try on his costume?”

Hope hums, sipping her tea. “Unlike you, I have an excellent memory. Of course I didn’t forget.”

Lyall sticks his tongue out at her, and she waves him off with the back of her hand, laughing.

They drift toward the living room once Hope finishes about half of her tea, and Remus finds the softness of the couch oddly comforting as he sinks into it beside his dad, waiting for Sirius and Mum to come back from the bedroom where they’re fussing with hems and pins and fabric lines. There’s a calm to the moment, a sort of warm lull between waves, and Remus lets himself rest in it, even if his mind, predictably, is doing somersaults. He’s gotten used to it, to be honest. The dizziness, the yearning, the quiet thrill of just being near Sirius.

It’s not just tonight. It’s not just Sirius in his home, not just this visit. It’s everything. How Sirius has become a fixed point in his orbit. The casual comfort that’s slowly woven into the fabric of his days, like an old quilt mended by good hands. The fact that Sirius is here more often than not now—tagging along to errands, walking with Remus down the fields, helping him pick cheese in the market, pretending not to care what’s on sale but clearly always buying too many chocolate drops.

It would be insane not to enjoy it. Anyone with half a heart would be thrilled to have Sirius around. He’s a dream, plain and simple.

But.

There’s always a but, dressed in the possibility that this will never end—this fascination, this ache, this wild devotion. And not the kind of ache that makes you think, we could be best friends, but the kind that makes you think, I want to be the only person who learns the steps to your dance.

Remus isn’t sure that’s the sort of thing you bounce back from—longing for someone who sees you only as a nice person to be friends with. He’s thought about it more times than he can count, and decided, sorrowfully, that he doesn’t want Sirius as just a friend. It’s been obvious from the very beginning: when he picked wildflowers on the way to the bar and gave away chocolate drops, when he handed over his jacket and never asked for it back.

It was never friendship, not for Remus. But he’s not sure anyone’s noticed, least of all Sirius.

“I really like your boy,” Lyall says beside him, breaking the soft quiet with the casual bluntness of a father who’s just been waiting for his moment to interrupt his son’s spiral at the worst possible time. “He’s charming as hell.”

“He’s not my boy, Dad.”

“That’s what you heard, huh?” Lyall grins, nudges him in the ribs. “Don’t sulk. It’s your own fault. You’re acting like a fool. I’d have properly asked him out already.”

“Great.” Remus visibly winces. “I’m not talking about your little romantic victories.”

“In your place, Remus. I’m a happily married man, thank you very much.”

Remus doesn’t answer. He knows his dad is not done.

“Listen,” Lyall says, softening now. “I really think you should take the risk.”

“He already rejected me, Dad,” Remus mutters. “I’m not anyone special, and I’m not going to push it. No means no.”

Lyall sighs. “You’re still stuck on that stupid flower thing, aren’t you? That was days ago. You think he’d spend every waking second with you now if he wasn’t at least curious? The boy jokes you’re high up like the moon, then spends half the day with his head tilted back, trying to memorize craters.”

Remus glances sideways. “You don’t think it’s… just him being friendly?”

“Not unless he’s friendly with all his friends like that.” Lyall pushes up his glasses and nods firmly. “Trust your old man. He’d never lie to you.”

Remus snorts. “You’re the biggest liar in this house.”

“Hey!” Lyall elbows him. “Respect your elders.”

Remus huffs a laugh. The silence that follows is a comfortable one, filled only with distant conversation from the bedroom and the ticking of the old kitchen clock. He thinks maybe they’ll leave it there—but of course, his dad has more to say.

“I know you’re grown now and you make your own calls, and you didn’t ask me for advice,” Lyall begins, tone gentler, “but let me give you some anyway. We only get one life, son. One shot in these bodies, with these hearts. That boy is living his first life, too, so maybe his heart just got scared at first and didn’t see yours right away. But now it definitely does. And I’m sure it’s thinking differently.”

Remus turns, studies his dad quietly. Lyall’s looking right at him, dead serious behind his crooked glasses.

“He’s taken with you, Remus. I’m not just saying that as your father. I’m saying it as a man who looks at your mum the same way.” He taps the edge of the couch and leans back. “You might not trust what I say, but look where it got us thirty years later.”

Remus stares at him, feeling the need to say something back. A clever reply, a thank you, anything. But no words come, because, as usual, his father has said exactly what needed saying.

Remus wants to listen. He wants to believe it could happen—that maybe Sirius is circling closer, maybe he is learning the steps of Remus’ dance just as Remus tried to learn his. But the fear of ruining what they do have, of saying something wrong, of reaching too far and finding out Sirius doesn’t feel the same—that fear is curled in Remus’ throat like a starving wolf, hungry and howling and just waiting to bite.

The sound of footsteps draws nearer from down the hallway, and the moment Sirius and Hope step out into the living room, everything in Remus stops. Not just breath. Not just his voice, or the blood in his ears, or the ability to remember how to swallow. It’s all of it. His entire body goes still—the whole mechanism simply ceases to function.

It feels, impossibly, as if the moon has risen inside the room, a pale coin suspended just above them, and Sirius stands beneath it in violet light, which pours over his bare shoulders under a loose lavender top, rolling like water over the sharp slopes of his collarbones. Remus’ eyes follow the line of soft braids trailing past Sirius’ shoulders, down the stretch of lilac fabric, to the glimmering corset hugging his ribs and the bell-shaped skirt layered like a bluebell bloom. Only when his eyes reach the hem, brushing just above Sirius’ ankles, does he realize it’s not a skirt at all.

It’s a dress.

Sirius is wearing a dress, and he’s as radiant as the sunrise. Remus watches, dazed, trying to blink, but by the time he looks up at Sirius’ face again, it’s far too late. Remus feels it—how small he is beneath the stars. How powerful the dizziness is.

Sirius stops in front of the couch where Remus and Lyall are seated, and that’s all it takes for Remus to shoot to his feet, gaze locked and mouth slightly parted. He doesn’t realize he’s standing until Sirius gives him a shy, uncertain look, with his hands hidden behind his back and his cheeks a little pink.

Their eyes meet. Just their eyes. Remus swallows hard, and the sound is so loud in the silence it nearly echoes. They stand, face to face; Sirius watching him, Remus watching him back. In the quiet, the softest breath from Sirius stirs the air between them, and Remus can feel it. He can feel everything. The room has gone warm and too still, and his gaze flickers to Hope, who is smiling at him, and then back to Sirius, because he’s infinite.

“Sit,” Lyall whispers from beside him.

Remus turns to look at him, still stunned.

“Sit down,” Lyall repeats, jerking his chin toward the cushion beneath Remus’ knees.

The chill hits Remus like a bucket of cold water, and his entire face goes hot in embarrassment. Without another word, he plummets back down onto the couch, folding in on himself. Everything inside him sloshes and then settles. 

Sirius clears his throat. “Is it—” He looks between Hope, Lyall, and finally Remus again. “It’s not too much, is it?”

“The braids were Sirius’ idea,” Hope jumps in. “He wants them for the performance, don’t you, my dear?”

Sirius nods quickly. “Yeah. We’re going to weave flowers in. Me and the girls.”

Lyall lifts a thumb. “Looks brilliant with the braids, kid. You’re a proper star.”

Sirius smiles bashfully, eyes flicking back to Remus as he fiddles nervously with the fabric of his dress. 

“What do you think?” he whispers.

Remus’ body goes rigid again. He sits up straight and takes in the whole picture from the floor to Sirius’ flushed cheeks, but nothing coherent happens inside his brain. Not a single word inside it.

Lyall claps him on the shoulder. “Look at him, Sirius. He’s speechless. That’s a yes.”

Sirius’ eyes brighten immediately. “Yeah?”

Remus nods like a bobblehead. Apparently, that’s enough, because Sirius beams.

Hope steps back, eyes narrowing critically as she adjusts a fold near the hip. “I think it all fits like it should. I could take it in more, but if I go any tighter, you won’t be able to breathe.”

Sirius waves it off. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“Absolutely not,” Lyall declares. “You’re not going to faint on stage. We’ll loosen it a bit.”

Sirius grins and curtsies. “I am honored by your concern.”

“You look dazzling,” Lyall adds. “They’ll have to reinforce the stage, or it’ll collapse under all that beauty.”

Hope clicks her tongue at him. “Don’t say that,” she scolds. “Everything will be fine. You, my dear, are a vision.”

Sirius smiles softly at her and murmurs, “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Hope replies, just as softly.

Then, Sirius turns to Remus again.

“You think I should keep the braids?” he asks.

Remus nods, too quickly again, but finds his voice this time. “Yeah.” He coughs. “Yeah, they… they really suit you. You’re amazing. I mean—you look amazing. With the flowers, it’ll be even better.”

They meet eyes again, and for a moment, time folds in on itself. The only thing that exists is the silver in Sirius’ eyes and the candlelight in his hair.

Mercifully, Lyall claps his hands once, and says, far too cheerfully, “Alright, Sirius, back to the changing room you go. Remus is about to start drooling, and I'd rather not have to scrub the couch.”

Remus shoots him a vicious glare, but Lyall just cackles.

Sirius bursts out laughing, head thrown back, bare shoulders shaking, the sound rich and bright and so Sirius it makes heat pool in Remus’ stomach. He bows dramatically and sweeps back into the bedroom with Hope following.

Remus remains frozen on the couch, hands clasped in his lap, his heart pounding so loudly it might as well be a drumline made of Sirius’s laughter, echoing through him like a song he’s always known by heart.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Being friends with Remus is surprisingly easy.

He’s light-hearted and quick on the uptake some days, quiet and boneless in a field on others, and he knows an absurd amount about everything—history, mechanics, books, bugs, the way people move and why. Sirius had initially thought him a little odd and too reserved; but the truth is, Remus Lupin is an open book. A very, very fascinating one. One that Sirius wants to keep reading, over and over, dog-eared at all his favorite lines. 

He’s also, Sirius has realized, a proper gentleman. Always holds the door. Always walks Sirius home. Always shrugs off his outerwear without a second thought when Sirius forgets that yes, the Districts do have weather sometimes, and no, his paper-thin blouses aren’t protection from it. For his part, Sirius still hasn’t returned Remus’ jacket; and if you asked him, he’d say he has no intention of ever giving it back.

The pie in his hands is warm, with cherry filling and sugar crusted on top in coarse flecks that sparkle like glass in the sunlight. It’s wrapped in foil, tucked in the shallow dent of a dish Tobi absolutely doesn’t want lost, but lent to him anyway. It was handed to Sirius with a wink, a tell the boy I said hello and a don’t tell Alphard, he still thinks you’re out with the girls. Which is technically true. Just not the kind of girls Alphard assumes.

Honestly, the whole pie thing feels a little over-the-top, but Sirius desperately hopes Remus will like it.

Beside him, Sybill shuffles her feet so they’re walking in perfect sync, right foot-left foot, right foot-left, because she loves mirroring people when they stroll together. She’s talking about the patterns she saw on tree bark earlier, and the strange dream she had about a train that never stopped. Sirius isn’t fully listening, but he hears her. He always hears her.

He also hears the way her words start to blur into images: bark spirals like constellations, crescent moons carved into wood, amber eyes, knuckle scars and soot-smudged fingers. Lately, his own thoughts have been spiralling there, too. 

“Lulu is a very sweet girl,” Sybill says joyfully. “Really clever. We sometimes talk more than me and Kingsley do when we’re all out together.”

Sirius snorts, both hands curled carefully around the pie tin. “I can’t believe I haven’t met her yet. Kingsley never shuts up about her.”

“You’ll like her,” Sybill adds, glancing at him sideways. Then, with mock-seriousness, she tugs the waistband of his trousers. “More importantly, I hope you make a good impression.”

Sirius barks a laugh. The pie tin rattles in his hands from the force of it, and he tightens his grip just a little more, as if the sugar-sweet thing inside might slip from his grasp if he doesn’t hold on. Maybe he’s a little nervous. Maybe more than a little.

Apparently, Kingsley, Remus, and Lulu are meeting for a walk, since the heat has come early this year. Late March, and already the sun is splitting stones. It’s warm enough to make Sirius’ curls frizz around the temples, to make his whole body buzz because of heat. He is sweating in his cotton shirt, and for once he didn’t put mascara on his lashes or anything glittery on his cheekbones—he feels especially boyish today, and anyway, it would’ve run down his face in minutes. 

If this is spring, then summer will be a nightmare. Sirius kind of hopes for rain; he doesn’t mind getting soaked, as long as he’s not alone. 

They’re cutting down toward the gravel path now, Sybill skipping ahead slightly, her thin dress fluttering around her knees. Sirius balances the pie against his hip for a second, brushing sweat off his upper lip with the back of his wrist.

It’s too hot to be nervous, but somehow, he still is.

It’s not like he’s doing anything—just delivering pie and seeing a friend. But then again, that’s a lie. Sirius knows it is. He’s dressed a little too nicely, trousers cinched perfectly at the waist, his sleeves rolled up just enough to show the warm glint of his skin, and there’s a tiny bottle of Mary’s bitter almond oil tucked into his pocket, just in case he wants to dab a few drops on the pulse point at his neck.

Inside him, everything is rattling again. It’s a strange new sensation, as though something keeps fizzing behind his ribs, bubbling up under his throat. Half of him wants to laugh, the other half wants to cry, and none of him can stop thinking about Remus Lupin. About whether he’s eaten today, whether he slept enough last night, whether he’s drinking enough water—because apparently, if Remus doesn’t, he gets these awful headaches, and now that’s just information Sirius carries with him. Always. Like a precious, quiet burden. It loops through his brain on a cycle so loud he sometimes forgets to eat himself. Or sleep. Or breathe properly. Some nights he just lies there staring at the ceiling, conjuring that crooked smile over and over, as though it’s a slow film reel.

“You look dreamy,” Sybill murmurs, linking her arm through his and giving his wrist a playful squeeze, forcing him to shift the pie to his other hand. “I like seeing you like this. The trees say you’re happy.”

“The trees say?” Sirius echoes, half-smiling at the sidewalk.

“Yes, the trees,” Sybill sings, swinging their arms slightly. “And the jabberjays, too. I heard them whistling your new song last night. Will you play it for Remus?”

Sirius nods toward the guitar case slung over her shoulder. “If you lend me your guitar, and if he wants to hear it.”

Sybill clicks her tongue. “Why wouldn’t he want to? That boy’s gone on you.”

“He barely knows me,” Sirius mutters, trying not to grip the pie too tight.

“You’ve been glued at the hip for days,” Sybill retorts breezily. “You came home right before curfew last night. Andy told me.”

“My number one enemy is what she is.”

Sybill grins wickedly. “What do you even tell Alphie?”

“That I’m with you. Or with Pandora. Or Mary. Yesterday I told him I was helping Clementine bedazzle a skirt.” Sirius shrugs. “Big win that Tobi’s on my side.”

Sybill snorts. “Liar.”

“Not a liar,” Sirius retorts primly. “Strategist. Alphie would kill me if he knew I was sneaking around with a boy. He’s all kind and soft on the outside, but inside he’s got Mad Dad Mode locked and loaded. He’d wrap me in ten blankets and keep me locked inside until I turned forty. Or older.”

Sybill’s eyes are warm and a little sad. “He’s got reason, starlight.”

“I know,” Sirius says. “I understand that he’s just... trying to overcompensate because of my parents and all that. But sometimes he gets too protective.”

“Don’t be too hard on the old man.” Sybill squeezes his hand. “He loves you.”

Sirius glances at her, smiling. “Let’s just hope he never finds out we call him the old man.”

They both laugh, and Sybill presses a loud, exaggerated kiss to Sirius’ knuckles before letting go. Sirius sends her a kiss back before he takes the pie in both hands again.

“Oh!” Sybill perks up, pointing. “There they are!”

Sirius turns his head, and it’s immediate, the way his insides start clattering all over again.

There, just past the gate to Kingsley’s backyard, is Remus. Standing near the makeshift carousel, hands in his pockets, listening intently to whatever Kingsley is saying. Kingsley gestures wildly in the air, talking with his whole body, and Remus nods along in that sheepish way of his, slouching slightly like he’s perpetually embarrassed to take up space. 

The back of Sirius’ throat closes up. It’s ridiculous, how charmed he is.

Next to Kingsley and Remus, a little girl rides the carousel—she must be twelve, though she looks younger, her tiny frame bouncing up and down as the carousel spins and slows. Her black braids fly behind her, her navy-blue dress crisp under the sun, her white collar neat. She lifts off the wooden seat and lands again, over and over. Sirius stares at the curve of her cheek, the pop of her hair ties, listens to the way her laughter rings through the yard like a bell, endearingly pure.

Sirius smiles, just for himself, because he can, then shifts his gaze back to Remus.

There he is. All long limbs and hunched grace, copper-tinged eyes and scruffy posture. A boy made of corners and curve, silence and warmth. A boy who worries about too many things at once and stands too tall in the moonlight.

“Sibby!” Kingsley calls, loud across the yard.

Sybill waves, lighting up instantly. “Look who I brought,” she chirps, nodding back toward Sirius.

Sirius doesn’t look at Kingsley. He can’t. His eyes are too busy staying locked exactly where they want to be.

“Hi, King,” he greets, absently biting his lip, his gaze never leaving Remus. “Hi.”

Remus smiles back at him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Sirius repeats again. He lifts the foil pie tin a little. “I brought something too.”

“You made a pie?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Sirius says, laughing. “Alphie and I are disasters in the kitchen. It’s a miracle we still have all our fingers. Tobi made it.”

Remus’ mouth tilts up a bit more. “Looks good.”

“I’ll tell him you said so,” Sirius murmurs quietly, staring right at him.

They smile at each other without saying anything. Remus stares. Sirius stares back. He has no idea how long it lasts—only that he’s perfectly content to keep standing there forever, existing in this quiet golden hum.

But of course, the next thing he knows, someone beside him clears their throat with a pointed ahem.

Sirius startles, blinking out of the trance. He turns his head to find Lulu standing there, hands on her hips, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“Hi, Lulu,” Sirius says carefully.

“Well finally,” she grumbles. “I thought you’d never look at me. You’re Sirius?”

He arches a brow at her bluntness, amused. “That’s me.”

“Thought so.” She launches herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist in a firm, no-nonsense hug. Sirius shifts the pie tin awkwardly into one hand and rests his free one gently on the back of her head, petting her hair. Lulu peers at him, mumbling into his blouse, “Can I have pie?”

“Uh—yeah, sure, just—” But Lulu has already snatched it out of his hands and is making a beeline back to the carousel. “Right. Okay. That happened.”

Sirius watches her go, laughing, and takes a few slow steps toward Remus, just as Sybill and Kingsley float off to entertain Lulu. She’s already peppering Sybill with questions and tugging at her long curls, utterly ignoring her own brother.

When Sirius looks up at Remus, he finds him already watching, just like always. That same quiet, concentrated look, as if Sirius is something worth noticing. He notices everything in return. Including a small smudge of dirt on Remus’ cheek.

Sirius reaches up without thinking and wipes it away with the pad of his thumb.

“You’re smudged again,” he murmurs gently.

Remus tilts his head slightly into the touch. “Probably didn’t scrub hard enough after work.”

“You tired?”

“Not too bad,” Remus replies. “Rhubarb made up with his wife, so we’re all in his good graces again. The stars aligned.”

“Mm.” Sirius hums, fingers lingering near his jaw for a moment, then lets him go. He grins, eyes tracing over Remus’ features. “I missed you.”

“We saw each other yesterday.”

Sirius sobers his face with faux gravity. “Right. Nevermind. Didn’t miss you at all.”

Remus laughs, shaking his head, and Sirius thinks it might be his new favorite sound.

“We were thinking of going down to the lake,” Remus says, nodding toward Lulu, who’s now licking the sugar crust off a stolen pie. “Sit by the water for a bit. You coming?”

“Yeah. Why not?” Sirius leans in, shoulder to shoulder, tilting his head to look up at Remus from below. “How’s Hope? Still sewing herself blind on our costumes?”

“She’s finished. I was actually going to drop them off to you tonight.”

“I want to come myself.”

Remus smirks. “I figured. You’re a little too charmed by my dad, you know. It’s starting to concern me.”

“Forgive me for not telling you the truth,” Sirius says. “Lyall was the goal all along.”

“You used me to get to my father?”

“Can’t fight fate.”

That makes Remus laugh again, and Sirius melts a little more. He leans his head onto Remus’ shoulder, content, and when Remus lifts an arm and places it lightly across Sirius’ shoulders, Sirius just about ascends.

He likes being touched, with Remus. That’s the truth. With anyone else it’s hard, it’s weird, it’s too much—but with Remus? It’s like his skin recognizes him. Like the sound of his voice and the scent of his collar and the weight of his hand are familiar already, as if Sirius has always been waiting to be known this way. 

He doesn’t say it out loud, but he wants more, so badly it aches. He wants Remus to stop being so careful with him, so polite. He wants him to just grab him, pull him in, let Sirius breathe him in deep and let the world go dim. He wonders constantly if Remus feels the same way about him. Wonders if he’s chasing something made of light and shadow, something that flits just ahead of him like a jabberjay repeating the sound of a heartbeat that isn’t real.

He doesn’t know where this leads, and he can’t stop worrying about what it means, what it might mean, what it could lead to, or whether Remus is even thinking the same things behind those quiet eyes. But if Remus turns out to be like everyone else—if he hurts Sirius, or doesn’t feel that same wild pull, or just doesn’t care—then Sirius doesn’t know how he’s supposed to go back to anything. He doesn’t know how to put the moon back in the sky after he’s just caught it, gently, in his hands.

“Sirius!” Lulu calls, bright and clear as a bell from across the yard.

Sirius turns his head, immediately locating her where she’s balancing herself on the spinning carousel, squinting against the late afternoon sun. 

“Yeah?”

“The pie’s good!”

Sirius smiles. “I’m glad!”

“Can I come to the big show?”

“Of course! You should come!”

Without warning, Lulu hands off the foil pie tin back toward Kingsley mid-spin, and somehow he catches it without catastrophe. She leans back on the wooden bar, arms spread, and beams at Sirius, wind pushing her braids up like wings.  

“I want earrings like yours!” she yells.

Sirius laughs, utterly charmed. “You got it,” he promises, reaching for the pie when Kingsley steps over to return it to him and Remus. “Just be careful. Don’t fall!”

“I won’t, I won’t!” Lulu giggles, tilting further just to prove a point. “I never fall!”

Sirius watches her, shaking his head in amazement, then turns to Remus. “She’s all fun.”

Remus’ voice is low and fond. “Yeah. I adore her.”

Sirius breaks off the sugar-crusted edge of the pie, dips it in the cherry filling, and holds it out.

“Here, try this.”

Remus leans forward automatically, reaching for it, but Sirius pulls it back. 

“Nope,” he says. “This way. I already made a mess.”

Remus laughs, cheeks pinking a little. “Alright.”

So Sirius lifts the bite higher, gently holding it out just beneath Remus’ mouth. Without breaking eye contact, Remus bites it clean off the edge of his fingers, his teeth barely grazing skin, and Sirius doesn’t breathe until he leans back again.

“Good?” he asks, voice a little too casual.

Remus nods as he chews, and says through a soft swallow, “Really good.”

Sirius reaches forward again, thumb brushing the corner of Remus’ mouth to dust away a stray fleck of sugar. “Tobi says hi.”

Remus dips his head in that same way he always does when he’s flustered, as if his neck is trying to protect the blush creeping up from his collar. “Tell him I said hi back.”

Sirius licks cherry filling from his own fingers, tears off another piece of crust, pops it into his mouth. The cherry is sweet and sharp, and the sugar sticks to his lips.

“You know,” he says, swallowing, “I wrote a song.”

Remus glances up immediately. “You did?”

Sirius nods. “Sibby brought her guitar. I could… I could play it for you. If you want.”

“Of course I do. I’d love to hear it.” Remus tilts his head, reaching back toward the pie. Sirius shifts it toward him helpfully, smiling as Remus’ long, scarred fingers break off another sugar-dusted edge. “What’s it about?”

Sirius watches those fingers for just a beat too long. He shrugs, lips tugging upward, then lifts his eyes again.

“Everything,” he murmurs, quietly, voice gentle as the breeze moving across the backyard. “You just need to hear.”

The look Remus gives him then is less about the words and more about the way he looks at Sirius—gentle and golden and full, saying more than just okay. He pops the next bite of pie into his mouth, and Sirius smiles back, storing the moment behind his ribs, where all the dangerous, beautiful things go.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

It’s good at the lake. Sunlight turns the water gold, and the only sounds louder than the insects are Lulu’s shrieks of delight as she splashes barefoot through the shallows, flinging stones and cold water at Kingsley with unrelenting enthusiasm. Sybill’s skirts are hitched up, her ankles soaked, and she’s laughing too, trying to dodge the spray. The water’s far too cold for proper swimming, but that doesn’t stop them. Kingsley is already barefoot, and Lulu’s toes are nearly blue from all the times she’s dunked them into the lake.

More engaging than the sight of them still is the sound of Sirius’ fingers brushing across the strings of Sybill’s guitar. He plucks a slow, unformed melody, one leg crossed over the other, humming tunelessly under his breath while perched on the same flat rock where Remus sits beside him, elbows on his knees, watching the whole thing with a soft sort of detachment.

He’d laid his jacket down for them both to sit on—his newer one, the black one, now that Sirius is holding the old brown hostage. Remus is trying not to stare at him too much, but Sirius is wearing trousers today, and it’s really, really not helping, because they suit him so unfairly well that Remus has to desperately search for any other thing to focus on every ten seconds.

He watches a tiny black beetle make its way through the grass, then lifts his gaze toward Sirius. “Nervous about the show?”

“Nah,” Sirius breathes. He glances at the bugs near the stone and shrugs. “Aurors are like these little bugs. One stomp and they scatter.”

Remus lets out a short laugh through his nose. He hesitates for a bit, then asks, “Is it true Sybill invited the McKinnon twins?”

“Yeah,” Sirius mutters absently, thumb sweeping along the strings. “Why? That a problem?”

Remus rolls a small pebble beneath his boot. “Not with Marcella.”

“But Marlene?”

“We’re just not—friends. Never really were.”

Sirius stops playing and looks over, finally, catching Remus in his stare. “Why?”

“Some people just don’t click. You try once, maybe twice, and it doesn’t take. And then it’s too late to fix. It’s just not meant to be.”

Sirius hums at that, fiddling with the tuning pegs. His brows are furrowed in thought, but his face is calm, as if he’s just turning the idea around in his mind, holding it up to the light.

“I could tell her not to come,” he offers.

Remus’ brows pull together. “What?”

“I could talk to Sibby,” Sirius muses, eyes steady on the guitar, which is both funny and not funny at all. “Ask her to say we’re full up. Marlene didn’t pay anything, so it’s not a loss.”

Remus chuckles, more surprised than anything. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? The show’s in a few days.”

“And?” Sirius shrugs, looking unbothered. “I’ll invite her to another one. We have a million.”

“I didn’t mean—I wasn’t asking you to rearrange anything for me, Sirius, I just… told you we’re not on good terms,” Remus says, still confused. “I know you like her. You said she’s funny.”

“She has a great fashion sense, too.”

“Then why offer to keep her out?”

Sirius doesn’t look up. His voice goes quieter, almost distracted as he plucks the lowest string. 

“I don’t know, this is just… you.”

Remus looks at him for a long time, watching the curve of his mouth, the way he keeps adjusting the tuning pegs as if nothing just happened. He wants to ask, what do you mean, it’s just me? But he doesn’t, because Sirius isn’t looking at him. Because sometimes, when something feels this fragile, you don’t poke it; you just hold it very still, and you hope it doesn’t slip through your fingers.

Sirius is like that. He says I’ll give your friend a job like it costs him nothing. Says I’ll keep your enemy away like it’s just an option on the table. He cares in this wild, unfiltered way, and half the time he doesn’t even notice how loud his kindness is. There’s always something a little dangerous in the way he gives, as though he’s not afraid of lighting the whole matchbox if you so much as shiver from cold. He’ll pull the stars from the sky for you, and then laugh like it was no big deal. Offer you jobs, cut off enemies, shift entire social calendars just because you look uncomfortable for a second. He’s all sharp edges and soft offers, a contradiction walking around in leather boots and silver earrings.

A ladybug crawls along the dirt, just beside Remus’ boot. He notices it only because Sirius’ song lulls him into that quiet, observant space where everything moves slower, where time stretches, soft and peaceful. The ladybug is yellow with faint spots so pale they barely register. Remus reaches down, lets it climb onto his fingertip, and then gently raises his hand to show Sirius.

Sirius glances over, still half-lost in whatever lazy melody he’s plucking. “Oh,” he breathes, squinting, “this one’s yellow. Barely any markings.”

“Yeah,” Remus murmurs. “Red ones are more pigmented.”

“Do you know why?”

“Not a clue,” Remus admits with a tiny shake of his head. 

“Mm. Just how it goes, I guess.”

“Guess so.”

Sirius lets the strings fall silent and reaches out his hand. Remus glances at the pastel pink fabric of Sirius’ sleeve, at the loose hang of it on his wrist, and gently deposits the tiny ladybug on the back of his hand. She moves slowly, inching toward the inside of his palm.

Sirius titters quietly, tracking her movement. Remus watches the soft part of his smile, the curve of his lashes not dusted with any black this time. He looks at the warm pink skin of his cheeks, the scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the moles above his lip and beneath his left eye. 

“You’re really beautiful without makeup,” Remus blurts, before he thinks better of it.

Sirius lifts his eyes.

“I mean—you’re really beautiful with makeup, too,” Remus corrects quickly, stumbling. “Your eyes—when they’re done up, they’re stunning. But even without it, you’re just… I just meant that—”

Sirius snorts, his smile tugging crooked at the edges as he lowers his gaze again, gently coaxing the ladybug off onto a nearby blade of grass. “You always get all flustered when you say nice things to me.”

Remus goes red from the collar to the ears. He looks away.

Sirius nudges his shoulder. “I’m not making fun of you. It’s sweet.” He picks the guitar back up and picks out a little melody. “Not many people see me like this. So… thank you, Remus.”

Remus watches him. Nods once. Doesn’t look away.

“I’ve gotten so used to wearing makeup,” Sirius tells him, eyes on the guitar. “With all the shows and everything. I think I forgot what I looked like underneath. I get a little weird now, going out like this.”

“You shouldn’t,” Remus says, voice firmer than he expects. “You’re really lovely. Just as you are.”

Sirius bites his lip and turns his face away.

“I mean,” Remus stammers, “you look a little different, is all. I haven’t seen you in trousers before.”

“Mm,” Sirius hums. “Yeah. I get these moods sometimes. My old friends’ birthdays is coming up, and I just wanted to remember… I don’t know. What it felt like to be boys.”

“So you feel more… boyish today?” Remus asks, trying to phrase it right.

Sirius sheepishly tucks his chin to his chest. His hair spills forward, hiding most of his face. 

“It sounds stupid, right?” he mumbles.

Remus shakes his head instantly. “No, Sirius. No. It makes sense. It’s okay.”

Sirius meets his eyes, uncertain, brows tilted hopefully. “You mean that?”

“I do.” Remus gives him a lopsided, earnest smile. “Skirt or trousers, you’re still starlike.”

Sirius lets out a quiet, embarrassed laugh and turns his face away again, but this time with a smile tugging at his mouth.

After a while, Remus says gently, “That friend of yours… the one with the birthday. Are you two close?”

Sirius nods, eyes on the lake. “Yeah. Very. We were like brothers, our whole lives. He’s…” He shrugs. “Half my soul, or something like that. That’s how Pandora would say it.”

“Is he Covey too?”

Sirius shakes his head. “No. He—he doesn’t live in Nine. He’s far. We’re not in touch anymore.”

The look on his face makes please don’t press crystal clear, so Remus doesn’t.

Sirius starts strumming again, slower, smoother. It sounds like a song now.

“That the one you wrote?” Remus asks. 

Sirius hums an affirmative. “I called it Birds Know the Way.”

“Birds Know the Way,” Remus echoes softly. 

Sirius peeks up at him from under his lashes, smiling closed-lipped. It makes his eyes wrinkle at the corners, and Remus reaches out gently and brushes his curls behind his ear. This time, Sirius’ grin breaks wider at the touch, full teeth now, his cheeks lifting, eyes going moon-bright at the corners.

His singing falls like smooth stones in the lakewater. The sound of it carries, floating above the breeze and rustling at the shoreline, curling in Remus’ lungs.

Come down to the lake when the sky turns to coal,
Where willows stand watch and the night takes its toll,
Where wind keeps its counsel and shadows won’t stay,
Come softly, come quickly—the birds know the way.

They perch where it’s quiet, where names are still safe,
Where no one is numbered, and nothing’s erased,
Where boys are not hunted and girls are not sold,
And the stories they tell us aren't paid for in gold.

They carry the voice that can speak without shame,
That sings for the living, not cries out a name.
They drink from the streams that no poison can touch,
And sleep under skies that don’t ask for too much.

They fly through the fields where the tall grasses bend,
Where days have no sirens and blood stains no hands.
Where children grow tall and the smoke means a meal,
Where laughter is plenty and wounds learn to heal.

They all know the song that no soldier can end,
A tune passed from brother to sister to friend.
It hums through the branches, it sleeps in the stone,
It lives in the quiet, and it stays when we’re gone.

Come down to the lake when the moon’s hanging low,
Where winds tell no secrets, and no one will know,
Come here, to the clearing where time slips away—
The road may be hidden, but birds know the way.

Sirius lingers on the final note, finger pressing into the string a second longer, and then gently lets it fade. He turns to Remus with wide, waiting eyes, his cheek hollow where he’s bitten the inside of it, his brows lifted in silent anticipation.

“I really like it,” Remus says, with all the truth in the world.

“You do?”

“I do.”

Sirius leans in close enough that their knees brush. His voice drops. 

“Swear it?”

Remus leans in, too. “I swear it.” His eyes drop, just for a second, to the beauty mark above Sirius’ mouth. “I like that it doesn’t spell everything out. It’s clear, but not… on the nose. And the melody’s beautiful.”

Sirius smiles again, smaller now. More private. He sets the guitar down in the grass between them, brushes his hands over his knees in a grounding gesture, then says, almost to himself, “My mother always said I shouldn’t write songs. That they were childish.”

Remus frowns. “She’s completely wrong, Sirius. Honestly. You’re brilliant at it.”

Sirius casts him a glance, testing.

Remus doubles down, steady. “Every song I’ve heard from you has been beautiful. If I could get them on a record, I’d listen to them every single day.”

“I could sing them,” Sirius offers, soft, “just for you.”

“That would be an honor.”

Sirius gives a tiny huff of laughter and props his elbows on his knees. Remus watches as he pulls a blade of grass from the dirt and starts absently twisting it between his fingers, slow and aimless. His nails aren’t painted today, which feels oddly telling, like maybe some part of him didn’t have the energy this morning. Or maybe he needed to stay bare, just for a while.

“Sorry if I brought up something you didn’t want to talk about,” Remus murmurs, faintly hearing Lulu singing something out of tune behind them as the wind rolls over the lake.

Sirius shakes his head. “It’s fine, Remus. I’m not hiding the fact that my life was shit. That’s why I live with Alphie and Tobi in the first place.”

Remus’ chest pulls tight. “I’m really sorry. We don’t have to keep talking about it if you’d rather not—”

“No. I think… I think I want to tell you,” Sirius cuts in. “You know how I call Andromeda my sister, right? But she’s…”

“A cousin,” Remus finishes. “I remember.”

“Yeah.” Sirius glances over, almost guilty. “Besides her, I have a real brother. He stayed behind. With our parents. In District One.”

Remus furrows his brow. “District One?”

“I’m a runaway,” Sirius confesses. “So is Andy. We both ran from One, and Alphard and Tobi took us in because—well, Alphie’s one too.” He smiles humorlessly, then adds, “My mother, she’s… I mean, she’s a bit insane.”

“Insane?” Remus repeats stupidly, though truthfully, he just wants to keep Sirius talking.

“Violent, actually,” Sirius explains. “She wanted to raise a Victor, because that’s what District One does. She always said we needed to make the Corvium proud or some such thing. My cousin Bellatrix made quite the impression in her year, so I was expected not to disappoint.”

“Bellatrix was in the Games?”

“She won the Games. Now she’s completely off her rocker in Victor’s Village.” Sirius laughs a little, but it’s hollow. “There were three sisters. Andy, Bella, and Narcissa. Cissy, we used to call her when we were kids. Andy ran. Narcissa’s the golden girl. And Bella was the showpiece. Their father basically forced her into the arena.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Took me a while to realize my mother was the same. Just subtler about it. She wanted a son and a Victor. Gladly, she had both me and Reggie as great options.”

“Reggie’s your brother?”

“Yeah. Regulus.”

“Sirius and Regulus,” Remus repeats.

Sirius nods. “The brightest little stars.” There’s a pause, then he sighs. “Reggie begged me to run. He saw how she looked at him, versus me. I did like he said—saved myself. Left him behind. Call it what you want. It’s just that now I have to act like I don’t have a brother when I still very much do.”

“I don’t think you had a choice,” Remus says quietly. “If your uncle was willing to throw Bellatrix into the arena, what would your mother have done to you?”

Sirius chuckles bitterly. “My mother said she should use the opportunity. Get Regulus as a proper son—” He gestures vaguely toward the lake. “And me as her glory—” his hand drops to his chest, “—while she could. She said if I died in the arena, at least she’d tried.”

Remus feels the sour twist of nausea pool at the back of his throat. It’s not the lake breeze, or the sun finally starting its lazy descent behind the treetops, brushing everything in long, gold-flecked light—it’s the quiet, steady way Sirius says if I died, at least she’d tried, as though it’s not the most horrifying thing Remus has heard all year.

And it probably is. No, it definitely is for him, the child who was raised in a loving home, who grew up in a kitchen that always smelled like cinnamon and clove, who had a father who kissed him goodnight and a mother who made sure he wore socks in the cold. Remus knows he’s lucky, he feels it now more than ever; feels a cruel, physical mix of grief and rage and confusion, all pressing at his ribs.

He looks at Sirius then, at his cheekbones and his collarbone and the line of his jaw and the fact that he’s still here, despite it all.

How is someone like this still soft? Still kind? Still able to write songs and laugh and play and fall in love with beautiful things?

“That’s how me and Reggie came up with the idea,” Sirius says, dragging the stem of a nearby weed through his fingers, the way you would a match you never plan to light. “If I ran, Mother would only have one option left. And one son, she would never send to the arena. Just like my uncle Cygnus did with Cissa. Eldest children are such a fuck-up, that’s why we get all the bruises.”

Remus lets that settle before asking, carefully, “But how do they not rig the Reaping now that you’ve run to Nine?”

“Becoming Covey gave me a good opportunity to vanish into the void. The government doesn’t really care about us. We’re not rebels. We don’t try to prove or ruin anything. We just dance and sing and put on our paint, and the Aurors adore us. There’s no reason for Corvium to do anything more than tie us to one district so we don’t wander.”

Remus glances sideways. “You don’t strike me as someone who’s not rebellious enough.”

Sirius grins at that faintly. “Oh, I’m plenty rebellious. I just learned how to dress it up. I think, if you feel like you have to speak up, you should. Silence and averting eyes are the worst enemies. And the fact that I’m not punished for rebellion? It’s just that my rebellion is tied to art. That’s how I see it—I sing about government, I sing about injustice, and people listen. They even dance. And then, one day, someone starts humming one of my songs under their breath, and they pause. They think—wait, what was he saying?” He looks up at Remus then. “And that’s when it strikes them. That I’ve been singing about rebellion the whole time. About everything that’s wrong, hidden behind chords and chorus. It takes time, sure, and I don’t really think I’ll live to see anything actually change. But if my voice plants a question in someone’s head, just one question, that’s enough for me. That’s already more than my parents ever let me do.”

He doesn’t blink as he says it. He looks right at Remus, earnest and open and so, so painfully honest that it squeezes something in Remus’ chest.

“I don’t know how you survived them,” he admits quietly.

“I didn’t,” Sirius mutters. ”I ran.”

“That is surviving.”

“You think that?”

“I do, yes.”

Sirius looks back at the water, mouth pressed in a line. “I still dream about Reggie all the time. I used to sneak into his room when I was little, and we’d build forts under the bed with quilts. I’d make him promise we’d never be like our parents.”

“I’m sorry,” Remus breathes, not looking at him, because Sirius is still staring up at the water with his throat bared, and Remus can’t stand to meet those eyes while saying it. “That’s—that’s monstrous. No one should grow up like that.”

“Yeah, well. I guess I got lucky. I got out.” Sirius brushes his fingers against the tall weed he’d been twisting earlier, now bent at the stalk. “The only thing that makes me feel sick is that I don’t even know who Reggie is anymore. I dream about him sometimes. He’s always smaller than I remember, always trying to tell me something but I can’t hear him through the glass.”

Remus feels the skin on his arms tighten. He doesn’t know what to say, not really—what do you say to a person who carries that sort of history in their lungs? In their bloodstream? He thinks maybe thank you for telling me would be too little, and you didn’t deserve that would be too obvious.

So he says, very softly, “You didn’t leave him because you didn’t love him.”

Sirius looks over finally. The last of the daylight casts half his face in golden haze, and the other half in shadow, his jaw a sharp cut against the soft lake light.

“I know,” he murmurs. “It’s just… I had to choose myself, for once. I had to choose me.”

“You did the right thing,” Remus reassures, with more weight now. “I know you don’t need me to tell you that, but you did.”

“Sometimes I worry that the damage is permanent. That even though I’m gone, I’m still—” Sirius breaks off, makes a gesture toward himself. “You know.”

“I don’t think it is,” Remus says without hesitation.

Sirius glances over. “No?”

Remus shakes his head. “You’re too full of life to be like them.”

It’s the only way he knows how to say it. That Sirius is magnetic, vibrant, hilarious, bright. That he has a voice like firelight and a laugh like smoke curling from dry leaves. That he walks into a room and makes everything else shift toward him, like gravity. That even now, even sitting on a rock with his past bleeding out of him, he still manages to glow.

“I’m trying,” Sirius whispers. “I really am.”

“You don’t have to try so hard, you know. You’re already enough.”

Sirius looks up at him with a faint furrow in his brow, looking so confused Remus almost asks him what’s wrong, but Sirius beats him to it.

“I’m scared,” he says quietly. It’s almost like it doesn’t belong to the boy who just spoke about rebellion and changing the world. “Letting you in might break my heart. I only just stitched it back together, Remus.”

Remus swallows, heat crawling up his throat. “What if you break mine? Because you could.”

Sirius’ brows pull, confused, and he asks gently, “Why would you say that?”

Remus shifts so close their knees touch, braver than usual. “Look at you,” he murmurs, soft. “You’re a star. How am I supposed to ever reach that?”

Sirius smiles sadly. “The moon is surrounded by stars, Remus. Millions of them. All drawn to it.”

Remus reaches out and gently tugs one of Sirius’ curls near his shoulder, winding it slowly around one fingertip. “Millions of them, but only one burns brightest.”

Sirius doesn’t move away, but he speaks in a voice that barely lifts over the sound of the lake. “You don’t know what you’re trying to get yourself into.”

“I know exactly what I’m getting myself into,” Remus says immediately. “I want it.”

Sirius shakes his head, just once. “I’ll get violent like my mother. I’ll tear things down, scream, slam doors, push and poke and prod until you can’t take it anymore. To have me is to bear me, Remus. It takes patience.”

“My luck,” Remus murmurs, staring right into Sirius’ storm-colored eyes, “I’m a very patient person.”

Sirius holds his gaze for a few more seconds. His eyes trace Remus’ face—his cheek, the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips—and land there, on his mouth. Remus feels the air disappear from his lungs. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but his eyes drop to Sirius’ mouth too, watching the way his lips press together, soft, pink, and parted invitingly enough to make his heart hammer in this pocket of silence just big enough for a first kiss.

They both glance up at the same time, eyes colliding, then look away again, all heat, nerves, and tension. Remus can feel the pull between them like a thread, a line of gravity that defies reason. 

Inevitable, that’s what it is.

“Sirius!” Lulu calls.

They jerk apart as if burned, each scrambling back a few inches as if physical space could hide what had almost happened. 

Sirius turns first, fast, his breath caught in his chest.

Lulu is standing near the shore, water lapping around her ankles, holding a bright pink primrose in her fingers.

“This flower looks like your shirt! Look, look!”

Sirius forces a smile, quick and charming and almost too well-rehearsed, and yells back, “It does! Good eye, Lulu!”

He says something more, but Remus doesn’t hear it. 

All he hears is the deafening thump-thump-thump of his own heart, still ringing loud enough to drown out the whole lake.

Chapter Text

The heat from the forge still clings to Remus’ face, even from across the room, as he carefully rotates the cylinder and nudges a thin metal tine into place with a pair of tweezers. The metal is thin but stubborn—flexible only when treated with patience. This time, it isn’t wrenches or crankshafts he’s forging; it’s closer to clockwork, to mending wind-up tools and tiny gears, to the kind of fiddly repairs he used to do as a teenager, before anyone trusted him near real flame. His fingers ache in small, pulsing ways, but they try to learn the rhythm. Metal sings when you ask it right—you just have to know the shape of the question.

This piece, stubborn as it is, isn’t answering.

“Something’s off,” Remus mutters, frowning as he pushes the music box aside and sets the cylinder flat against the table. “It’s too dull. The sound’s not right."

Perched on the workbench nearby with one leg swinging and the other tucked beneath her, Sybill shakes her head and plucks a string on the guitar. The note rings out, soft and clear in the dark room.

“There. Hear it? That’s an A. Yours is just a little low.”

“Do I trim it down?”

“Or swap it out. Might be the tine’s too thick. I’m not the metal expert here.”

Remus sighs, adjusts his goggles, and picks up a fine file, gently scraping at the tine’s edge, catching metal dust on the table. 

“I don’t know how you people hear this stuff,” he grumbles. “You say A or C, and all I get is ding and... slightly different ding.”

“Don’t worry,” Sybill replies, smiling as she tosses her impossibly long pale hair over her shoulder. It spills down her back in beautiful waves. “I’ll tell you when it’s wrong. You just keep making it sing.”

Remus slots the pin back into place, turns the cylinder. The note chimes out, clearer this time, but still slightly off.

“Almost,” he murmurs. “It’s like someone tilted the song by a half-step.”

He adjusts the tine with a careful nudge, then plays it again.

“There. That’s clean. I can live with that.”

“One down?” Sybill asks.

“For now.” Remus wipes his hands on a cloth. “What’s next?”

“C.” Sybill plays the segment again, gently transitioning into the next note, guiding him. “The drop right after the climb. You’ll know it.”

Remus exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as he readjusts the cylinder. His palms are damp with sweat, and the metal slips again—for the third time tonight. It clinks against the workbench and rolls with a mournful sound before he manages to catch it.

Sybill flinches at the sound, then resettles, shifting her weight and crossing her legs beneath the folds of her green skirt.

“Sorry,” Remus mumbles without looking at her. “Keeps slipping.”

“That’s because you’re nervous,” Sybill says gently, reaching across the space to ruffle his hair. She is, for lack of a better word, affectionate. Remus has grown used to it over these late nights. “Here. Let’s go over it again. I’ll remind you which one was A.”

Remus plucks the tine with the corner of the tweezers. A soft, almost hesitant chime answers back.

“This one?” he asks.

“Mm-hm. Close to perfect.”

Sybill curls back around her guitar, snake-like, and reaches for the paper beside her, full of loops and symbols and odd little arrows. A language Remus doesn’t speak.

“You don’t have to understand it,” Sybill tells him, eyes still on the page. “Sirius will.”

Remus watches her fingers move across the page. “Looks like a star chart,” he says, eyes narrowing at the clusters of dots and lines. “So many tiny marks. I keep losing track.”

“It is, sort of,” Sybill murmurs softly, without looking up. “The map of your heart.”

Another Sybillism. Remus doesn’t understand half of what she says, but that’s fine. Mostly, he just works. His hands may be rough, scarred with burns and scratches, but they understand what to do. He knows what the song is, but the how remains beyond him, so Remus drills, and files, and bends the metal, hoping that’s enough. If he can’t play it himself, he’ll make something that can.

"Besides," Sybill adds lightly, fingers drifting across her guitar strings, "Sirius likes the stars. He’s one himself, isn’t he?"

Remus' file slips just slightly off the edge of the metal. His ears flush pink, the way they always do when he isn’t ready for the mention of him. 

“Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, he is.”

Sybill smiles down at her hands, plucking out a gentle chord. “He never shuts up about that book on stars you read to him.”

Remus glances at her, trying not to sound as thrown as he feels.

“He talks about it?” he mutters, adjusting the pin with a careful twist, as if his pulse isn’t currently crawling up his neck. “What does he say?”

There’s amusement tucked in Sybill’s voice. “That he likes the way you read.”

Remus bites the inside of his cheek, hard enough to stop the stupid smile threatening to bloom across his face. He’s been too careless with it lately—smiling at fruit in the market, or on the way to work, or on the way from work, or while washing up before bed, or as soon as he opens his eyes in the morning. It's getting out of hand. Maybe that’s what it is—what hope looks like, in this broken world of theirs. Maybe it lives in Sirius' hands. In his laugh. In the way he falls quiet when Remus reads aloud, tilting his head as if he’s trying to catch every word. Maybe it’s in the sideways glances, the ghost of a touch to the shoulder, the weightless press of a hand against his back.

Maybe all Remus needs is to burn Sirius’ image into the backs of his eyelids—just the shape of him—and that’ll be enough. Close his eyes and find that first night again, the one at The Hub, when Sirius was just a mystery across the room. When Remus didn’t know yet, but his heart already did. And maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could find him again. In any room. On any street. In any life.

Because the moon had to meet the star, didn’t it?

That was always going to be their eclipse.

And if things were different—if the world were soft and not sharpened to kill—everything would be made of crystal and pearl. Draped in iridescence. The lake would be glassy, sweet or salted, however Sirius wanted. The sky would arch overhead like a dome. There’d be no Corvium. No arena. No coffins full of children whose blood turned to rust before the cameras could fade to black.

Just swans, and stars, and sweet thereafter.

“I think you two are good together,” Sybill muses, plucking another note.

Remus blinks, the fantasy fracturing. Just like that, he's back, sitting in the forge at night, callused hands smudged with graphite, and the boy he’s in love with belongs to no one. The brightest star in the sky, always out of reach.

“We’re not together,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Stop saying that.”

Sybill hums, picking idly at her guitar. The string twangs just wrong, and she glances at him, sheepish. 

“Sorry,” she whispers, then adds, “But you could be. Couldn’t you?”

Remus swallows, watching the metal spin slowly on the cylinder, dull silver catching fire in the forge light. “Why would you think that?”

“Because Sirius is the songbird,” Sybill explains. “And you’re his silence. He’ll keep that silence near his heart, even if it’s hard to hear through it sometimes.”

Sure. Great. Absolutely charming explanation. Remus has no idea what to do with that.

He frowns, says nothing, and leans back over the cylinder. The metal gives a faint squeal under his tools. He slides in another tiny pin, bends the tip. Then another, on the third rotation.

“How many do we have left?” he asks.

“Three,” Sybill says, leaning closer. She points to the next one on the sheet, then plucks the note on her guitar. “This one’s next. But please be more careful. Last time you put it in crooked and the F sounded like a dying cricket.”

Remus exhales through his nose and pushes his goggles back up. “You have a very musical way with insults.”

“And you’ve got a lot of grump for someone making a romantic gift.”

Remus snorts under his breath, nothing cruel in it. The work steadies him—measure, drill, bend, adjust. When he turns the crank, one of the pins catches, brushing against a plate just right. It wobbles. Rings. Still uneven, but closer now. Almost music.

“What if it doesn’t work?” he muses quietly. “What if Sirius hears it and… doesn’t get it?”

Sybill abandons her guitar and hops off the bench, her bare feet quiet against the floor. She comes to lean beside him, elbows on the table.

“He’ll get it,” she murmurs. “Your hands aren’t great at speaking feelings, but lucky for you, he’s good at reading between the lines.”

Remus swallows hard. He nods, tracing a finger along the teeth of the cylinder. Each tine is slightly different. Thin. Bent just slightly. He can’t hear them the way Sybill does, but he feels them. He made each one himself.

Sybill watches as he places the next pin and says, “Two pins to go, and you’ll be the first blacksmith in District Nine with a singing heart.”

Remus laughs through his nose. “Just don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.” She grins, winking. “I swear.”

“ Especially not Kingsley. He’ll never let me live it down.”

“Your secret dies with me,” Sybill swears solemnly, crossing her heart with a finger. Then she lifts her guitar again. “Come on. I’ll help. We’ve still got a little time before sunrise, and the box is nearly done.”

They go on like that, quiet and steady, one note at a time. Two shapes in the dark, building something small and impossible in a world that doesn’t make room for softness.

Sometimes, when no one’s watching, even the forge plays a familiar tune.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Sirius hangs upside down from the thick branch of the old tree by the lake, his legs hooked lazily over the wood, arms dangling. His hair falls in a tangled curtain straight to the damp earth, brushing the dirt in soft, sweeping arcs, which is, admittedly, kind of disgusting, but he’s already decided to wash it later anyway. He’s been sweating all afternoon, so what’s a bit of mud and leaf dust on top of that?

Besides, it’s worth it for the look on Remus' face. 

He circles Sirius like a planet in slow orbit, always within reach, casting nervous glances up at him every time the branch creaks or he so much as breathes. It’s as funny as it is painfully sweet, so of course, every once in a while, Sirius swings his body just slightly more than necessary, if only to watch Remus half-reach and panic about it. Call it evil. Call it self-sabotage. He calls it entertainment.

Remus is telling some story—something about his parents and a box of sewing thread—and Sirius is half-listening, half-not, because the sun through Remus’ tawny curls is too beautiful, and he’s doing that thing again, talking with the words half-eaten by his red mouth like apples, and honestly, it’s a lot to handle upside down.

“And then Mum said she couldn’t reach the box of thread on the top shelf in the pantry,” Remus says, gesturing midair, “so she asked Dad to get it, and he did, except there was a paper underneath the box, and when he pulled that out, the whole thing slid off and—”

Sirius yanks his head to one side sharply, as if about to fall.

Remus cuts off mid-sentence, lets out a strangled noise and immediately steps forward. “Sirius!” 

His hands come up instinctively, palms bracketing the air just beneath Sirius' head. Their faces are comically close for a moment, and Sirius breaks into open laughter, his whole body shaking with delight. From this angle, the sound bubbles up backwards in his throat.

Remus sighs, because he’s been played—again—and straightens up with that exasperated face Sirius has grown very, very fond of. Sirius grins wide and sticks out his tongue in reply. Remus rolls his eyes but can’t quite suppress the little smile that curls at the corners of his mouth. He tucks his hands back in his jacket pockets and picks up his story again, pretending not to watch Sirius continue his upside-down dance.

They’ve been at the lake for hours now, time dissolving into golds and silvers, broken only by the occasional ripple of wind. Sirius' boots lie kicked off on the bank; his shirt is undone, a little sweaty at the collar. The hem of his skirt is still wet from when he’d run too close to the water, and his feet are black with puddle-slick moss and the sheen of post-rain mud, but he doesn’t care. 

Being with Remus makes him feel like it’s okay that his feet are dirty. That he’s a little sweaty and a little strange. That if he asked, Remus would carry him all the way home without a word. Dirty feet and all.

“Want to go to Xeno’s later?” he asks, swinging gently. “Ted rigged up a projector for him, and they found some movie at the market. No clue what it’s about—maybe a comedy? We could laugh a bit.”

Next thing he knows, Remus is making the face.

The one he’s been pulling the last few days whenever Sirius invites him out in the evenings. Sirius has memorized every part of it: eyebrows creased upward in apology, mouth tucked in on one side, causing that little dimple to appear above his upper lip. That face has made a career out of breaking Sirius’ heart lately.

Everything on Remus is attractive, annoyingly so, but this unsteady sort of no doesn’t suit him. Especially because Remus is steady in all the usual ways—he still carries Sirius' bags, walks him home, brings him chocolate drops, laughs softly at his jokes, listens like Sirius is the only person in the world he should be speaking to. He still invites Sirius over, where Hope always manages to serve humble, perfect meals out of whatever they can scrape together. She already finished the performance costumes—tried to charge less, Sirius refused—and somehow also keeps feeding him and gossiping over tea. Honestly, it’s almost offensive how much Sirius loves her.

But that face. That half-sorry expression, that little recoil whenever Sirius mentions evenings, late nights, anything after dusk—it’s been happening for a while. Sirius only started noticing recently, but he’s sure it started long before that.

He narrows his eyes slightly, bracing himself, because here it comes.

“I can’t tonight, Sirius,” Remus mutters. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Sirius asks immediately, voice sharper than he meant.

He’s off the branch before the words even finish leaving Remus’ mouth. Remus reaches instinctively to steady him, but Sirius twists through his arms and lands on bare feet with a soft thud. The grass squishes under him as he straightens to full height, meeting Remus eye-to-eye. Their faces almost touch.

“Why?” he asks again.

“I’ll be busy,” Remus says.

Sirius frowns at him, stubborn. “Doing what?”

“Just... things. I need to help my parents. Some stuff at home.”

Sirius crosses his arms. “What kind of stuff?”

“There’s a problem in the kitchen.”

“Something broke?”

“No. Mold.”

“Mold,” Sirius echoes.

Remus nods, gaze steady. “Yes. On the back wall. Mum says it’s dangerous. Spores and all. She’s worried, you know.”

Sirius stares at him, searching. His inner voice is already winding up, trying to sniff out the lie, tug it loose. But there’s no twitch in Remus' jaw. No flinch behind his eyes. No shift in posture or breath. Just hands in pockets, relaxed shoulders, the same quiet steadiness that drives Sirius half-mad and entirely lovesick.

Maybe he's inventing things again. He does that. A lot.

“Maybe I can come help?” he offers carefully.

Remus shakes his head. “No way. I’m not letting you scrub mold off our walls.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I do,” Remus says. “Seriously, go watch the movie. You can tell me tomorrow if it was any good, yeah? You’re great at retelling things.”

Then, as if he knows exactly which string to pluck to quiet Sirius instantly, Remus reaches up and gently tucks a curl behind Sirius' ear, his fingers brushing against his cheek in that maddening, perfect way he always does. His fingertips are dry and calloused, and Sirius leans in before he can stop himself.

“We can hang out after my shift,” Remus suggests softly. “Do anything you like.”

Sirius melts embarrassingly fast. It’s not fair, the way Remus does that—how one gentle touch, one low sentence, can dismantle every wall Sirius builds to protect himself from disappointment. His arms loosen across his chest, and he feels himself go warm and soft like butter left in the sun.

“Anything I like?” he mumbles, voice small now, without heat. He’s trying very hard not to pout. He wants to pout, wants to crawl into Remus' chest and sulk for three hours, but Remus' fingers are still near his cheek, the touch so lovely, his voice so sweet, and Sirius is already putty.

“Anything,” Remus promises, fingers lingering a second longer against Sirius’ jaw. “I’ll even hang upside down from a tree, if you ask.”

Sirius’ mouth twitches into a smile. “Oh? You’d do that for me?”

Remus nods solemnly. Sirius' smile grows. He wants to squeeze him. Bite him. Do both, in some aggressive flurry of emotion. But mostly, he just wants to believe him. 

“Well,” Sirius says, tipping his head, “since you’re so generous, can we at least go somewhere right now? Walk a bit? Maybe to the flea market? I want to look at trinkets.”

Remus chuckles. “Of course.” He steps past Sirius, fingers brushing his curls near the elbow, idly threading through them, gentle as ever. “Let me grab your boots.”

He heads toward the bank, where Sirius' boots lay forgotten in the grass, damp and worn and probably half full of leaves. Sirius leans back against the tree trunk, exhaling through his nose, and watches him go, biting his lip to stop another smile. He doesn’t succeed.

Truth is, Sirius will take tomorrow. He’ll take tonight. He’ll take whatever Remus gives him, for as long as he’s allowed to have it.

They leave the lake slowly, letting their steps fall in rhythm over the damp grass and dusty road, covered in puddles that flash like silver coins in the dirt. Sirius walks barefoot for a good stretch, grass and gravel catching between his toes, and laughs when he nearly slips on a slick, mossy patch. He doesn’t even think about his boots until he stubs his toe on a stone. Remus sighs and stops walking.

“Come here.”

Sirius frowns, looks over, and finds Remus standing on the edge of the path, hand outstretched.

“What?”

“Sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re about to slice your foot open on a broken jar next,” Remus scolds, nodding toward a nearby tree stump. “Sit.”

Sirius sticks to arguing, but then Remus crouches, tugs one of Sirius’ ankles forward without waiting for him to actually listen, and begins brushing mud and bits of grass from his feet with his bare hands. Sirius watches, wide-eyed and wordless, as Remus clears the grime away, fingertips brushing his arch, gentle and thorough.

“Lift a bit higher,” Remus says softly.

Sirius does.

Remus slips the boot on, then does the same with the other, steadying him by the calf. When he stands, their shoulders brush, and Sirius has to look away quickly, trying very hard not to think about it—about fingers curling under his heel, the warmth of a palm against his ankle, or the fact that just a few nights ago, they had been so close to kissing that Sirius could feel Remus' breath against his mouth.

But it’s hard not to think about it when the memory is pressed so tightly against the inside of his skull it hurts.

There are things Sirius understands—song structure, color palettes, how to charm Alphard into giving him the last slice of pie—and there are things he doesn’t. Things no one’s ever explained to him in a way that makes sense. Celestial bodies, for example. Or the exact moment affection turns into love. Or why the Districts are still forced to sacrifice their children to the blood-filled arenas year after year, as a form of penance no one remembers choosing.

And he definitely doesn’t understand what comes now.

What comes now, when Sirius can’t undo how close they got? What comes now, when he knows down to his bones that he wanted that kiss? What now, when he doesn’t even know if Remus felt it too? If he knew how close they were to touching mouths, to crossing that invisible line?

What now, when they’re still just friends, and friends aren’t supposed to kiss each other?

Sirius wonders if that moment meant something, or if he made it all up once again in his stupid, burning heart.

By the time they reach the flea market, Sirius' feet have warmed inside his boots. He wiggles his toes inside the leather and breathes in the smell of roasted corn and oil-fried sweets drifting through the rows of tables. There’s noise and music and shouting from stalls, but Sirius' favorite part is always the color: trinkets laid out on mismatched cloth, all glitter and rust, looking a little broken and a little magical.

He waves widely at Maple, who stands behind her usual cluttered spread of lockets, bracelets, and little glass perfume bottles shaped like apples or doves. She’s been trading at the market forever, and even gave Sirius a fork with a bird engraving on it once. He still snatches it right out of Alphie’s hands whenever he tries to use it as a utensil for dinner.

“Maple!” Sirius calls. “Lovely to see you.”

“Sirius!” She squints up at him, hands on her hips, and beams. “What a charming skirt today, love.”

Sirius does a little spin and flutters the hem for her. “It’s new. Borrowed it off Andromeda. Don’t tell her I’m getting it dirty.”

Maple laughs, waves him off, and turns to help another customer, and Sirius tugs Remus along by the sleeve, bouncing slightly on his toes, brushing his fingers over every trinket that catches his eye. Remus trails behind him, always at a distance but never far, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes calm and quiet and so very focused whenever Sirius turns back to look.

Sirius holds up a pair of beaded earrings, angling them near his ears and giving a little shimmy. “These?” 

Remus tilts his head, considering. “Too green.”

Sirius laughs and spins again, basking in the attention. He checks—carefully, sneakily—after every movement. And every time, without fail, Remus is already looking at him.

It has to mean something. The way their eyes keep meeting like magnets finding each other again and again. The way Remus' gaze doesn’t flick away, not even when Sirius looks back for too long. It has to be gravity. It has to be that thing Remus read to him about once, the pull between celestial bodies that can't help but orbit.

Because if it isn't that, then Sirius doesn’t understand the thundering inside his own ribs. 

Stars aren’t supposed to drift that close to the moon, are they?

At one stall, he starts digging through a small wooden drawer full of pins and brooches, most of them bent or missing stones. Remus steps in close behind him and holds the drawer steady, keeping it from sliding off the uneven table.

“There’s this brooch the McKinnon girl wears,” Sirius murmurs, not looking up, “The swan one, all curled up like it’s sleeping. Gorgeous. Haven’t found one like it anywhere.”

Remus hums thoughtfully. “You know swans mate for life?”

Sirius looks up, meeting those painfully honey-colored eyes. “For life?”

Remus nods. “They choose one partner, and that’s it. If the partner dies, they mourn. Some of them stay alone forever.”

“That’s—” Sirius starts, then laughs a little under his breath. “That’s lovely. But kind of tragic.”

“It is,” Remus agrees. “I don’t know how something so soft can be so certain. It’s amazing that anyone can love like that.”

Sirius lowers his eyes to the drawer. His fingers find a brooch shaped like a flower and trace the curve of it. He wonders, quietly, if swans ever hesitate before they choose.

“Alphie and Tobi are like that,” he murmurs. “Been through so much, but you know. Steady.”

“My parents, too. It’s strange sometimes, thinking they were just two kids once. Now I can’t picture them apart.” Remus smiles faintly. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? When people find each other like it was always supposed to happen.”

Sirius smiles, just at the corner of his mouth. It’s a crooked thing, too afraid to grow too big.

“You’re a romantic.” He glances at Remus from beneath his lashes. “Believe in fate, do we?”

He’s expecting a laugh. Or a shrug. Maybe some sarcastic deflection, the kind Remus usually gives when things get too close to the chest. 

But Remus meets his gaze squarely, and something in Sirius falters. The smile fades from his lips, just like that—gone without being chased away. His chest gives a sudden, inexplicable stutter, and he swears he can hear his own heartbeat. It kicks hard and doesn’t slow, but stays there, a new melody.

“I think…” Remus says slowly, “when it’s real, you just know. Right away. Without question.”

Sirius stares at him for a long moment. At the stillness in his features, the calm certainty in his voice. At the way the light hits his cheekbones and how his lashes cast soft shadows under his eyes. Then he bites down gently on his lower lip, lets the smile come back, smaller now, and turns back to the tray of trinkets. His fingers fidget through the mess of brooches and broken chains, bump over tangled pins and bits of string. 

He digs until something cold catches his thumb. Sirius lifts it out—small, plain, and lovely. A solid silver pendant shaped like a waning crescent.

Sirius gasps. “Remus!”

Remus glances up.

“This is so for you,” Sirius declares, turning quickly, holding the pendant up between his fingers. “Look—the moon!”

Remus leans in slightly, brows pinched in confusion. “Oh. That’s—yeah. Nice.”

“No, no, look.” Sirius grins, practically bouncing now. He reaches for the silver chain around his own neck, pulls it out from under his blouse and lets his star pendant dangle between them, worn smooth now from how often he touches it.

He holds both up side by side. His star. Remus’ potential moon.

“See? We’ll match. My star needs its moon.”

Remus ducks his head, cheeks tinged with pink, and when he speaks, it’s barely a whisper. “Sirius, it’s—it’s really lovely, but I… I don’t have any extra coin right now. I mean—thank you, it’s beautiful, but I really can’t…”

Sirius' delight dies in an instant, and heart twists a little from the sudden awkwardness. Well, he hadn’t thought about that. Now he’s made Remus uncomfortable and turned it into a thing.

“Oh,” he says quickly, throat tightening. “Remus, I didn’t mean—don’t feel like—I just thought it’d be sweet, I didn’t mean to put you in a weird spot—”

Remus rubs the back of his neck, already halfway through a retreat. “You didn’t, I just—”

“I’ll get it for you.”

Remus' eyes snap back to his. His brow furrows, and Sirius can see his jaw tightening a little. 

“Sirius,” Remus says, voice straining, “please don’t do it out of pity—”

Sirius looks at him sharply. “It’s not pity. It’s your birthday present.”

“My what?”

“You had a birthday a few weeks ago, didn’t you? This is your gift.”

Remus opens his mouth, probably to argue again, but Sirius keeps going.

“And you can get me something for my birthday in November. That’s fair, yeah?”

Remus still looks unsure. But he nods slowly, almost against his will.

“Fine,” he says. Quiet. Almost shy. “Sure.”

“November third,” Sirius reminds. “I expect a present. Whatever you choose.”

That softens something. Remus' mouth quirks. He still doesn’t quite meet Sirius' eyes, but his shoulders drop a little.

“Alright,” he says finally. “But it’s your own fault if I give you something weird.”

“Okay,” Sirius breathes, gleeful.

He tucks the pendant into his palm and approaches Maple with a proud little flourish, Remus trailing half a step behind.

“We’ll take this one, Maple.”

“Oh, what a lovely pair you are,” Maple coos, taking the pendant from Sirius. “Matching boys. I approve.”

Sirius laughs. “We aim to please.” He cranes his neck to scan the wooden crates behind Maple’s back. “Do you have a longer chain?”

“Somewhere.” She disappears into a drawer and pulls out a spool of fine silver. “Want me to fix it now?”

“Yes, please.”

Remus says nothing the whole time Maple swaps the chain and wraps the pendant in a scrap of paper. When she hands it to Sirius, he counts out the coins, thanks her, and carefully tucks the pouch under the waistband of his skirt.

They step out of the market into the brightness of late afternoon. A child cries, a father shouts over him, and a dog barks once, then falls silent again. They walk in silence for a few moments, until they’re clear of the crowd. Then Sirius stops just off the path, under the late sun drifting low behind the rooftops.

“Hang on,” he calls quietly.

Remus turns. “What—”

Sirius reaches up, eyes flicking to Remus' throat, pale and freckled in the sun, lifts the chain and gently, without asking, loops it behind Remus’ neck. His fingers brush against the warm skin when he fastens it with a soft click. The chain catches for half a second on his knuckle before settling around the center of Remus' chest.

“There,” he murmurs. “Now my star’s got a moon.”

Remus stares at him for a moment, then reaches up, presses two fingers to the necklace, and holds them there.

Sirius smiles and steps back out into the sunlight. The market noise fades a little behind them as they walk toward the edge of the square. He walks beside Remus, not saying anything, heart so loud in his ears he can barely hear the vendors anymore. Not the noise, not the music, not even the breeze.

Only the quiet hum of the star necklace against skin.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Sirius’ head is heavy on Remus’ shoulder, but Remus doesn’t dare shift. He needs it right where it is, warm and human and so heartbreakingly present. 

They’re lying on the old woven blanket Remus borrowed from home, just slightly frayed at the edges, still smelling faintly of laundry powder and his mother’s perfume. No tobacco tonight. Sirius hasn’t touched a cigarette once, which is either a miracle or a very quiet decision, considering Remus has been smoking like a chimney out of nerves alone. He doesn’t ask Sirius anything, though. He only notices.

Sirius is, of course, wearing his jacket again; his other one this time, the black one that looks like it’s seen better days and which Sirius is most definitely not planning to return. At this point, he has unofficial ownership of about half Remus’ wardrobe, and Remus can’t really bring himself to mind.

The stars are out overhead, soft and sparse like salt grains scattered on velvet. The air smells of grass and of Sirius, and neither scent is helping Remus breathe any easier. Every shared breath feels like a private vow. Every heartbeat whispers don’t ruin this.

A gravitational pull is what it is. As if the moment their names meet in the air—Sirius, Remus—the universe might just collapse into itself and swallow Remus whole, take him down into some starlit abyss where he’ll never come back up.

Remus adjusts the book perched against his knees—a thick paperback about constellations, stellar physics, and planetary rings, half-filled with little underlined lines and folded corners. Sirius keeps gently tapping the page with one finger, a steady, mindless pressure. It means turn it. Remus has learned the rhythm of that now.

Still, he asks, because it’s Sirius, and Sirius makes everything a little bit funnier just by existing.

“Can’t you do it yourself?” 

Sirius snorts, jabbing his shoulder with a lazy finger. “Do I have to read it myself too?”

“Well, you could.”

Sirius gasps theatrically. “The audacity.”

Of course, Sirius doesn’t turn anything, nor does he make the faintest move toward the book. Remus sighs, amused, and does it for him. The soft rustle of the paper feels too loud in this quiet, and Sirius’ laughter is quieter still.

“You’re using me as unpaid labor,” Remus mutters.

“Shut up and read.”

“How am I supposed to do both?”

Sirius lifts his head just enough to give him a look. Remus laughs despite himself. He glances down at the open page again, and Sirius settles in closer.

“Among the outer giants, Saturn moves with a solemn authority, encircled by a vast and luminous crown of ice,” Remus reads. “The rings encircling it are not adornments, but the record of an ancient rhythm, held in balance by forces unseen. Each orbit marks a measure in a celestial score that has neither beginning nor end. Together, they form a dynamic system of ongoing interaction, which is silent to the human ear, yet rich in measurable patterns. To gaze upon Saturn is to witness a form of music written in matter itself. It endures without an audience, a composition spun endlessly in the dark.”

Sirius’ voice comes in soft and reverent beside him, “That’s so beautiful.”

Remus chuckles. “There it is. Your favorite word.”

Sirius grins and shoves at him playfully, then shifts, pulling himself upright on the blanket. Remus mirrors him instinctively, tucking one leg under the other as he watches Sirius trace absent patterns into the fabric with his fingertip.

“I’m a little nervous,” Sirius admits, finally. “About tomorrow. Tobi told me to go to sleep early, but I don’t think I’ll manage.”

“Didn’t you say Aurors were like little bugs you could stomp on?”

“They are,” Sirius says, but his voice is softer now. “I’m not nervous about them, Remus.”

Remus frowns. “Then who?”

But Sirius only shrugs, eyes dropping, and Remus gets it immediately. He could press—he wants to—but some part of him knows not to. There’s more truth in the silence than Sirius is ready to speak aloud.

He’s so mesmerizing in all his contradictions. Celestial, always. Whether he’s talking too fast or not at all. Whether he’s laughing or biting back tears. Whether he’s glittering on stage or curled into Remus’ side like now, so close that Remus can barely remember where he ends and Sirius begins. In Remus’ eyes, he’s loud and gentle. Wild and thoughtful. Full of fire, but always cautious not to burn the people closest to him. It stuns Remus constantly. He never knows how to hold it all in his hands.

He can’t help but watch Sirius. Watch the way his fingers play with the hem of the blanket. The way his curls fall messily into his face and down his back. The way the moonlight spills across his skin like milk.

The flowers in the meadow are blooming, wild purple and white things, bent beneath the brush of Sirius’ knees. But none of it—not the moonlight, not the petals, not the still water in the distance—can compare to Sirius himself. Not when he’s quiet like this. Not when he’s soft and close and real. A symphony of his own. 

Remus isn’t a teenager anymore, but in moments like these, he still feels sixteen in the worst, rawest, most sincere way. There's this deep, embarrassing ache to entertain Sirius, to pull a ridiculous face or crack some awful pun, to make him crumple into that wild, gleeful laugh that threatens to burst right out of his chest. Remus would gladly become a clown, a walking joke, anything at all, if it meant Sirius would gift him that sound again. His laughter is a kind of blessing, and Remus has never believed in blessings, not really, but he believes in that.

He’s not good with words—he knows that. At least not the kind that match the poetry Sirius deserves. Maybe Sirius hears them and thinks they’re nothing at all, because they never come out right; they bend at the edges, trip over themselves, fall apart. Maybe that’s always how it is when you care too much, full of feelings you can’t name, and heat you can’t cool, and dreams about a future that’s nearly impossible.

But the truth is, there are too many days when Remus finds himself walking through town with the irrepressible urge to rip a flower off someone’s gate just to tuck it behind Sirius’ ear. Maiden pink, for the blush that covers his throat when he talks too fast. Or a deep poppy red, for the heat that boils in Remus’ chest every time Sirius so much as looks at him.

Since the day they met, Remus hasn’t quite felt like himself when the sun rises, and past midnight, his dreams bloom with songbirds and silver eyes. Sirius is on him like stardust, clinging to his feverish skin. No matter how hard Remus tries, he can’t shake it off.

Sirius is gently picking at a loose thread on the blanket, barely touching it. His voice is low when he speaks.

“I don’t actually like performing all that much.”

Remus turns to him slightly, curious. “You don’t?”

“I mean, I do,” Sirius clarifies, with a small, one-shouldered shrug. “I like the music. I love us. But I don’t love being… onstage.”

“You come across like someone who thrives on it,” Remus says carefully.

“Only until I look up,” Sirius replies, frowning. “Most of them think glitter’s all I’m made of.” He grimaces. “That I’m an entertainer whose job it is to make them laugh and then let them crawl under my skirt after the show.”

The fire in Remus rises fast. Not the good kind.

“Let them what?”

Sirius shrugs again. “It’s nothing. Just… to a lot of them, I’m not a singer, or a dancer, or simply Covey. I’m a starlet. But I’m not really—” He looks over, searching Remus’ face. “I’m not just that, right?”

“No.” Remus shakes his head instantly. “Of course you’re not, Sirius.”

“I just—” Sirius hesitates. “I worry about how you see me. If you’ll ever look at me and only see a shiny costume and some sequins. If I’ll ever be just glitter to you.”

Remus lets out a soft, pained laugh. “That’s ridiculous. When I look at you, Sirius, I see talent. I hear music.” He leans forward, slow. “I don’t see a costume. I see a person.”

Sirius peeks up at him from under dark lashes, lips tugging in a quiet line. “Promise you’ll always see me that way. Even when I’m back to collecting tips in my boot.”

“I promise,” Remus says, then shifts a little closer on the blanket. He swallows hard before continuing. “I‘m… I’m not sure if this’ll make you feel better. It’s not much of a gift, but—but I have something for you.”

Sirius’ brows pull together. “For me?”

“Yeah. Just… hold on a second.” Remus reaches into the inner pocket of the jacket that’s still draped over Sirius’ shoulders. His fingers close around the small object, warm from his body heat, and he draws it out: a tiny box, not perfectly symmetrical, the paint a little uneven in places.

He holds it out, open palm and all.

Sirius stares at it, then at him, then slowly takes it, examining the shape. “Is this…?”

“A music box,” Remus explains, throat dry. “You can open it.”

Sirius lifts the lid gently. “Where’d you get this? Emmeline’s dad’s shop?”

Remus swallows. “No. I, uh—I made it.”

Sirius’ eyes flick up. “Sorry, what?”

“I made it,” Remus says again, firmer now.

“You made this?” Sirius echoes. “With your hands? This tiny?”

Remus shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. “It took a while. A lot more focus than forging a knife, for example. And needed, uh, slightly steadier hands. But yeah. Should sound okay.”

Sirius stares at him with an unreadable expression, eyes wide and full of something Remus isn’t brave enough to ask about.

“Go on,” he urges, nodding at the box. “Try it.”

Sirius moves carefully, fingers settling around the winding key. He starts turning it, but it creaks awkwardly, the sound off-pitch and hesitant. He looks up, uncertain.

“Don’t be afraid,” Remus murmurs. “It’s sturdier than it looks. Just turn a little faster.”

Sirius meets his eyes one more time before he does. He winds it with more confidence now. The melody begins slowly—wobbly at first, tinny and imperfect, like most handmade things—but after a few rotations, it becomes clear what it is. His lips part as the tune becomes unmistakable.

“Where winds tell no secrets, and no one will know,” Sirius whispers, lips moving along with the melody, almost without sound. “Come here, to the clearing where time slips away.” A smile starts tugging at his mouth. He cranks again. “The road may be hidden, but birds know the way.”

Sirius turns the crank once more, then stops the mechanism gently with the pad of his finger. When he finally looks at Remus, there’s something terribly bright behind his eyes. Remus, who suddenly can’t meet them, dips his head and stares at the blanket, everything inside him crackling with quiet fire. 

“It’s beautiful,” Sirius breathes. “Remus, it’s—thank you. Thank you so much. This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever made for me.”

Remus swallows hard and smiles without looking up. “It’s nothing—really.”

“I don’t even—how did you figure out the melody?” Sirius asks, looking from the little lacquered case to Remus. “You told me you didn’t have an ear for it.”

Remus shrugs. “I don’t. But I have, you know… secret sources.” He taps the side of his nose, a little sheepish. “Guess I owe Sybill a mountain of chocolate drops.”

Sirius lights up. “Sybill! That little sneak, she didn’t say a word.”

“That was the plan,” Remus says, grinning now. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“It was a surprise.” Sirius shakes his head in disbelief, still smiling. “I can’t imagine how long this took you.”

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

“It is. It’s a huge deal.”

He bites his lip and fiddles with the crank again, but it stutters and catches. The mechanism sticks, and the record skips against the cylinder, clicking out of time. Sirius tugs, gentle at first, then a little more insistently, but nothing gives. He exhales sharply, frustrated.

“Ah, wait,” Remus soothes, reaching over. “Let me fix it.”

Sirius hands it over without hesitation. His fingers are a little shaky, Remus notices, as if there’s still music running through them. He lowers his head over the box, adjusting the mechanism, his thumb searching for the catch inside, the one that got knocked off-kilter. He frowns, focused, hunched over it, when soft fingers touch his jaw and tip his face upward.

He blinks. Sirius is staring at him.

There’s a strange tilt to his head, his eyebrows slightly lifted, mouth parted. His eyes are wide and impossibly soft, all clouded starlight and nerves, lashes half-lowered like he’s thinking something he shouldn’t be. Remus’ whole spine straightens. His fingers freeze around the edge of the box. He starts to say, “Just—just a second, it’s stuck—”

But he never finishes, because Sirius closes the meaningless sliver of space between them and kisses him.

Remus’ eyes fall shut on instinct, but everything else inside him flies open. All of it. Every locked door, every cold hallway, every clumsy fear he’s carried around in his chest since he was twelve years old and first realized he liked a boy.

The kiss is warm, trembling, and impossibly soft. Their mouths find rhythm—slow and searching, each pass more confident than the last. Sirius’ thumb brushes just beneath Remus’ jaw, coaxing it higher, and Remus’ whole body reacts on instinct, needing more before he even understands what more is.

The music box slips from his grip and thumps onto the blanket with a small clack, face-down. He barely hears it. His fingers move on their own, one hand rising to rest on the curve of Sirius’ shoulder, thumb ghosting over the delicate bone there. The other slides into his curls, and oh—they really are that soft. Silky, almost unreal, so delicate it might as well be moonlight. Remus doesn’t even know what silk or moonlight would feel like, but he knows it must be something like this. Flowing and fine and smooth against his skin. 

Sirius kisses as if he’s learning it in real time, trying to memorize the exact curve of Remus’ upper lip, the soft dip of the cupid’s bow. When their mouths slot together, slightly open now, there’s a slick sound that sends heat arcing low in Remus’ stomach. It flips, tightens, then sinks.

Sirius’ lips are plush and slightly chapped, moving slowly, pressing gently, and the friction—that imperfect softness—sparks along every nerve. Remus feels it in his spine, his throat, burning under his skin. He exhales against Sirius’ mouth, and Sirius inhales it; the tip of his nose bumps Remus’ cheek, then their mouths align again—lingering, colliding, breathing into one another. 

The world shrinks to that moment. That single point of contact. It’s clumsy in the way first kisses are, but it doesn’t matter, because Sirius shifts closer, hand curling at the back of Remus’ neck, pressing them chest to chest, heat to heat. He tilts his head, letting Remus taste the slick drag of his mouth and the little sound he makes right into Remus’ lips.

Then—as though Remus is only just letting himself believe this is real—one of his hands drifts lower, down the slope of Sirius’ neck and shoulder, hovering a moment, uncertain, before settling under the edge of the jacket. His fingertips find the soft fabric of the blouse, then press lightly at Sirius’ waist. His thumb brushes once over the warm skin beneath. He doesn’t even mean to.

When Sirius pulls back, there’s a quiet smack, the softest sound imaginable, like the final breath of a song. Remus wants to commit it to memory, stitch into the lining of his shirt, echo in his skull for the rest of his life. His lips are tingling. His face is flushed, and he’s fairly certain the heat radiating off of him could melt steel. 

He opens his eyes slowly, wide and stunned, and finds Sirius staring back at him with a look so mirror-like, it hurts. 

Remus knows. He doesn’t need Pandora’s cards or Sybill’s dreams to tell him what’s coming next.

Sirius starts to shake his head. Once. Then again. Then again, again. His curls bounce gently around his cheeks and forehead, soft little pendulums swinging back and forth. His mouth opens and the words are already spilling.

“Sorry. Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so—sorry, Remus, I didn’t—”

“No—” Remus breathes, reaching for him instinctively, already panicking, already unraveling at the edges. “Don’t go. Sirius, don’t—”

Sirius’ hands slip out of his. Remus reaches again, manages to catch a few ringed fingers, but Sirius ducks from his desperate touch, and Remus gets nothing but a final glance and the weight of his own jacket falling from Sirius’ shoulders.

He watches Sirius disappear, a real shooting star: burning, bright, and gone. Remus sits there, on the edge of what could’ve been something new, a precious thing he’s already lost, heart racing in the cavity of his chest, lungs full of his own silence, head spinning from the wave of thoughts crashing down.

He should go after him. He should give him space. He should pretend this didn’t just ruin everything delicate and beautiful they had before. He should sit, should stand, should run, should catch Sirius and kiss him senseless. He should do something.

Should he?

There are moments when Remus can feel himself coming apart in quiet ways. Sirius is gone now, and Remus watches the emptiness he left behind—that’s what it feels like now. Cracking. Shifting. Dying the tiniest death.

All around him, the quiet of the lake goes on, unaware.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Sirius runs fast, half-blind from tears, trying to outpace the fire in his lungs. 

Branches whip across his cheeks, snap against his arms, tug at his hair. Stones skid under his boots. Leaves blur. The cold night air bites at his skin, sharp as glass through the thin blouse clinging to his arms. He trips once, slides hard through a patch of mud, catches himself against a tree trunk and doesn’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop. He needs distance. Urgent, desperate, sprawling distance from Remus, from that moment, from the unbearable heat still blooming in his stomach.

There’s too much inside Sirius and nowhere to put it. His whole body buzzes with the kiss, every nerve ending singing it back on repeat—the blanket, the stars, the music box, the sound of Remus breathing gently between kisses, and the unbearable weight of his fingers on Sirius’ waist; the softness in his voice when he said don’t go, the way Sirius had almost believed it meant something. Every beat of his body is one more echo of you shouldn’t have done that and oh, why did it feel so good. Because it did. It felt like nothing else. The kiss you wait a lifetime for and can’t repeat, full of lips Sirius never should’ve tasted.

He should never have wanted it, or dreamed of it, or done it—because now that he did, Remus said don’t go. He said it like someone trying to be kind to a child after they’ve already dropped the glass, and Sirius knows that voice. Knows that softness. Alphard uses it before he tells him to stop spiraling.

Of course, Remus doesn’t want him. Not like that. He just saw the way Sirius’ hands were shaking, the way he froze after the kiss, and just... couldn’t watch him fall apart, because Remus is good. Because he knew Sirius grabbed that moment with both hands and shattered it, tore it from the safety of what they were and demanded more when they were just friends. 

Friends share books and cigarettes and quiet nights and unspoken glances, but they don’t kiss. They don’t hold each other like that. Don’t tremble under the weight of it. Don’t feel like their hearts are catching fire, short-circuiting under the pressure, scrambling to stuff everything back into a box that no longer closes.

Sirius crashes through the Covey lane without thinking, ducking under low branches and stumbling over a pile of moss-covered roots like if he doesn’t move fast enough, every stupid thing he’s ever done, crystallized into one unbearable memory, will catch him again and pull him back in and make him feel things he has no right to feel. The air stings against the tear tracks on his cheeks, making them burn from the cold, but Sirius doesn’t wipe them. What would be the point?

By the time he skids up to the threshold of Xeno’s house, he’s out of breath, soaked with sweat, and shaking. The door isn’t locked—no one in the lane ever locks anything—and Sirius shoves it open so hard it bangs against the frame.

Xeno lifts his head from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor near the couch, his back leaning against the cushions. A thick notebook lies open across his lap, a half-drawn violin sketched on the page. His spindly limbs fold into a loose shape, his eyes half-lidded and rimmed with shimmering white eyeshadow, and there’s charcoal staining his fingertips.

He takes one look at Sirius—wide eyes, red mouth, cheeks raw and blotchy—and tilts his head, setting his pencil down. 

“Cigarettes?”

Sirius nods. Several times. Then turns on his heel and bolts.

They end up beneath the thick pile of mismatched blankets they keep stashed in the little lake house—half shelter, half home—where they host dance nights sometimes, sleepovers with the girls and card readings. Safe ground. Sirius leans back against Xeno’s chest, curling his knees up, smokes with trembling fingers, and roughly wipes at his face with the edge of his sleeve, trying to stay ahead of the tears. He curses his parents for many things, but tonight, especially for teaching him to cry without sound.

After a long stretch of silence, broken only by the soft pop of burning paper, Xeno asks, “So… you just ran away?”

Sirius nods without looking up. The smoke from his lungs leaves thin lines across the air, and his voice comes out in a whisper, the barest breath. 

“Yeah.”

Xeno shifts slightly behind him, enough to lean an arm around his waist in loose support. His own voice matches the hush. “Okay. And why are you crying now?”

A fresh sob pushes up, sharper this time, too big to fit neatly. Sirius sucks in a breath, but it stutters halfway down. His throat seizes up, and his jaw aches from how tightly he’s clenching it.

“I just…” he chokes, then forces himself to inhale once again, trying to find a rhythm. “I think I’m in love with him.”

Xeno taps the ash off his cigarette. “And the problem with that is…?”

Sirius lets out a laugh that isn’t a laugh at all. It’s wet and sharp and miserable. He sniffs, wipes his nose on his wrist.

“Do you not see the problem?” he whispers, rubbing angrily at his face. “The problem is, I kissed him, Xeno. I kissed him, and now everything’s ruined. The problem is maybe he didn’t even want that kiss, and now I’ve made it weird forever. I was supposed to be grateful for the gift, not throw myself at him, and now he probably can’t even look at me, can’t be with me, not even as a friend, because I was stupid and greedy and turned everything into a moment. He made me this—this lovely, friendly thing—”

Xeno snorts softly. “A friendly thing? Sirius, I don’t think making a tiny, functional music box by hand with your original melody in it after full work shifts qualifies as friendly. Sounds more like someone in love to me.”

“He’s not in love with me,” Sirius snaps, defensive now, half-wanting Xeno to push back just so he can fight something.

“Did he tell you that?”

“I just know he’s not.”

“You think you know,” Xeno corrects, tapping ash off his cigarette into the chipped dish nearby. “But that’s the thing about you, starlight. You have this truly awful habit of deciding things before you know whether or not they’re true.”

Sirius sniffles, furious with himself, and wipes at his nose again with the back of his hand, like the most pathetic thing alive. “You sound like Alphie.”

“Alphie’s a wise man,” Xeno replies, flicking his eyes toward Sirius’ slumped frame. “You could do with learning a thing or two. Maybe try figuring things out before jumping to catastrophic endings.”

Sirius lets out a small sound, part scoff, part breath. It might be a laugh, if it weren’t soaked in misery. Xeno pulls him a little closer, until Sirius can press a cheek to his chest. They’ve done this a hundred times before, on nights after bad dreams or long performances, after too much to drink or nothing at all. The fabric of Xeno’s shirt smells like cologne and graphite and home. Sirius knows how to curl into it. 

“I’m so scared,” he mumbles.

Xeno lets one of his hands come up to cradle the back of Sirius’ head, fingers already slipping into his tangled hair, massaging gently along his crown. 

“Of what?”

“Of what I’ll find if I dig deeper,” Sirius whispers. “What if I am in love, and it’s… already too late? I’m scared that if I really let myself feel it, I’ll just—” his hand curls in the fabric between them, “—burn up.”

“Why do you always expect the worst outcome?” Xeno asks quietly. “You’re so sure it’ll all fall apart, you don’t even let yourself breathe.”

“You know me, Xeno,” Sirius says. “You know my family. All that rot. My head. My mouth. My whole thing is one big act of self-sabotage. I’m like a supernova. One big boom, and I wipe out everything around me.”

Xeno hums. It’s not exactly agreement, not exactly disagreement. He brings the cigarette back to his mouth, finishes it with two long pulls, and reaches over to pluck the half-burned one from between Sirius’ fingers. Sirius doesn’t resist. Xeno stubs both out against the plate.

“Tell me this—” He shifts behind Sirius again and props them more comfortably against the cushions. “He was kissing you back the whole time, yeah?”

Sirius nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“And how was it?”

Sirius closes his eyes, his mind drifting into the memory. “It was…” His lips pull into an involuntary smile, too tired to fight it. One hand floats up to his hair, brushing the place where Remus had touched him. The skin there still tingles like static. Sirius hums a little, the melody barely there, a ghost of a familiar tune Remus built into the box. 

Xeno laughs, a soft puff of air above his head. “Ah, now that’s a different conversation.” He rubs Sirius’ back in slow circles. “You really are in it.”

Sirius drops his hand down and places it flat over Xeno’s chest. His eyes are puffy and tired, and his ribs still ache from crying. “Do you think it’s a mistake?”

“No,” Xeno says simply. “I think it’s exactly what’s supposed to happen. You’re good for each other.”

Sirius lets his fingers trace slow little shapes—nonsensical spirals and lazy loops—on the patch of skin just under Xeno’s ribs. He mumbles, barely moving his lips, “He’s the moon to my star.”

Xeno draws a line behind his ear with his thumb, makes a quiet sound of amusement, then leans down and kisses the crown of Sirius’ head.

“Do you think I should go back?” Sirius asks, tilting his head up.

Xeno laughs louder this time. “Oh no. Definitely not. Leave the poor guy with a broken heart for the night.”

“I broke his heart?”

“Well,” Xeno says, reaching for a pillow to fluff under his arm, “given he was kissing you back, and you ditched him with the jacket, the book, the blanket, and a gift to haul home alone… yeah. Probably not his favorite ending to the night. Poor Remus, walking down the road carrying all that stuff on his own.”

Sirius snorts into his shirt, despite everything. He knows Xeno does it on purpose—knows how good he is at coaxing him out of the darkness. Sirius feels like shit, but lighter, somehow, with this boy.

“I know I’m not James,” Xeno murmurs, more gently. “And I know my advice might not mean much.”

The smile drops off Sirius’ face.

Xeno keeps speaking, his hand moving gently between Sirius’ shoulder blades. Calm, careful strokes. “But let me say this anyway. I think you need to rest tonight. Tomorrow’s a big evening. Clear your head, center yourself. Talk to him after the performance, if you still want to. Give yourself time to think. You’re good at focus when you’re on stage.”

Sirius drops his eyes down to where their legs are tangled in the colourful blankets. His jaw clenches faintly. 

“Don’t say that,” he mutters.

“Say what?”

Sirius pushes up just enough to meet his gaze. His hand rests flat on Xeno’s chest, palm over heart. “That you’re not James. That you’re filling a role, or taking someone’s place. You’re my Xeno. I love you because you’re you.”

Xeno stares at him for a long moment, then his mouth softens into a grin. He reaches up, pulls one dark curl away from Sirius’ cheek where it’s stuck to his mascara, and tucks it gently behind his ear.

“And I love you,” he says, “because you’re very pretty and very silly.”

Sirius scoffs and slaps at his hand. “Don’t be nice and rude. Pick one.”

Xeno pokes him in the ribs. Sirius pokes back. They wrestle quietly like children, and it ends with Sirius clutching one of Xeno’s fingers, his expression going serious again.

“Do you think he’s in love with me too?” he asks.

“I think he’s absolutely out of his mind.”

Sirius presses his lips together, so hard they disappear for a moment. His whole face twitches, trying not to break into a grin. “Fuck off.”

“I’m serious.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You are, then?”

“Fuck off,” Sirius groans, then shakes Xeno’s finger a little. The corners of his mouth lift again, even as he ducks his face down to hide it in Xeno’s shirt. “You think I should talk to him?” 

“You don’t have to sit him down and pour your soul out,” Xeno replies, brushing at his hair again. “You can do it your own way.”

Sirius frowns at that. “My own way.”

Xeno nods, leaning his head against the wall. Sirius looks down at the honey-colored edge of the blanket, how it glows under the moonlight streaming through the crooked little window. His chest stutters. A sudden thrum pulses in his ribs, like a door flung open in a storm. He stares at that honey hue and remembers Remus’ amber irises.

His own eyes go wide, and Sirius looks up.

“I’ll write him a song,” he breathes.

Xeno’s face breaks into a slow, pleased smile. 

“Good,” he drawls, proud. “Not silly.”

Sirius kicks his leg. “Get your ass up and bring me paper.”

Xeno wheezes, laughing as Sirius tugs on his sleeve. “Don’t boss me around, Black. Why do I have to get up? It’s your love life!”

“Up, come on.” Sirius shoves his shoulder, grinning now, half mad with it. “Pencils too. And the lamp, please. Not that stupid one with the squeaky switch.”

Xeno cackles and rolls out from under him with exaggerated groaning, tossing a pillow at Sirius’ head. Sirius only laughs harder, already crawling up to his feet. His heart feels cracked open again, but this time, something is pouring out, not breaking in.

He doesn’t know what the song will be yet, but at least he knows what Remus tastes like now—knows the warmth of his mouth, the quiet way his hands held on, and how easily he could fall into that softness again.

Chapter Text

Bringing your parents to a bar isn’t exactly the picture of adulthood Remus expected to be painting at twenty one. It feels a bit off, especially when he knows the boy he’s thinking about too much is about to get onstage. 

Still, here they are. This night’s just another crease in the paper.

The Hub is packed wall to wall. Every table taken, every stool leaned on, every corner breathing with motion. The spotlight is off for now. The stage stands bare except for the faint outline of a mic stand, a silver glint in the dark. The crowd hums with excitement, rising and falling in waves, and Remus has to edge sideways just to keep his mum from being crushed by someone’s elbow. His dad, always polite, holds the door for them both, ushering Hope and Remus inside.

It takes Remus less than five seconds to spot the Aurors; a whole cluster of them near the front rows, neatly arranged in matching denim coveralls, boots scuffed, sleeves rolled, helmets missing. They’re cracking bottles and laughing too loud, some already red in the face, some loudly arguing about something Remus doesn’t care to parse. All waiting. Greyback’s seat is practically center stage, a perfect angle, almost intimate. His arms are spread casually along the back of the bench, and his smile is wide and wolfish. He looks settled and expectant, as though he already knows the show will be just for him.

The spark that shoots through Remus’ chest feels like a hot sliver of metal—fast, sharp, and burning at the edges. He shouldn’t be surprised. This entire show was organized for them. It’s why the Covey are here tonight at all—why there’s a spotlight rigged to the ceiling and why the first few rows of tables were cleared out and reset. Because they get the best seats. 

Remus knows he should be grateful. He is grateful. Sirius got him and his parents a table—free of charge, no less. Remus reminds himself, again, that this is Sirius’ job, and he’s doing what he always does: surviving, creating, shining.

And yet, jealousy doesn’t care about logic. It’s ugly and fast, and Remus hates it immediately, but he can’t shake it. Jealousy feels even worse when you have no right to it, and what he’s feeling now—tight-chested and hollow—is just as vile as it is stubborn. It clings to his ribs, refuses to wash off.

Remus knows he won’t get to talk to Sirius before the first set, not with the Covey’s habit of starting straight from the shadows. The stage lights will flare, and Sirius will emerge as if summoned from the sky, a star that he is, and Remus won’t see him until the scene wants him to. He’ll be in the crowd, waiting, hoping the boy who kissed him last night isn’t actively avoiding him. Which he is, or so it seems.

Last night keeps playing behind Remus’ eyes on loop, half-laced with gold and half-shadowed in silence, because it wasn’t just a kiss. It was the kiss. The one he hadn’t dared imagine until Sirius made it real. The one that made his head go quiet, his body feel not quite like his own. The one that left him with the shape of Sirius’ mouth still lingering on his lips, and his whole body wired, wrecked, and entirely too alive.

The walk home was one part giddy, three parts devastated. A little dazed, too. A little breathless. A little like Remus had survived a lightning strike and hadn’t yet processed the scorch marks. It was a combination he hadn’t expected—floating one second, sinking the next.

He’d stared up at the ceiling for hours. Thought about Sirius’ mouth. Thought about his hands, his softness, the way he’d pulled away, jacket slipping from his shoulders.

Because Sirius Black kissed him, and it was real. Then Sirius Black left, and that was real too. 

Somewhere behind the curtain, he’s probably pacing. Probably already in costume. Probably putting the final touches on his makeup, or his boots, or his setlist. Probably not thinking about the way Remus leaned into the kiss, chased it, all but begged him not to pull away.

Probably not thinking about him at all.

Now, shaking off the thought, Remus weaves through the crowd, following the heads he recognizes until he finally spots their table.

Lulu’s the first to leap up. “Moony!”

She throws her arms around Hope first—tight, bright, and full of joy—then grabs Lyall with both hands, shaking him a little as she laughs. Lyall grins like a fool at that.

Miss Shacklebolt stands too, arms wide. “Remus Lupin, aren’t you a handsome boy!” She cups his face and plants kisses on both cheeks. Hope laughs behind him, already reaching for Lulu. “See, Hope? He got your curls after all.”

“Jaw’s mine,” Lyall points out solemnly, before getting elbowed by Hope.

Lulu lets out a gleeful sound and throws her arms around Remus after her mother. He almost stumbles backward from the sheer force of it.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she chirps. “I’m sitting on your lap.”

Remus laughs as she shoves him backward. “Where else would you sit, huh?”

As soon as he lowers into his seat, Lulu promptly deposits herself across his knees. Their parents are already deep in conversation—Hope chatting animatedly with Miss Shacklebolt, Lyall completely mesmerized by his wife as usual. No one’s paying him any mind.

Except Kingley, who gives him a long, measured look, and mouths, You okay?

Remus makes a face. One of those faces, the kind Kingsley has known since they were ten and eleven. He doesn’t need to speak to be heard.

His parents aren’t looking, so Remus mouths back, I’m fucked.

Kingley’s eyes widen. Remus nods once. Then again.

Kingley raises his eyebrows further and mimes a cigarette with a slight tilt of his head, gesturing toward the exit. Remus shakes his head and mutters under his breath, Later.

He exhales through his nose, hoping it’ll carry away whatever nerves are bottling up inside his chest. It doesn’t. 

He wants Sirius to walk out and look at him. He wants to talk. He wants to say, you kissed me, and I’m still here, so what now? He wants to say, I thought I saw the stars in your eyes last night, and I haven’t stopped looking since. He wants to say, if you’re scared, so am I, but let’s figure it out anyway.

Still, Remus knows—knows in his bones—that Sirius won’t come anywhere near their table tonight. Not after yesterday, not with Remus’ parents here, and not with guilt licking at his heels.

That’s the worst part of all, honestly, because Sirius shouldn’t feel guilty. If there’s anything to be ashamed of, it’s not the kiss. It’s not the warmth, or the weight of Sirius in his arms, or the way they fit together, or the way Remus had reached for him like a drowning man the second he pulled away. No.

If there’s anything to be ashamed of, it's the fact that, after Sirius ran, after Remus climbed into bed still humming with heat, he had the audacity to cry himself to sleep while touching himself, lips still buzzing with the memory of Sirius’ kiss.

He should feel like a monster, probably. Instead, he mostly just feels empty. All because Sirius’ mouth had tasted so good, and his hair had felt so soft, and his waist had fit so perfectly under Remus’ palm.

The conversation at the table flows the way only old friends can manage—easy, overlapping, full of warmth and stories everyone already knows but loves to tell again. Miss Shacklebolt is laughing before she even finishes her sentence, holding Hope’s hand across the table, and Hope returns it with a gleam in her eyes that makes Remus feel, for a second, ten years old again. Lyall is grinning too wide at Lulu, who’s gesturing with both hands about something involving a frog, a wardrobe, and a very unfortunate pair of boots. 

Remus barely catches the thread of it, distracted as he is, but then Lulu turns to him, bright-eyed, and launches into a new tangent.

“Sybill told me about her dress,” she breathes, eyes wide. “She says it’s gonna shimmer. Isn’t that so cool? And also, she said tonight is a night of star-crossing.”

“Star-crossing?”

“Yep. I think she was messing with me, but I hope not.”

Remus nods, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I’m sure she wasn’t.”

“I bet Sirius is gonna be so pretty,” Lulu adds, not so quietly, then kicks her legs a bit and tugs playfully at his sleeve.

Remus forces a smile. “Of course he is. He’s Sirius.”

He regrets it the second it’s out—not because it’s untrue, but because it’s too true. His voice gives it away, too soft, too certain. Embarrassed, he turns his head, and notices Kingsley already has a drink in hand, as does his mum. Lulu is sipping a cloudy red juice that’s already stained her lips.

Remus leans toward his parents. “Want me to get anything?

Lyall waves him off, already halfway rising from his seat. “I’ll go. You sit. Don’t miss your star, son, you’ve been looking forward to this.” His voice is teasing, his smile a little too knowing, but Remus only smiles back, forced and faint, trying to mask the weight in his chest. Yesterday isn’t over for him. It’s still moving behind his ribs.

When Lyall disappears into the crowd, head tall, shoulders steady, already talking about beer with someone in line before he even reaches the counter—because with Lyall, everyone’s a friend, or at least a conversation—the lights shift, pulling everything into focus. The bar drops into near darkness, and the noise stills. The Aurors at the front lean in: one of them whistles, elbowing the man beside him, and Remus clenches his jaw, already looking at the stage. His heart beats louder than the music.

The Covey step onto the stage quietly, instruments already in hand or slung over shoulders. They take their places without a word, the entire bar slipping into stillness around them. Lulu lets out a soft squeak, gripping Remus’ wrist tightly. He glances down at her fondly, then turns his eyes to the crowd.

He scans the space automatically, letting his eyes adjust to the half-light, and catches the McKinnon twins off in the far left corner. He recognizes them both immediately, even through the gloom. His gut twists unpleasantly when he catches Marlene’s outline—all posture and confidence and disdain. Of course she came. He shouldn’t be surprised, but still. She never liked him much, and Remus never forgot.

He watches the soft outline of Sybill’s cello in its usual corner on the stage, then next to her, the glint of Xeno’s flute. Somewhere between them comes the unmistakable trembling jingle of the tambourine.

Remus doesn’t need to guess. He knows this one. His whole body goes hot and alert. His heart, traitor that it is, starts to hammer wildly just as the center of the stage blooms open in pale gold.

A single beam of light cuts through the dark, and Sirius steps right into it.

He’s wearing the same lavender dress—the one Hope helped tailor, the one Remus watched him try on under the lamplight of their living room—the same bell-shaped skirt and glimmering corset laced tight across his ribs. His shoulders are bare, so are his collarbones, which are sharp, lovely things, like the peaks of constellations. His hair is braided down both sides, twin ropes of black threaded through with soft purple flowers Remus can’t name from here, but it hardly matters. They suit him. Everything suits him. He wears beauty like gravity, as if the world simply agreed to orbit him.

Remus watches, breath hitched. The dizziness is instantaneous; one second he’s just a human, and the next he’s a shadow of his own wants, a haunted thing in the corner, silent and already ruined.

He doesn’t know what it means to fall in love, but he’s certain this is it. This sudden and absolute belief that he’d sit beside Sirius' bed every night just to watch him sleep. That he’d rest his head against Sirius' knees just to be near him. That he’d guard his dreams the way Sirius guards his hopes when he lays his head on Remus' shoulder. That he’d whisper to the moon not to wake him, and take care of him every second of every night.

The tambourine sounds again, sharper this time, and Sirius starts dancing; his body twists, arches, bends, and it’s exactly like it was the night he turned Remus down with the bouquet of wildflowers still clenched in his fist.

The thing is, Remus would do it again. He’d bring the same bouquet. He’d bring a better one. He’d take Sirius in any form: scared after the kiss, pleased by it, ashamed of it. It doesn’t matter. He wants him still. Wants him like this, wild and graceful, wants him even if he's scared or regretful or not ready at all. Wants him when Sirius can’t stop laughing, and wants him when he’s quiet and trembling. Remus wants him when he turns away, and wants him when he looks right back. He wants to hear nothing when Sirius is silent and absorb every word when he speaks. He wants to carry this heat inside him until his heart gives out from the speed of it. 

Remus wants Sirius however he comes.

Hope whispers beside him, breath barely audible over the music, “He’s just beautiful.”

Remus blinks, and almost cries.

He’s more than that, he wants to say. There’s no word for what he is.

If only starlike, maybe. That’s the closest Remus can get.

Sirius keeps twisting, dipping, stretching, and leaping. Remus watches, utterly lost, completely out of himself. He doesn’t even notice his dad’s return until the glass is set gently down in front of him.

“Plum mead,” Lyall mutters. “Just how you like it.”

Remus reaches for it without taking his eyes off the stage. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs automatically.

Sirius’ boots pound out rhythm sharp as thunder, hips shifting with perfect musicality. The light flashes against the mirrored beads on his corset, scattering a flicker of stars over the ceiling and the faces of the audience below. The hem of his lavender skirt kicks up as he turns, revealing the dark leather of his boots, the flash of his thigh. The tambourine in his hand is a toy, and he spins it high and low with a snap of his wrist that makes the audience holler before they even know why.

The Aurors are eating it up. Every single one of them. There’s beer on their breath and violence in their bones, but even they lean forward now, completely transfixed. One lets out a whistle when Sirius arches his back with a toss of his head, and another shouts something unintelligible over the music, followed by a bark of laughter. Greback’s eyes stay pinned to Sirius the whole time, head slightly tilted, tongue clicking against the edge of his glass.

This look reminds Remus that Sirius is watched everywhere he goes—wanted hungrily, wanted badly, wanted sharply—as if he’s just a pretty thing to lay your eyes on and touch from time to time, just to see it catching the light beautifully. Remus hates it.

The music cuts out on the final beat, and Sirius plants one heel forward, taps it hard against the wood—clack—and dips in a shallow bow, one hand flaring out, his other hand still clutching the tambourine, hair falling in two sleek braids over his shoulders. The crowd erupts. Remus doesn’t even register he’s clapping until his palms sting.

Sirius straightens and steps toward the mic, dragging in air, chest rising hard. His curls are stuck to the sweat at his temple, and Sirius pushes one back behind his ear, then leans forward.

“Good evening, Nine,” he says, breath still catching on the vowels. “Get your drinks ready, hold your hearts in check. You’re stuck with us for a while.” He grins, voice soaked in charm. “Though honestly, that’s on you. You did buy the tickets.”

Laughter rolls through the room. A few Aurors bang their glasses against the table. Someone near the front raises their mug and sloshes it over their wrist. Sirius winks—just once, fast, at someone Remus doesn’t see—and then looks away so quickly it could’ve been nothing. 

Remus hopes it was nothing.

Sirius glances over his shoulder. “Music, please.”

The band behind him begins to ready their instruments, and the bar settles again.

The next few songs pass in a blur. Remus knows all of them. He’s heard them before, knows where the crescendos hit, where Sirius throws his head back, where Sybill’s bow slows across the cello strings; he’s seen the flash of Xeno’s flute, the soft motion of Mary tapping her handpan, and yet, tonight he can barely keep track of anything. His body’s present, his glass is full, Lulu’s curled on his lap, legs swinging cheerfully, but his mind is somewhere else entirely. 

The lavender haze in the air must be real, because it’s clogging Remus’ lungs. His chest aches with it. He wants to reach out and touch Sirius’ elbow, his knuckle, the soft end of one of those long braids. It’s not enough, whatever this is. It won’t ever be enough now. 

Remus drifts in and out of the present until Sirius comes back to the mic.

“You’ve been brilliant so far, Nine. Some things stay the same,” he praises, then lifts both hands and cups them behind his left ear. “Give it up for my brilliant bandmates, yeah?”

He claps once, encouraging them, and the whole place goes wild. The crowd answers with whistles and shouts. Sirius flashes a grin and claps along. One-two-three. The Hub follows. 

Remus watches the room erupt, watches how easily he owns it. He doesn’t even need to shout. He just exists, and the world moves with him.

When Sirius lowers his hands, the room hushes instantly.

“I’m in love with you!” a voice calls out.

The crowd bursts into laughter. Sirius throws his head back and laughs, too, but it’s not his laugh. Not the barky one that bursts up from his ribs. Not the one that starts as a hiccup and spills into a howl. This one is too tight and lives in his throat.

“People say that to me a lot,” he muses, twisting the mic cord in his hand. “But is it ever actually true?”

More yelling. More stomping. Sirius plays it up, raising his eyebrows and making a show of being surprised, as though he’s not used to being adored.

“Go out with me!” the same voice calls again.

Sirius laughs again, louder this time, and tosses one braid over his shoulder. He walks to Xeno and trades the tambourine for a guitar, the one Remus knows he favors.

“I’d love to,” he lies—he lies?—fingers testing the strings, “but there’s a problem.” He lifts his chin, eyes glittering. “You can’t catch a star, can you?”

There are hoots for that, too. Sirius rolls his eyes charmingly, strumming once, testing the strings. 

“But since you’re all so full of it tonight,” he adds, “you’re in luck. I wrote a new song last night. For all of you fools in love.”

He glances up, and his eyes find Remus. 

There’s no mistaking it. He hadn’t even thought Sirius knew where he was sitting, hadn’t thought he cared, but now he knows for sure.

They’re looking right at each other.

“Fool or lover,” Sirius murmurs into the mic. “You decide which you are. This one’s for those who don’t mind a little dizziness.”

He looks down at the strings. The first chord rings out.

He starts to play.

Everyone calls me a boy untrue,
Says I change hearts like I change my shoes
Skipped it, flipped it, always quipped it—
Then you went smiling my way-ay
Eyes like honey, voice like thunder,
What the heck has pulled me under?
Spin me, pin me, who’s within me—
Ever since you said my name?

Sirius hunches slightly as he plays, one shoulder curling in, the strap pulling against it, his fingers careful on the chords. His mouth is shy around the melody, as if he’s almost not ready to sing it out loud, but he does anyway.

I laugh too loud, try to play the part,
But you’d already stolen my heart.
And I wonder, boy—do you feel it too,
The hush in the dark that leads to you?

He strums—one, two, three beats—and then the rest of the Covey join in behind him, building into the chorus.

Maybe it’s you
And your soft eyes, that honey hue,
Down to my core
I know you’re all I ever waited for.
My heart is yours, though left unsaid,
I speak in glances, blush in red
Maybe it’s true—
I’m caught inside the thought of you.

The braids shift against Sirius’ chest; the flowers bob lightly as he moves. Remus can’t look anywhere else, because Sirius is nothing but starlight now, wrapped in sound and violet. His voice, his face, his hands, all made of loveliness.

I don’t write letters, I don’t do flings,
Don’t go dreaming of golden rings.
Dodge it, block it, joke and mock it—
Still, I’ve been floating all day-ay.
I used to scoff at kisses and flowers,
Now I’m pacing for hours and hours.
Brush it, hush it, laugh and crush it—
Now I just hope you’ll stay-ay.

Sirius glances up, finds Remus again, and their eyes lock. Remus’ fingers tighten around his glass. Good thing it’s thick. Any thinner and he might crush it.

You move like a secret the moon must keep,
A name I whisper when I can’t sleep.
Don’t you see the way your shadow clings
To the corners of every song I sing?

The audience begins to clap in rhythm. Sirius stamps the stage with the toe of his boot, syncing them together.

Maybe it’s you
And your soft eyes, that honey hue,
Down to my core
I know you’re all I ever waited for.
You make my life feel less like war,
Like I could be worth fighting for,
Maybe it’s true—
You’re all my gravity pulls to.

Sirius dances again, just a little, light on his feet, guitar steady in his hands. The crowd claps along. Remus barely hears his father whisper, “Our boy’s a star,” and nudge him. He nods, barely. It’s all he can do.

If I never say it, would you still know?
Can silence bloom where the soft winds go?
Pull me, fool me, turn and school me,
Catch me, match me, sweet dispatch me,
Shake me, break me—still you take me,
What can a heart really do?

Sirius laughs, this time for real, right in the middle of the bridge. A sweet, airy sound, bubbling through the mic. Remus grins, helpless. Fool, lover, whatever it is, he’s exactly that.

Fool in love.

Maybe it’s you
And your soft eyes, that honey hue,
Down to my core
I know you’re all I ever waited for.
I lose my breath when you come near,
I wish I dared to make it clear,
Maybe it’s fine—
To stop hiding behind a rhyme.

Remus forgets he’s sitting at a table. Forgets Lulu, his parents, the Aurors, the crowd. It’s just this, just this pull, which is unbearable.

Maybe it’s you
And your soft eyes, that honey hue,
Down to my core
I know you’re all I ever waited for.
You make it safe to fall apart
And trust your hands to hold my heart,
Maybe it’s you—
The only one I’m running to.

The band quiets. Only Sirius remains, plucking at the strings, almost too gently to hear.

Each glance you give, I keep like prayer—
A secret hope I never share,
Maybe it’s love,
Sent down to me from stars above.

He looks at Remus again, and the rest of the bar fades. A cheer rises from the audience at the rhyme, but Sirius doesn’t break eye contact even for a brief moment. 

Maybe it’s fine,
Maybe it’s true,
Maybe it’s fate,
Maybe it’s you.

One last sweep across the strings. The final note rings out and dies.

The crowd breaks like thunder. Whistles, whoops, applause that crashes up against the rafters. The sound catches in Remus’ chest and lodges there, right beside the ache that’s been growing steadily since the moment Sirius stepped into the light.

Sirius doesn’t bow again. He lowers his hand from the guitar and smiles once—small and quick, as if afraid of what it might become if it lingers. Remus watches it all from the same spot, still with Lulu’s weight warm across his lap, still with his cup of plum mead in one hand and his heart in the other.

“Thank you so much, Nine,” Sirius says into the mic. “We’re going on a break. See you next set.”

He leaves the front of the stage, handing off the guitar, moving toward the side curtain. Pandora rises as he passes, brushing her fingers along the small of his back, and says something to him behind cupped hands. Sirius nods.

There’s more cheering, more stomping, more laughter, and Lulu screams in delight beside Remus. She grips the edge of his shirt with both hands and practically bounces in place. It nearly topples him sideways.

“They’re so pretty—so pretty, Remus!” She doesn’t wait for a reply, just spins toward Kingsley and yanks on his collar too. “Did you see? Did you see Sirius’ hair? Did you see how Sybill played that huge cello? I want a flower dress too! I want a big drum and to be Covey!”

Remus laughs, still catching his breath. It doesn’t feel like his body. He’s somewhere outside of it. Somewhere still under those lights, with silver strings and the smell of almond and the echo of soft eyes, honey hue.

“Oh, they’re just wonderful,” coos Miss Shacklebolt, folding her hands together and leaning toward Hope. 

“They’re little marvels, every one of them,” Hope agrees. “The girls look gorgeous. And Sirius—well. That boy was born for a stage.”

Remus wants to say yes. He wants to say he’s more than that, he’s a galaxy, but instead he nods and glances down at his drink. The plum mead still sits untouched, sweat sliding down the side of the glass. He hasn’t sipped it once.

“Sybill!” Lulu shrieks.

Remus’ head snaps up, and there they are. Sybill, half-shimmering in the low lights, drifting toward the table, and right beside her, Sirius.

Remus stills. Every inch of his skin feels aware of him. Of that exact body, that exact walk, those exact shoulders he watched twisting and dancing minutes ago.

Lulu launches off his legs and throws her arms around Sybill, then around Sirius, too. He hugs her back with both arms and a lopsided grin.

“You were amazing!” Lulu squeals. “You’re the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen in my whole life!”

Sirius laughs, and it’s soft and whole and directed right at her. Lulu tugs on the edge of Sybill’s dress and keeps chattering, just when Hope and Lyall stand to greet Sirius. There are kisses on both cheeks, affectionate noise, Lyall lifting his hand and spinning Sirius in a full turn, making him cackle, big and bright, the way Remus loves best.

After basking in their attention for a moment, Sirius turns. He looks straight at Remus, and the smile—giddy, teasing—shrinks a little at the corners. Folds in toward something gentler. 

Remus is already rising from his seat.

Hope glances over, gives Sirius one last fond squeeze on the bare shoulder, and nudges Lyall.

“Come on,” she urges. “Let’s get drinks. We’re not paying for entry—might as well give the bar some revenue.”

“Quite right,” Lyall agrees, whistling as he moves past Remus. He gives him a look, stuck between teasing and knowing, and Remus rolls his eyes, cheeks hot.

Kingsley and Lulu are still chattering around Sybill, so it’s just them. Just the two of them, standing in the warmth of stage-sweat and candlelight.

“Hi,” Remus whispers, voice quieter than he means it to be.

Sirius returns it. “Hi.”

Remus tries to breathe right, though he’s not sure if he succeeds. “You look stunning.”

Sirius ducks his head a little, sheepish. “All credit to your mum.”

“I think it’s more than just my mum.” Remus reaches up, fingers brushing one of the long braids hanging loose down Sirius’ chest. He twirls a bit of the end. “You’re mesmerising all on your own.”

Sirius breathes in sharply through his nose. His teeth catch on his bottom lip as his other hand curls behind his back, gripping the waistband of his skirt.

“Remus, listen,” he starts, softly, “about… last night…”

He lifts his eyes again, and they’re silver. Remus swears, under this light, they really are. Brighter than the candle glow, deeper than glass. He already wasn’t breathing properly, and now it’s worse. His chest lifts as though he’s about to say something, but nothing comes.

Sirius goes on, unsure. “I think I might’ve overstepped—”

“Wait,” Remus cuts in. “Can I say something first?”

Sirius nods, slow.

“I really liked it.”

Sirius’ eyes widen. “You did?”

“I can’t…” Remus’ fingers twitch in the braid, still holding it. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

It’s just true. The thought of that kiss hasn’t left him alone all day, hasn’t even left space for anything else. It’s in the way he breathed this morning, the way he sat, the way he watched the stage just now as if the world might end.

They both smile again. Sirius looks down, then lifts his hand and lays it gently over Remus’, covering it where it still rests against his hair. His fingers are warm.

“I can’t stop thinking about it either.”

Remus glances down at the flowers woven into the braids. Pale purple, some soft shade he can’t name in this light, but that seems to glow anyway. He runs a fingertip lightly over one.

“What are these?” he asks.

Sirius shifts his weight, fingers twitching slightly around Remus’ wrist.

“Lupins,” he says.

Remus stares at the flower, at the way it rests against dark hair and pale skin. His chest feels strange again, too tight and too full at the same time.

“Lupins,” he repeats.

Sirius nods, his eyes dropping for a moment toward Remus’ collar. “I thought they were beautiful.”

Remus pulls very gently on the braid to make Sirius lift his head again, lips quirking. His heart is hammering now—not out of fear, not even out of excitement, but out of sheer disbelief that something so sweet could possibly be for him.

“Oh, you did?” he murmurs, voice warm with the edge of a laugh.

Sirius lets out a breathy, embarrassed laugh of his own and pulls his hair from Remus’ fingers with a quick movement.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he says, trying to school his face into something stricter than he’s capable of. “Back to your seat.”

“Mm, rude,” Remus mutters, fighting a grin.

“Go, or I’ll kick you out myself.”

Remus sighs as if it’s a terrible injustice and slowly backs away, hands raised in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Don’t rob me of the view.”

Sirius starts to turn, then looks over his shoulder. His grin is sharp now, familiar in a way that makes Remus’ stomach flip.

“Have your coin ready,” he murmurs, and with one hand, lifts the edge of his skirt. The leather boot peeks out. The edge of his knee. And then, more. His thigh catches the light in a sudden flash of skin, and Remus swallows. “I’m expecting generous tips tonight.”

Remus stares. And stares.

And stares.

It’s not subtle, nor is it composed. He’s never been good at that around Sirius anyway.

Sirius laughs and lets the skirt fall back into place. 

“Careful,” he teases. “Your jaw’s mopping the floor.”

With a playful wink, he disappears into the crowd, still chuckling, still too powerful for one single person to be.

Remus stays right fucking where he is. His chest rises and falls too quickly, his ears are ringing, and every nerve in his body feels like it’s been rewired.

He has never, not in his life, wanted anything the way he wants this.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Sirius moves through the Hub with so much spring in his step he might as well lift off the ground and never bother landing. His boots barely kiss the floorboards, skirt swishing around his knees, body light and loud at once. It’s not adrenaline anymore, but the echo of that soft, tilted smile and the way Remus whispered, I liked it.

Remus said he liked it.

Remus said he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The words loop in Sirius' chest with the force of a drumline. His whole body hums with them, ribs tight under the corset, lungs blooming with every breath. The conversation plays behind his eyes again and again, and Remus' voice doesn’t lose its color no matter how many times Sirius replays it. Those rough edges, those bitten-off ends of his words. The way his teeth showed when he smiled. The way his hands felt, even just touching a single braid.

Sirius is dizzy with it. Dizzy and lit up, as though his bones are made of fizzing static. He nearly trips over the hem of his skirt, then laughs out loud at himself because it’s foolish, the way this feels. It’s foolish and lovely, and his heart is pounding so hard he's a little afraid the stage might collapse under him during the next set.

He makes his way to the bar, tugging his corset slightly from the back, trying to loosen it enough to breathe. His waist aches, his chest is damp with sweat under the velvet boning, and the layers of skirts are a damn oven around his thighs. He feels flushed all over, the backs of his knees especially, where the heat has no escape. The only thing keeping him sane is the relative order his hair’s managed to stay in, although half the flowers are crooked from dancing. He adjusts one lazily, fingers dragging against the braid just as he leans across the bar.

“Trilly,” he croaks, “water, please. I’m dying.”

Trilly grins, already reaching for a glass. 

“You guys killed it again,” he says, tapping the bar. “That new song?”

“Thank you.” Sirius presses a hand to his sternum, then leans his forearms against the counter. It’s cooler here, or maybe it just feels that way without every Auror’s eyes melting the back of his skull. His corset creaks slightly as he shifts weight, and he’s halfway through fixing another flower when he hears it.

“Hey, Sirius.”

He turns, smiling on instinct. The voice is familiar, and when Sirius sees who it is, his smile pulls wider.

“Curio!” he drawls, stepping into the hug immediately. 

Curio smells like beer and sweat and a faint trace of cigarette smoke. He’s out of his uniform, but still unmistakably an Auror—freshly buzzed head to keep it cool under the helmet, black boots, gloves looped at his belt.

“You were great,” Curio says, thumping his back. “Show’s a damn hit. Finally managed to drag the boys out.”

“Glad you did,” Sirius replies, pulling back just as Trilly slides a cold glass onto the counter. He picks it up with one hand, holding it to his forehead for a second.

Curio leans one elbow on the bar, nodding at Trilly for a refill. 

“That last song, though. Thought you were gonna knock the roof off.” He turns back with a grin. “So? Someone steal your heart or what?”

Sirius drinks deeply before answering. “You want all my secrets, huh?”

“Oh, I see,” Curio sing-songs, nodding as if connecting invisible dots. “Could be me, then? If I recall, last month when I bailed you out of the Hall again, you promised me a kiss on the cheek.”

“I tricked you.”

Curio gasps, hand to heart. “All my fantasies. Shattered. Gone. What am I gonna do with all those quiet nights imagining—”

“Fuck off,” Sirius mutters, smacking his shoulder. 

They laugh together. Curio’s always been the safest of the bunch; one of the few Aurors Sirius doesn’t mind seeing in the crowd. He’s not perfect—no one in uniform is—but he does more good than most. He warns families before raids. Slips coins to those in need at the market. Covers hunters caught with illegal game. Always slips kids candy when their parents aren’t looking. He’s helped Sirius more times than he can count—bringing him real bread sometimes when he’s arrested, smuggling juicy gossip to kill time while being held hostage. And his jokes are actually funny. Sirius doesn’t know what would happen if Corvium ever found out he makes things that much easier.

When Curio leans on the bar and says, “Greyback’s been on about you again,” Sirius' smile fades.

He grips the glass tighter. “I don’t care.”

Curio follows his gaze toward the stage, where Greyback sits too close. “He’s not gonna leave you alone. You know that.”

“He’s got one foot in the grave," Sirius bites back, taking a long sip. "Let him enjoy the view while he can."

“What, you planning on getting arrested again?”

Sirius meets his gaze. “What do you suggest? Sleep with him, since he clearly wants it?”

“No.” Curio grimaces. “But maybe stop throwing fire at someone who holds the matches. Be smart, Sirius. If not for yourself, then for your family. You know he could shut down Alphard’s shop with a single complaint.”

Sirius stares into his glass. The water’s already losing its chill. His fingernail, painted deep purple earlier today by Mary’s steady hands, taps once against the rim.

“This whole place is poison,” Sirius grumbles. “Why should I have to play nice?” 

“Because this is the world we live in,” Curio replies, then lifts his drink and takes a long swallow. “Take it up with Riddle if you’ve got an issue.”

Sirius scoffs. “Yeah, I’m sure he’d love to sit down and explain the system to me.”

Curio huffs a laugh. “Over a glass of champagne, probably.”

They both fall quiet for a second. The buzz of the bar thickens. In the corner of his eye, Sirius can see Greyback talking to another Auror, gaze slanting occasionally toward the bar. He drinks more water and turns slightly toward Curio.

“So,” Curio starts, tapping his fingers, “mystery boy, huh?”

Sirius looks away again, smiling before he can stop it. “Not telling you.”

Curio raises his brows. “Not even a hint?”

“Nope.” Sirius wriggles his nose and shakes his head.

Curio mimics him, nose scrunched, head wobbling. Sirius breaks into a laugh.

“Suit yourself,” Curio murmurs, leaning back. “But I’m good at this, and you’re not that subtle. I’ll find him. You know what I do know?”

“Please don’t.” 

Curio sings, “Honey hue eyes—”

“Shut up.”

“And something about the moon? Oh, the moon, keeping secrets—”

“Curio.”

“Still, I’ve been floating all day-ay—”

Sirius gives him a look. Curio cackles into his drink.

“Fuck you forever,” Sirius mutters.

“Such a dirty mouth, Sirius Black,” Curio coos, “for a boy with such lovely braids.”

Sirius rolls his eyes, takes another sip of water. He turns his head away instead of answering, letting his gaze drift across the room, and then stops.

Across the bar, Remus is watching him.

His jaw is set, eyes heavy, his brows low and drawn in. There’s a subtle pout to his lips that isn’t exactly sulking, but isn’t nothing, either. His eyes flick to Curio, then back to Sirius, and linger. There’s something about the way he looks—as if every breath costs him a decision, as if he has needles under his skin and Sirius is the reason they’re flaring up.

Sirius doesn’t understand what he’s seeing, but it makes everything inside him thrum with sharp, specific want. He wants that look pinned to him forever. He wants it pressed into the side of his neck like a secret. He wants it burning violet if it’s jealousy, and burning red if it’s desire. He needs it to be jealousy—fiercely, selfishly—and wants to see it slow-building, crawling up Remus’ spine and setting root in his hands. Just like that. Just exactly that much.

He breathes once through his nose, quick. 

“Curio,” he calls, lowering his eyes to his glass.

“Mm?” 

“I need you to come closer.”

Curio sets the glass down, clasps his hands together, and raises his eyes in mock prayer. “Finally. Thank the stars. Thought I’d die waiting for this moment.”

Sirius snorts, barely hiding a grin as Curio leans in. “He’s here.”

Curio squints. “Your honey-eyed moonboy?”

Sirius gives the smallest nod. “Can you help me?”

“You asking what I think you’re asking?”

“I don’t know. But we’re not kissing.”

“Damn shame.”

“You’re an idiot. Listen. Just lean in, pretend you’re being hilarious, make a joke. I’ll laugh. That kind of thing.”

“Are you saying I’m not funny on a normal day?” 

“Curio. Focus.”

“Fine, fine,” Curio says, lifting both hands. “Let’s say—”

Before he can even think of a line, Sirius throws his head back and laughs, hand landing on his shoulder as though the world’s best joke just landed. It rings out through the bar—bright, real, and totally excessive.

Curio blinks. “Wow. That was easy.”

“You’re truly hilarious,” Sirius praises, exaggerated, grinning too wide.

“And you’re such a bad actor,” Curio plays along, muttering through his own smile, all teeth.

“Shut up, or I’ll deck you,” Sirius sings, keeping his grin in place. 

Curio chuckles and reaches up to tug one of Sirius’ braids, letting the flower tucked in it flutter against his thumb. “That convincing enough?”

Sirius holds the smile. “Perfect. You’re not as bad at this as I thought.”

“Dirty mouth, cruel heart.”

“Survival,” Sirius answers, biting his lip, letting his lashes dip, the way he’s done onstage a hundred times.

Curio lets out a low whistle. “There it is. Now all you need is that kiss on the cheek you still owe me.”

“Not happening. Go to hell.”

Curio laughs, eyes twinkling. “Just don’t overdo it. Your moon boy’s gonna explode if you push too hard. And then what? No second set.”

Sirius snorts, shoulder twitching. “Alright. I think that’s enough.”

Curio gives his braid one last fond pat, fingers brushing Sirius’ bare collarbone as he presses the thick twist of hair there. “Permission to return to the lads?”

Sirius adjusts the collar of Curio’s shirt with two slow fingers. “Granted. And thank you. You can have anything you want, short of my lips.”

Curio grabs his beer off the bar. “Just don’t tell me to fuck off for a couple of days. We’ll call it even.”

Sirius chuckles under his breath, watching as Curio lifts his glass in salute, winks and turns away, heading back toward the Auror table. He stays where he is for a moment, heart kicking inside his chest, eyes flicking back across the bar. Remus hasn’t looked away. 

Sirius wants him to keep staring forever.

He turns back to the bar, picks up his empty glass, and runs a thumb over the rim. His braid still tickles his skin where Curio left it resting, but it’s not what he’s focused on, because he can feel it more than anything else—that lingering trace of eyes, that heavy question hanging in the air.

Burning violet, if he’s lucky.

Burning red, if he’s very, very lucky.

Sirius takes a one long sip of his water, tipping the glass until the cold reaches the back of his throat. He's barely set the glass back down when another one clinks sharply onto the bar beside him.

“What the hell is this, Trilly?” says Marlene.

Behind the bar, Trilly doesn’t even glance at her as he stacks empties. “It’s gin.”

“Yeah, gin and a whisper of juice. How am I supposed to drink it?”

“We’re rationing, McKinnon. Want cherries off the trees, move to Corvium.”

Marlene snorts and shoves the glass forward with her palm. “I’ll be sure to kiss every one of their asses there, just like they dream, but only after you fix this. I’m not trying to poison myself with your herbal horrors, and I saw you pour that Rosier booker boy the good stuff. Be a sweetheart and redo it.”

Trilly rolls his eyes but takes the glass and heads to refill it from the small wooden barrel tucked under the counter.

Marlene turns toward Sirius, arms crossed against the ruffles of her dress. “Sirius.”

Sirius looks at her sideways, lips twitching. “Hey, Marlene.”

“Great show.” Her voice is sharp, but her words drip sugar. It’s strange with her—grit and praise poured from the same mouth, as though she doesn’t even notice the contradiction. Sirius wonders how both live inside her at the same time. “You looked stunning up there.”

“Thanks. Second set’s in ten.”

Marlene hums and adjusts the hem of her dress. It’s a pastel blue thing with ruffles at the chest and sleeves. She keeps fidgeting with it like it’s made of thorns.

“Can’t find Sybill,” she complains. “Wanted to thank her for the tickets. My sister and I got prime seating. We can basically see your sweat.”

Sirius lets out a quiet breath of a laugh. “She probably stepped out with Kingsley while he has a smoke.”

“They’re cute together, aren’t they?”

“They are.”

“I’m not great with long speeches or whatever,” Marlene admits, shifting again, “so I’ll just say it. I wanted to talk about your friend.”

Sirius lifts a brow. “Xeno?”

“Who?”

“White-haired guy?”

“Oh—no, not a guy,” she says quickly, wrinkling her nose. 

Sirius frowns, taking in her fingers, which keep tugging the skirt down, and the way she keeps brushing curls off her forehead as if she can’t find her face under them.

“You okay in that?” he asks, nodding toward her dress. “Need help?”

Marlene lets out a sharp sound. “Only fire could help this disaster. I’d rather be here in my underwear. At least that wouldn’t itch.”

Sirius tilts his head. “You don’t like the dress?”

“Does it look like I do?” Marlene snaps, adjusting her neckline. “Disgusting thing. Ruffles and lace and this fucking pin—” she flicks the metal with a nail “—ugliest thing in the whole district.”

“I always thought it was pretty,” Sirius muses, brows drawing in.

Marlene barks a laugh. “You’re pretty. I’d give it to you if I could, honestly. You’d wear it better anyway. But if Dad found out I wasn’t wearing his precious little gift, I’d be six feet under by morning.”

Sirius watches her carefully. Marlene looks like a mean girl playing dress-up, but in reality, she’s a hostage of her outfit, trying to look untouchable so no one steps too close, because close means hurt. Maybe that’s what gets to Sirius—the scratch of discomfort, the fidgeting, the tightness she hides behind her mouth. He recognizes it: that biting edge people mistake for cruelty when it’s just armor.

He doesn’t know exactly what she did to Remus to make him wince at the mention of her name, but he knows the instinct of spitting barbs before someone throws the first stone—especially when you’re all dolled up in things your parents find fitting.

Sirius wonders how many people see Marlene and assume wrong. Maybe Remus did too.

“So, this friend,” Marlene says, shaking out her sleeves.

“Right,” Sirius replies. “Not Xeno.”

“Nope.” She leans in slightly. “The girl. Red skirt, red lipstick. What’s her name?”

A slow grin spreads across Sirius' face. “Mary.”

“Mary,” Marlene echoes, testing the name with a faint curl of her lips. “She seeing anyone?”

“Not at the moment.”

“She into guys?”

Sirius' mouth twitches again. “No boys for Mary.”

Marlene lifts her head, meets his eyes, and Sirius sees what she isn’t saying. There’s a hitch in her breath, careful around the edges of her voice.

He doesn’t know what it is that makes him want to help her. Not that she and Mary are anything alike, but Sirius has a strange thought that Mary might understand Marlene in a way others won’t. Marlene bites back, so does Mary. One would be a challenge for the other—two wildfires on different winds, all teeth and clever heat—but maybe that’s what they both need. Sirius is selfishly curious about what happens when two blades sharpen each other, instead of cutting apart.

“Want me to introduce you?” he offers gently.

“If you can,” Marlene responds, eager.

“After the show,” he promises. “I’ll come by your table. Where are you sitting?”

Marlene points across the bar, at the table with a purple coat slung over one of the chairs. Sirius nods, noting the spot in his mind. Easy to find later.

“Thank you, Sirius,” Marlene says, that corner smile creeping back. “I like you even more now.”

He laughs under his breath. “Right back at you.”

He means it, too—in some small, unexpected way. But it’s still a miracle he’s managing any kind of conversation right now, because Remus is still somewhere in this room, burning up every corner of Sirius' mind. His neck still feels hot from the way Remus looked at him. His fingers tremble just slightly. If he’s sick, it’s got nothing to do with stage heat and everything to do with the sound of Remus' voice, the press of his fingers while they toyed with Sirius' braid, and that look Remus gave him when he was laughing at the bar with Curio.

It’s like he's a fever Sirius can’t shake. A melody he can’t unhear. He might be lovesick, or something. Whatever it is, he wants to drown in it. To sink into that heat, be swallowed whole by it. Let Remus chew him up and never spit him out.

"By the way," Marlene murmurs, "do you know who invited Loopy here?"

Sirius lifts his head, a crease forming between his brows. “Who?”

“Loopy,” she repeats, clearly amused with herself. “Remus Lupin.”

There’s a sharp breath of laughter from Sirius. It slips out on instinct. He can practically hear the name in some school hallway, spat with giggles behind someone’s hand.

“You call him Loopy?”

“Well, Lupin—Loopy. It’s funny, no?” Marlene shrugs. “So who brought him?”

“That was me,” Sirius says, finishing the last of his water.

“Oh, so you’re friends?”

Sirius glances away. “Yeah.” He chews his bottom lip, then adds, almost to himself, “We’re friends.”

“Figures why you’ve been side-eyeing me for a while. He probably gave you a whole sob story about how I was mean to him when we were twelve.”

“He mentioned some things,” Sirius admits. “But judging by the fact that you call him Loopy, I’m guessing the feeling’s mutual.”

Marlene waves a hand. “It’s just habit. First it was Loopy, then Loony. Now I’m just waiting for another rhyme to strike. Haven’t cracked anything good with Remus yet. Remus Dreamus?”

Sirius scrunches his nose. 

“Remus Supreme Mess?”

That one actually earns a laugh. “That doesn’t even rhyme.”

Marlene sighs frustratingly, and at that moment Trilly sets her drink down with a thunk. This one’s properly crimson, almost defiant in color. She blows him a kiss. He flips her off without looking. She grins, takes a sip, lips stained a little darker now from the cherry.

Sirius stares down at her glass. “I get Loopy, but what’s Loony from?”

“Nickname off Moony,” Marlene answers distractedly, swirling the ice in her glass with her finger. 

Sirius smiles softly. There you are, the moon of mine, his heart whispers.

“Moony?” he echoes.

“Yeah. His darling calls him that.”

At first, Sirius doesn’t register the word. It drifts in and vanishes, soft and vague, like overheard lyrics.

He breathes in shallowly, barely recognizing his own voice. “I’m sorry, who?”

Marlene must think he didn’t catch it the first time, because she repeats, louder, “His darling.”

Inside Sirius, something crashes so loudly he almost misses it.

His darling.

His darling.

“Brilliant girl, honestly,” Marlene adds. “I get why he’s all soft about her—”

“Marls!”

Marcella strides toward the bar, hair half-out of its pins, cheeks flushed. She throws herself between barstools. 

“You’ve been gone for ages. Two Aurors cornered me and I almost slipped on some idiot’s beer. Hi, Sirius. Love the dress.”

Sirius looks up at her with wide eyes, heart thudding.

Brilliant girl, honestly. 

“Thanks,” he breathes.

All soft about her.

Marlene throws a hand toward Marcella. “Gotta go, gorgeous,” she chirps to Sirius. “This one’ll bite my head off if I ditch her again.”

“That’s right,” Marcella mutters, wrapping an arm around her sister’s waist and tugging her away. “You’re on thin ice, McKinnon.”

“Story of my life,” Marlene throws back, grinning as she walks off.

Sirius stays frozen, barely breathing, staring at nothing. He watches Marlene being dragged off by Marcella, and suddenly the room feels too bright. Too warm. Off-key.

He doesn’t know what people usually do when their heart falls into their stomach. He doesn't know if he's supposed to cry or laugh or throw a glass across the floor. What he does know is that there’s a vacuum in his chest, and the space it used to occupy throbs. It’s a dull, bloated hurt; a wound someone forgot to stitch. 

His darling calls him that.

The words bounce around his chest with a sick sort of sweetness, thudding over and over and over again until all he can feel is the echo. Sirius stands still, back to the bar, and tries not to let his expression move. It’s hard, because his jaw feels wired shut, and his hands are shaking again.

He presses a palm to his corset, scraping his nails gently down the boning, pressing his palm flat over his ribs, as if he can get the ache to stop expanding. The tightness only wraps tighter. The boning may as well be steel.

A laugh punches out of him, brittle and strange, and dies quickly. His throat seizes up like it’s anticipating tears, but no tears come. Maybe he ran out the day he learned how to hold them back. Maybe his brain and body knew something was off, long before his heart did.

He should’ve seen it coming, right? The signs were everywhere—in the careful touches, the polite pauses, in the look on Remus' face when Sirius kissed him, equal parts awe and guilt, in the stupid music box. 

Oh, the music box.

What kind of idiot makes a boy a music box?

Sirius played that melody only once. Only for him. Didn’t even show it to his uncles, didn’t even hum it in his sleep. But Remus had it, in his hands, like a secret, and now Sirius learns that it was a game. Just one more thing Remus could collect and tuck away.

How did he not see it? Remus had someone. He had someone, and Sirius had walked into it with both eyes shut and every nerve blazing. He wrote Remus a whole fucking song—poured his insides out in chords and lyric—and Remus took it with a smile and left him here to rot in it. 

Sirius used to think cruelty was the worst thing a person could give him. Now he knows better. Kindness with no intention behind it? That’s much worse.

But apparently that was the point. Apparently Remus is so good at being soft with everyone he doesn't know how to choose. Apparently this—Sirius, the song, the kiss—was just the same gentle lie he tells everyone, and he’s just a better actor than Sirius thought.

The truth is, if anyone ever did fall in love with Sirius Black, it would always end this way. He’s built for heartbreak—bare feet tangled in ivy, ink-stained fingertips, equal parts beauty and disaster. Hope and hurt. Love and ruin.

Who would ever choose that?

If it was all a lie—if Remus of all people sat there last night, kissed him like that, whispered like that, and lied—then what’s left? Why say those things? Why touch Sirius like that if it meant nothing? Why pretend?

He could’ve said no. He could’ve pushed Sirius away. Could’ve drawn a line, made it clear. But he didn’t. He whispered sweet nothings with his mouth and his touch and his eyes instead. Didn’t stop Sirius. Didn’t tell him not to fall. Remus let him hope, and that makes him cruel.

What a stupid, glittering, humiliating mistake. 

Sirius was supposed to be the star tonight, but instead, he’s standing under his own shattered constellation, heart bleeding out in the middle of The Hub, a dangerous swell of anger and shame in his chest, the heat behind his eyes. The cruel voice in his head that sounds a little too much like his mother, a little too much like his father.

No one will want you like that. Too much in your mouth. Too much of you everywhere. No one survives loving something so volatile.

Maybe they were right. Maybe he really is better suited for the arena, where hearts aren’t required and defiance is currency.

Sirius shuts his eyes for one slow second. When he opens them, hears himself ask, “Trilly, pour me what you gave Marlene.”

Trilly glances over. “Gin and cherry juice? Since when do you drink?”

“Since now,” Sirius mutters.

Trilly eyes him. “Want plum mead instead? It’s sweeter. Won’t floor you so fast.”

Sirius' head turns. He looks at the table where Remus was sitting earlier, where now only his parents and Lulu remain. It's almost funny, as if the stars knew to clear him out before it all came crashing down. Of course he’s not here to watch this part. The part where Sirius finds out about his cowardice wrapped in soft-spoken smiles, about a sweet boy who lets people drown with a kind face and clean hands.

Sirius presses his tongue to his molars.

“Anything,” he says. “Just not plum mead.”

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Remus stubs out his cigarette against the stone wall outside The Hub, watching the ember fizzle out on the cobblestones, while the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses filter out from the bar behind him. The show’s long over. The crowd’s thinning. Sybill’s still here, so Kingsley stayed too, even after his mum left with Lulu and Remus’ parents.

The tobacco doesn’t calm Remus, but the ritual helps. It gives his nerves something to do. Because tonight? Tonight has been a lot. His hand trembles slightly, so he clenches it, then unclenches. Deep breath in. Out. He doesn't want to overthink, but he’s been overthinking since the second Sirius’ voice filled the room with that song, since they spoke by the table, since Sirius told him he couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, and since he turned to smile at Remus from the stage. 

Everything inside him feels giddy and warm and too much. He’s jittery with how much he wants to see Sirius again, just the two of them, without lights or eyes or music. Remus wants to ask him out, wants to walk him home, maybe hold his hand on the way. Maybe finally find the courage to kiss him—out in the world, under the stars—but this time not let him run off before the world stops spinning.

In his jacket pocket, his fingers brush the edge of the music box. It’s right there, wrapped in cloth. Remus needs to give it back. Needs Sirius to understand why he spent all those nights building the cylinder, testing the pins, tuning the song; why he so desperately wants Sirius to have it. For the melody to match the one Sirius plays with his fingers on the strings of Remus' heart.

The air in The Hub is hot when he steps back inside. Tables are cluttered with glasses, and laughter sparks from all directions. Aurors still lounge in their seats with drinks, voices low and lazy now that the music’s stopped. The stage lights are dimmed now, just soft enough to paint everyone in bronze. 

Near the front, by the edge of the stage, Remus spots Sybill tucked under Kingsley’s arm, her cheek resting against his shoulder. Across from them, Sirius stands with arms folded tightly over his ribs. His hair is down now, the flowers gone, strands falling like spilled ink over his bare collarbones. The corset is off, his dress a little wrinkled, collarbones still exposed, like piano keys left uncovered. In one hand, he clutches Remus' jacket. That jacket. The brown one from the night Remus first walked him home.

The sight of it does something funny to Remus' chest. He wipes his palms on his trousers, stuffs his hands deep into the pockets, and walks over with a soft smile meant for Sirius alone. He’s so full of it tonight—nerves and longing and light—his head is almost spinning. 

Sirius glances at him when he gets close, scanning him head to toe, but he doesn’t smile back. Not even a flicker. He doesn’t look away, either. 

Remus slows a little as he approaches, his brows pulling together slightly. His eyes flick to Sybill and Kingsley, wondering if maybe he’s interrupting something, but Sybill’s already turning to Kingsley, murmuring, “Will you help me with my cello?”

Kingsley kisses her cheek. “Of course. Backstage?”

“Mm.” She nods and reaches for his hand. “Just need to wrestle it into the case.”

Kingsley raises a finger at Remus, grinning. “One minute, lovebirds.”

Remus flushes slightly, unsure how to respond, but he nods, glancing at Sirius, who hasn’t laughed or flinched at the comment. He’s just staring at the floor, probably too worn out to even speak. It was a long night—dancing, singing, playing—and Sirius gave everything to that stage.

When the other two disappear, Remus turns to him fully, then reaches up and gently touches the silver star dangling from Sirius' left earlobe, letting it spin between his fingertips. He toys with it for a moment, just to have some kind of contact. 

“Hey,” he breathes softly. His thumb grazes the edge of Sirius’ earlobe. “Wanna go for a walk once Sybill’s packed up?”

Sirius turns his head slightly, pulling away just enough that Remus' fingers lose contact. “I think I’ll stay here.”

Remus' hand hovers for a second, then drops. Still, he smiles gently. 

“Alright, then we can sit—”

“I don’t want to sit either,” Sirius interrupts, and there’s a cold edge buried under the quietness of his voice. “I have other plans.”

“Plans?” Remus repeats, confused.

Sirius turns his head and looks at him directly. His eyes catch the light, and it’s strange, because they’re heavy-lidded and shimmer too much, like silver gone sharp. 

“Yes,” Sirius says. “Plans.”

Remus recognizes the way he’s looking at him. That flicker of indifference in his eyes, the slow lift of his chin—he’s seen it before. A few weeks ago, in this very bar. That same steel behind the long lashes.

“Sirius,” Remus asks carefully, “what’s wrong?”

Sirius turns his face, jaw tilted up in a way that feels defensive. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”

Remus catches the edge of a ribbon near Sirius’ waist, smoothing it without thinking. “You just seem tense. Did someone upset you?”

Sirius lets out a humorless laugh. “Who would dare?”

“I don’t know,” Remus mutters, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’ve been surrounded all night.”

“I know what you want to ask, Remus,” Sirius presses. “Go ahead.”

Remus hesitates. Then breathes in deep. “That Auror you were at the bar with… is he someone you know?”

Sirius' face stays unreadable. “Yeah. That’s Curio. He’s stationed at the Hall of Virtue. Always there when I’m locked in.”

“He didn’t bother you or anything, did he?” Remus asks. “While you were talking?”

Sirius tilts his head, smiling faintly. “Quite the opposite, actually. Curio is good at making me laugh all the time. He’s funny like that.” 

Remus nods slowly, forcing himself to keep looking Sirius in the eye. It’s not the end of the world, he tells himself, because that’s absolutely fine. That’s fine. Sirius kissed him, after all. Said he couldn’t stop thinking about it. None of that has changed, right? Just because someone else is capable of making him laugh doesn’t mean Remus gets to unravel.

It’s only that Remus doesn’t like it. At all. He doesn’t like how easily the words came. Doesn’t like that Sirius says them as if they mean something, and there’s a comfort there that Remus hasn’t earned yet.

Jealousy starts as a slow throb at the base of his throat, then climbs into his chest like heat, a steady pressure behind the ribs. He despises it, because he can feel it in his body: the way his breath goes shallow, the way his fingers start to curl. He doesn’t want this image behind his eyes—Curio’s hand on Sirius' elbow, brushing his braid, leaning too close at the bar, and Sirius laughing with his head thrown back—especially when Sirius is like this now. Stiff. Distant. Hiding behind something Remus can’t see through. Not giving a single thing away.

It’s stupid, and he knows it. But a slow-burn ache has already started behind his ribs, spreading out through his veins. He’s never been jealous in the obvious, possessive way—never liked the idea of owning anyone, because people aren’t things—but this is different.

This is Sirius. This is the boy he kissed. The boy he’s spent sleepless nights thinking about. And now he’s standing here, saying another man makes him laugh all the time.

Remus presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, trying to shrug it off, but his jaw still tightens. His hands curl into fists in his pockets, hard enough that his nails bite into his palms. It makes him want to ask exactly how many times Curio has made Sirius laugh like that. If Curio has ever touched the curls at the nape of his neck. If kissing Remus meant anything at all, or if it was just one more firework on a night full of stars and borrowed words.

“I just…” Sirius shrugs. “Guess I’m just nervous. I don’t know if everything went alright tonight.”

Remus lets go of the ribbon, smoothing it flat against the fabric of Sirius’ dress with the side of his finger, the way you might calm a skittish bird before letting it fly.

“You don’t need to worry,” he murmurs. “You were incredible. And that song—” He swallows. “The one you wrote last night… it was really—it was beautiful.”

Sirius' smile twitches a little wider. Still no teeth. “You liked it?”

Remus nods quickly. “Yeah. Yes, I really did. You know I’m not good at—I mean, with words, but when you were singing it, I—”

“Do you think he did?”

Remus pauses. “Sorry?”

Sirius doesn’t look at him, examining his own fingernails instead. The polish glints a rich violet under the lights, perfect even now. “Curio. Do you think he liked it?”

“What?” Remus hears himself say, but it’s thinner now, holed through the center.

“I wasn’t sure about the honey hue line,” Sirius goes on lightly, eyes still downcast, “but his eyes do have a bit of that gold to them. Especially in certain light. So I figured it wouldn’t be too on the nose, but not too vague either. Enough for him to catch it.”

Remus' stomach drops straight to his feet. For a second he doesn’t feel his body, like his blood has paused.

“You wrote that about him?” he asks.

Sirius shrugs again, this time one bare shoulder. “Yeah. Kind of came over me all at once. The inspiration, I mean. I think he’s sweet. He’s always nice to me, you know, if we bump into each other in the street, or when I’m dragged into Hall. Great guy, really. Handsome, too.”

Remus' jaw ticks. “So you’re—” he tries again, quiet now, as if his voice might crack if he makes it louder, “you’re going to spend time with him tonight?”

“That’s right,” Sirius mutters, picking at his nail polish. “Why?”

Remus' mouth opens, then closes. His fingers twitch at his sides, gripping at air. He shakes his head. 

“No reason,” he forces out, backing off before he understands why. “You're… you're free to do what you want.”

Sirius' eyes lift slowly from his nails. He doesn’t look touched. Doesn’t look relieved. He looks cold. 

“You don’t have to tell me that, Remus,” he says slowly. “I know I am.”

Remus stares at him. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, trying not to sound like he’s fighting for air, which he is. “It’s just… last night, you—”

“Ah, about that,” Sirius cuts in, brushing hair behind his ear with a tired hand. “Bit of a mistake. I get weird before big things, you know. Nerves, adrenaline, all that mess. I didn’t mean to fuck with your head. I just go too far sometimes and—boom. There it is. I don’t even realize what I’ve done.”

Remus stares at him, wide-eyed. The air is thick around him, the noise in the room suddenly distant, as if he’s underwater. His ears ring. 

“So yeah.” Sirius adjusts the dress on his shoulder as though it’s just small talk and he’s ready to go. “Anyway. Thanks for coming. And thank your parents for me, too. But I’ve gotta pack up. Curio’s waiting. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

He turns, about to walk off, and Remus panics. He’s pretty sure that’s how the exact moment before the fall feels like—that brief weightless space where your body knows it’s already too late.

“Sirius,” he calls, fumbling with his jacket, fingers diving into the inside pocket. “Wait. Please—wait. I wanted to—”

Sirius stops. “What?”

Remus’ hand closes around the cloth-wrapped object, and he pulls it out. It looks even smaller now, fragile in the light. “You ran off so fast yesterday. So I thought…”

Sirius looks down at the music box and smiles again, all charm, no warmth.

“Oh,” he breathes out. “You really didn’t have to.”

He taps the lid once with a painted nail but doesn’t take it.

Doesn’t reach for it the same way he once didn’t reach for Remus' flowers. In this same bar. In this same place by the stage.

“Cute little thing,” Sirius adds lightly. “But the sound’s off. Kind of hurts my ears.”

“Hurts your ears?”

Sirius waves a hand vaguely next to his head, already looking over Remus' shoulder toward the crowd, scanning the room. “That screechy bit, or whatever. Makes everything throb.”

“Right,” Remus whispers, feeling it like a thread snapping in his chest. “Okay. I… I get it.”

Sirius looks back at him, and the moment hangs for a second too long. Then he reaches out and pats Remus' chest—too hard to be affectionate, not hard enough to be mean. Just a placeholder for goodbye.

“Get home safe, mm?” he says. “Don’t forget to thank your mum and dad for me.” He turns to go, then pauses and spins back around, pushing the brown jacket into Remus' arms. “Almost forgot. Here. Your jacket.”

Remus barely gets his hands up in time to catch it before Sirius shoves it into his chest and walks away.

Remus stands still for a long time, jacket clutched to his chest, music box still cradled in his palm, while everything inside him crumbles, inch by inch.

The song is still playing in his head—the one with honey hue eyes and voice like thunder—but now it doesn’t sound like a love song anymore. 

Now it sounds like a funeral dirge for his own foolish, hopeful heart.

Chapter Text

The clang of metal against metal rings through the forge and echoes in Remus’ ears the same way Sirius’ laugh did that night, filled with sympathy so biting it almost counts as cruelty.

As if he’d said outright, you really thought I wrote that song about you?

You really thought our kiss meant something?

You really thought someone like me could fall for someone like you?

Remus wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, but it just smears. His eyes squeeze shut behind the soot-stained goggles, because the tears—tears, yes, again—keep slipping under his lashes and make everything sting more, and there’s no wiping them now. 

It’s too hot in here. Too hot to feel anything properly but the throb in his jaw and the nausea curled under his ribs. One hand grips the hammer; the other holds the still-glowing metal, the one he’s shaping into another hammer. For what? So that someone else can use it to forge more weapons, or so some child in the arena can bash in another child’s head with it. Brilliant.

This is what a heartbreak really looks like, then. Not a metaphor, not a poem. Not an image tucked into the spine of a book. No. This. This sweat-soaked, trembling, smoke-sick feeling. This black crust on his hands. This wrong kind of moisture stinging his face as Remus tries to focus on shaping a chunk of steel that could end someone’s life.

It crept up on him quietly—that somewhere between that first look, when Sirius’ eyes had lit up as he saw Remus at the show, and that last one, blank and disinterested, all light gone—something had snapped clean in half. Sirius had looked at him like he was the only thing in the room, and then, as if none of it mattered, he walked away.

Remus hadn’t noticed the exact moment everything changed. He hadn’t even seen it coming, but it came, and it left him like this. 

So now he’s unlearning how to function.

He works. He goes home. He works again. He rereads the same book pages over and over, never getting past the same goddamn paragraph because the words won’t land. He can’t eat properly. He can’t sleep properly. He stares at the music box sometimes until the room goes blurry. Still can’t throw it out. He just keeps winding it and listening, over and over, until the melody warps in his ears and starts sounding like mockery.

Perhaps Sirius being a celestial entity was the problem all along. Perhaps that’s the thing, because somehow, somewhere in all that, Remus’ quiet, careful orbit got sucked into this radiant, burning path. He got pulled too close, and now all he’s left with is bones crushed to stardust and the ash of what he thought was special.

The tiny gravity of his quiet life never stood a chance. A blacksmith with a handmade music box can’t keep up with a supernova.

If Sirius had only said so from the beginning—if he’d just made it clear that there’s nothing here, that there won’t be—maybe Remus would have accepted it. Maybe he wouldn’t have let himself fall this deep.

The universe is an unfair bitch, apparently. That’s the only way to explain it.

Unfair the way Sirius is unfair—how easily he made Remus fall in love with him. How he made it worse every day. The way he looked at him. The way he touched him. The way he sang with his fucking eyes on him. How he said he liked it. How he leaned in first.

Now he walks through the world as if he never gave Remus a second thought, while Remus is stuck here, still trying to figure out which version of that night was reality. Still hoping it wasn’t just performance. Still wishing he could rewind it and ask better questions, say better things, stop himself from hoping in the first place.

It would’ve been so much easier if Sirius had taken all of it with him when he left—the moons, the stars, the glitter—because now, Remus doesn’t know how to go back to the life he had before. Doesn’t know how to forget the sound of Sirius’ voice when he sang that song, the way he’d reached out for his hand, the way his lashes flickered when he smiled.

The heartbreak isn’t just in the silence that followed. It’s in the fact that Sirius never even gave him the dignity of clarity. He didn’t draw the line. He didn’t say stop. He just let Remus fall, then stepped aside.

Worst of all, Sirius never even looked back.

It hurts most that Remus can’t even be angry properly. He’s tried. He’s tried to hate it all, to curse it all, to wince at the memory of Sirius standing there with his jacket in his hands. But it always collapses into ache.

Because it’s not anger, but loss.

It’s the sound of a music box that never played right. It’s the memory of fingers on a ribbon. It’s the weight of a jacket handed back like a formality. It’s how no one prepares you for the way love can hollow you out when it consumes your very being, and then breaks.

It’s how Sirius made it look easy—as though he could fall into a kiss, fall into a song, fall into someone else’s arms, and leave Remus stranded, left to try to live in a place where Sirius Black exists and just walks around not loving him back.

It hurts that there's no one like Sirius Black. Not anywhere.

It feels like there never will be.

“You need help finishing that?” Kingsley asks, careful and quiet, as if he’s been holding the words in his mouth for minutes before letting them go. “Mine’s almost done.”

Remus shakes his head before the words are even fully out, lips pulling into something that technically passes for a smile. It doesn’t reach anything. 

“I’m good.”

He’s not. He’s so not.

He’s anything but good, and it’s building again, rising fast like a storm from somewhere under his ribs. Because all he wants—all he can feel wanting—is Sirius. 

His loud voice, his nonsense jokes, the thousand thoughts he throws into the air without checking if anyone's caught up. His hands, always tangling in Remus’ hair, or ending up on his jaw when he got tense, or brushing the back of his neck, thumb tapping the curve of bone in a secret code. His habit of pressing in too close, his laugh that sounds like a bell ringing, the way his whole body bends toward joy without apology.

Remus wants all of it. The morning in his arms and the afternoon next to his shoulder and the night with Sirius’ cheek tucked into his collarbone. He wants the hoarseness in his voice, the charm in his smile, the way he says Remus and forge boy. He wants the boldness, the bite, the infuriating flashes of ego and the disarming tenderness that always seemed to follow. He wants him unreasonably—sweet or difficult, loud or withdrawn—every version.

But sometimes wanting doesn’t change a fucking thing.

Kingsley says something again—a low murmur, offering help—but Remus cuts him off with a sharper shake of the head. He turns back to the anvil, brings the hammer down hard. The metal sings under the weight, gives just a little, and he hits it again, harder, as if that might get the pressure out of his lungs. That awful feeling is back—the one right before the crying, where your chest seizes and your stomach folds in on itself and the sob rises like bile but doesn’t make it out. You shove it down, down, down into your ribs, until it turns your body to acid.

He sees it all again like he never stopped seeing it. The back of Sirius’ dress fading into the dark behind the stage. The empty space where he’d been. The lights of the Hub casting golden dust across the floor, forming shapes that looked too much like Sirius, and none of them turning back around. Remus standing there, holding a music box Sirius wouldn’t take. Holding a jacket Sirius didn’t want. 

The hammer slips, just enough, skids off the metal, and crashes against the edge of the anvil. Kingsley jerks his head up instantly, stepping forward.

“Hey—man—”

“I’m fine,” Remus says, clipped, teeth clenched around it.

The next moment the bar slips too, and the red-hot steel brushes the skin of his hand. The pain is immediate, so hot and sharp it knocks the breath out of his chest; Remus snarls, and the hammer clatters from his hand. The piece of steel falls too, half-forged and now seared into his skin. It hits the floor with a hollow clang. 

Kingsley is already there, both hands out in that wide gesture people use when they don’t know where it hurts yet.

“Shit, Remus—”

Remus doesn’t answer. His jaw is locked too tight for words. The pain bites down, deep and unforgiving, and he swears he can hear his own blood ringing in his ears.

“Come on,” Kingsley mutters, tugging him down to crouch beside the bucket of water they keep for shocks and burns. It sloshes onto the floor a little as he pulls it closer to Remus. “Put it in. Now.”

Remus hisses between his teeth as the sting hits him twice—first from the heat, then from the cold. His wrist is trembling now. Probably more from anger than pain.

The other workers glance over. A couple start to approach.

“All good!” Kingsley calls, raising a hand behind him. “Just a burn. We’ve got it.”

Remus doesn’t want to meet anyone’s eyes. He stares into the water, the color of it shifting where ash and blood swirl up from the damaged skin, jaw clenched, lips bloodless. The pain is sharp and constant, but at least it makes sense. At least it follows rules. Heat plus skin equals damage. No mixed messages.

Unlike Sirius.

Sirius, who didn’t need to say a single cruel thing out loud. Who only had to smile a certain way, shift his voice just enough, and then look over Remus’ shoulder like he was never there.

It’s easier to sit in this burning pain than to think about what’s going to happen when he has to walk past The Hub again. When he has to risk seeing that same glittering galaxy and pretend it never chewed him up.

Remus keeps his hand submerged in the basin long after the sting starts to fade into a dull throb. It’s not about pain management anymore; it’s about not looking at anyone. About staying turned away while he tries not to cry.

Kingsley takes off his goggles with one hand and shifts so his wide back blocks the rest of the forge from view. Remus presses his unburned palm to his face and scrubs hard, as if he can physically push disappointment back behind his skull. As if he can rub away the memory of Sirius’ laughter, of that stupid flash of teeth and careless eyes.

Kingsley gently lifts Remus’ injured hand from the water. It drips, trembling.

“Fuck,” he mutters, inspecting the damage. “It’s bad. I’m getting the kit. Don’t move, yeah?”

Remus nods once.

Kingsley gives him a single, careful pat on the shoulder before standing and heading across the forge.

Alone for a minute, Remus stares at the blister. It’s bulbous and obscene, white and angry against flushed red skin, which is already tugging and twitching. He grits his teeth so hard his temples hurt. A small, ugly sound escapes his throat, somewhere between a growl and a moan.

It’s not even clear whether it’s the pain from the burn or the pain from Sirius, but honestly, it’s all the same. 

Flame in his hand. Flame in his chest.

They wrap his hand thick in gauze and Kingsley insists on finishing most of his workload. The burn throbs like it’s alive under the layers of salve, so Remus doesn’t argue. His head’s a reel of fragments anyway: fingers on his jaw, the weight of a cold hand on the back of his neck, a kiss, a look, the absence of a look. 

Nothing, too.

Later, they walk shoulder to shoulder past the main square, bags slung heavy over their shoulders. The streetlamps flicker with a weird orange light tonight, as if the city itself is exhausted. Workday gone. What’s left is this long ache that doesn’t end at the wrist. Every few steps, the fabric of the bandage pulls ever so slightly against the skin of Remus’ hand, and it’s like being bit again and again by a very stubborn bug. 

“Wanna talk?” Kingsley asks, not looking at him.

“No.”

The word hits the pavement so fast it might as well be spit. Kingsley accepts it, as always. They walk in silence for half a block.

Then, quietly, he tries again, “It’s a pretty big blister, you know. You won’t be able to hold the hammer right for a few days. You should—maybe take tomorrow off?”

“And do what?” Remus snorts, mostly to himself. “Sit in my room and slowly go insane?”

Kingsley doesn’t reply. Because there is no reply. He probably expected that answer.

Remus exhales through his nose, glancing at the buildings across the square, where the lights are just starting to flicker on in the upper windows. “How’s Sybill?”

“Still sick. Cough and everything.” Kingsley shifts the strap of his bag. “Mary’s trying those witchroot teas again. They’re helping a bit, I think. Not fast enough for Syb’s patience, though.”

“She’s always barefoot. Not exactly a mystery how she caught it.”

“Covey thing.”

“Yeah.” Remus’ voice goes quiet. “It is.”

Kingsley glances sideways at him. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.”

Remus looks down at the ground. The stones blur slightly. Kingsley falls quiet again, maybe because they both know everything comes back to Sirius. And talking to Remus lately has been like walking through ruins; every word has to step carefully over what’s been broken.

Still, Remus tries. Guilt bites him even as he asks it.

“You’ve seen him?”

Kingsley doesn’t ask who. He sighs, not harshly. 

“Once. I came by Syb’s with Mum’s soup. He was heading out.”

Remus swallows. “How was he?”

Kingsley shrugs one shoulder, noncommittal. “Seemed fine. Same old.”

Remus nods, jaw tightening again.

Kingsley pauses, then gently reaches out, fingers curling around Remus’ shoulder. “Remus, can we not do this? You’ve been—” He hesitates, choosing words. “You’ve been kinda haunting the place lately. You’re not… here.”

“I’m okay.”

“Don’t lie to me, mate.”

“I’m okay,” Remus insists, looking away. “I just wanted to know how he is. That’s all.”

Kingsley chews on his bottom lip. “Well… I don’t want to upset you, but I think he’s been seeing that Auror. Curio or whatever. I don’t know if they’re exclusive or anything, but yeah. He mentioned it.”

Remus bites the inside of his cheek, hard. His gaze fixes on nothing. Something inside him makes that awful ding sound, the same one Sirius’ fingers used to coax from his guitar strings.

Only now it hurts.

Kingsley watches him for a long moment, then murmurs, “Remus, I get that it’s hard. I really do. But—”

“It’s not,” Remus interrupts, and that shuts Kingsley up. He doesn’t press further.

Remus kicks a loose stone down the path as they walk. The silence stretches, and Remus knows he should let it stay, but the frustration is clanging now, loud and brutal and unfair. His thoughts are so loud it’s a miracle they’re not echoing off the buildings.

“It’s just weird,” he mumbles.

Kingsley glances over. “What is?”

“This Curio thing.” Remus shakes his head. “I’ve never heard his name before. Not once. Sirius talks constantly, you know that, but this guy? Nothing. Like he just appeared, out of nowhere, right on that night.”

Kingsley hums, cautious.

Remus keeps going, bitterness slipping out like steam from a cracked kettle. “And then suddenly it’s a thing. Then suddenly the song’s about him, and Sirius is all honey-hue eyes and he’s so kind to me and he makes me laugh all the time,” he mimics. “I mean, what the fuck? I’m not crazy, King. I was there when he was performing it. He was looking at me the whole time. I know you saw it too.”

Kingsley stays quiet, but his brow furrows. He slows beside Remus when he stops walking. 

“And before that,” Remus pushes on, voice rising, “we were together all the time. We were at my place constantly, lying on the bed, talking about music, reading together. He let me touch him. He kissed me first. He—he fed me from his fingers, for fuck’s sake, and he always let me braid his hair and he—” His voice breaks a little, and he hates it. He swallows it down. “You don’t do that with someone if you don’t mean something by it. You just don’t.”

Kingsley listens, patient, letting it all come out.

“And then this Curio guy shows up out of nowhere, and it’s like Sirius forgot I even existed. Suddenly, there’s this whole history I’m supposed to believe in.” He starts walking again, arms too tense at his sides. “One moment he’s saying he couldn’t stop thinking about our kiss, and the next—bam. Curtain falls. It’s like the fucking universe decided we’re not allowed to orbit each other anymore.”

Kingsley walks beside him, hands in his pockets, thinking. Remus kicks another pebble so hard it bounces off a post and skitters into the gutter.

“It’s not even about the kiss. It’s everything. He stopped coming to see me, he stopped looking at me, he avoids me like I’m contagious. I just—if he changed his mind, fine. But why act like it was never real? I don’t get it. I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

Kingsley stops walking again, steps in front of him, and puts both hands on his shoulders now. “Hey. Hey. Look at me.”

Remus looks up, jaw trembling slightly.

“You’re not crazy, alright? None of this was in your head. You’re not making this shit up. I saw the way he looked at you. I saw how you were with him. Everyone did.”

“Then why—” Remus croaks, desperate, “—why did he just disappear? Why the hell is he avoiding me?”

Kingsley shakes his head. “I don’t know, Remus, but that’s not on you. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He places a warm, heavy hand on the back of Remus’ neck, thumb pressing gently against his hairline. “You fell for him, and maybe he got scared, or maybe he was cruel, or whatever the hell it was that he decided to act this way, but I promise, you’re gonna find someone who doesn’t make you feel like this. You’re not a second choice, and there will be a person in your life who wants to fall asleep with you every night, and doesn’t need a song to admit it.”

Remus nods.

Kingsley claps a hand on his shoulder. “You deserve that. You hear me?”

Remus nods again, but he doesn’t speak.

Oh, Kingsley, his heart says, I know exactly how to fool you.

Because the truth is, it’s already too late. Remus doesn’t want anyone else. He doesn’t want a fresh start, or some new name, or someone gentler.

He wants Sirius. Whatever damage he brings. Whatever chaos he drags behind him.

Remus knows it’s pathetic. He knows how he sounds, trailing after someone who clearly decided to slam the door shut and lock it behind them. He knows, but Sirius isn’t just the person Remus wants. Sirius is it. Even if he never looks Remus’ way again. Even if Remus has to spend the rest of his life trying to forget the sound of his laughter, or the way his fingers felt against his cheek, or how he whispered I couldn’t stop thinking about it either. 

Even then, Sirius is the one. The boy who feeds Remus pie and lets him wipe the smudged eyeliner from under his pretty eyes with the soft part of his thumb. The boy who writes out confessions and hides them in chords. The boy who smells like almonds and cigarettes and stage sweat.

Kingsley seems to sense all of it, because he doesn’t say anything else. He starts walking beside Remus, quiet again, as if they’re not alone, even when everything feels lonely as hell.

Remus lets the silence stretch this time.

By the time they’re almost past the main square, the light’s shifted to that late-evening copper, soft and orange, and the shadows of the Hall of Virtue stretch far across the stones. Remus’ boots catch the tail of it, and as his eyes drift lazily toward the far side, he sees them.

Two Aurors, standing still near the corner of the bakery, backs straight, in their usual patrol uniforms, predictably self-important. They aren’t doing much: arms crossed, eyes scanning the slow trickle of people walking home. One of them nods absently to a passing man. Another rhythmically taps his finger on the butt of a baton.

Remus squints. His brain, already fried from pain, heartbreak, and heat exhaustion, does something very stupid.

It starts thinking, again.

Because maybe this is it. Maybe this is how he gets closer, in the sense of answers. Of Curio. Of figuring out why Sirius suddenly yanked the plug on everything like they were never even plugged in to begin with.

Remus doesn’t know what he wants to see in the Hall. He just knows he needs something, so he tracks the dumbest thought currently echoing in his head and grabs it hard.

“Hey,” he says, a little too fast, turning to Kingsley. “Actually—damn, I forgot. I need to stop by Lily’s house.”

Kingsley glances at him, slowing his pace. “Now?”

Remus shrugs, trying to keep the lie from sounding like a lie. “She’s barely been on this side of the district lately with all that staying with her grandparents, and I promised I’d swing by, talk to her parents for a bit.”

Kingsley’s brow furrows. “You sure you’re up for that?”

Remus nods. “It’ll be quick.”

Kingsley watches him for a beat longer, eyes scanning his face as if he’s trying to solve a problem with no clear answer. But finally, he nods. 

“Alright. Come to mine if you need anything. And tell Lils and her folks I said hi.”

Remus nods. “Will do.”

Kingsley lingers another beat, then finally gives in. He squeezes Remus’ shoulder before heading off down the next street, and as soon as he’s out of sight, Remus turns on his heel and beelines toward the Aurors, heart pounding in his throat and brain already spiraling through thirty-seven ways this could get him publicly flogged.

To be fair, he has exactly zero plan, because let’s be honest—what the hell does someone do to get lightly detained but not arrested in District 9? It’s a fine line. Like, extremely fine. On one end, you get a stern lecture. On the other, they beat your teeth in and send you to prison.

Okay.

Okay, bad idea. Really bad idea. Remus knows this.

But what’s he supposed to do? Just sit around while Sirius moves on with some random Auror he’s never even heard of before the show? Pretend it doesn’t itch at every cell in his body that someone else gets to be near Sirius now, gets to laugh at his jokes and gets songs written about them?

No. Fuck that. Heartbreak does things to a man. 

One of those things, apparently, is committing just enough minor offense to land himself in the Hall of Virtue without getting permanently maimed.

He ducks into an alley near the building and rifles through his work bag with one hand—the good one—until his fingers close around a long chisel, still stained with iron grit and scorched at the tip. He eyes the wall, then the spot just under the emblem of the Corvium carved into the limestone face of the Hall. A nice blank surface to scrape easily without a hammer.

Alright. So vandalism it is.

Not his brightest moment, to be honest, but technically not his dumbest either.

Remus glances once more over his shoulder. His fingers are trembling, partly from adrenaline, partly from the sting of the bandaged burn, but he shoves the tip of the tool against the wall and begins carving.

HALL OF VULTURES

The sound of scraping is satisfying in a way Remus didn’t know he needed. It takes a few strokes before it starts to really look like letters—though it doesn’t carve so much as scratch, leaving pale, uneven lines behind—but it’s legible anyway. Every letter is a little knife into the grief curdling in his chest; a little fuck you to a world that lets people like Sirius slip through your fingers with a smirk and a lie about honey-colored eyes.

He doesn’t even get to finish the R before he hears a voice behind him.

“You want to tell me what you’re doing?” 

Remus turns slowly, plastering on a smirk. The Aurors have approached silently, arms folded, visors down. One of them is taller and built like a brick, the other wiry and sharp-eyed. The big one stands in front of the wall and stares at the carving.

“Did you do this?”

Remus twirls the chisel between two fingers. “Well, I certainly didn’t find it here.”

“What for?”

“Public commentary.”

The big Auror steps closer.

“I like birds,” Remus adds.

“That’s a punishable offense,” the wiry Auror says flatly.

“Well, depends on how you interpret it.” Remus shrugs. “Might be a compliment. Vultures clean up messes. They're very efficient.”

The Aurors don’t react.

Remus taps the chisel against his palm, trying not to wince when it hits the burn. “You guys never get any carvings? Seems like kind of a missed opportunity for engagement.”

The wiry Auror exhales through his nose. “Name.”

Remus’ heart picks up a little, and he straightens, pulling his shoulders back.

“Remus Lupin.”

“Blacksmith?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You know what this qualifies as, right?”

“Oh, I’m well aware.” Remus flips the chisel once in his fingers, then offers it up. “Here. Evidence.”

The first Auror takes it, glances at the wall, then back at him.

“Vandalism,” he declares coldly. “You’re under arrest.”

Remus nods solemnly, trying very hard not to smile. He offers his wrists forward with a gracious little bow of his head.

“I hear the hospitality in the Hall of Virtue is just to die for.”

It’s exactly as unfunny as it sounds, but Remus high-fives himself internally anyway. The first Auror signals with two fingers, and the second reaches for a pair of cuffs. Remus opens his mouth, almost says something glib, but metal closes around his wrists with a click that echoes just like the chisel did earlier—metal on metal—and this is the part where you don’t joke. This is the part where you keep your mouth shut.

It’s all so reckless, and he knows it. His palm is burning, the bindings tight over his bandages, and it’s not going to be worth it, it never is, apparently—but the stupid hope doesn’t go away.

Let them think he’s just another angry, Corvium-burnt district pig with a chip on his shoulder and a chisel in his pocket. Let them talk shit in their report. Let them log the charge. Good. He just wants to get taken to the Hall of Virtue, because this is where he’ll find Curio. If not tonight, then soon. 

He wants to see the guy up close. Wants to see if he’s got those so-called honey eyes, if he’s actually charming, if he’s got a smile Sirius would fall for, or if it’s all just a script someone handed Sirius in exchange for Remus’ heart.

If the universe won’t give him answers, Remus is going to pry them out of the marble walls himself.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Another stone strikes the earth, scattering dust, and Sirius sniffs, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his blouse, his foot dragging through the gravel with a pitiful scuff. His chest heaves once, twice, before he kicks the next stone hard into the lake. It lands with a hollow splash, as if the world itself is mocking him, trying and failing to echo back his pain.

On a boulder not far from the water, Andromeda threads her fingers absently through Ted's curls where he’s sprawled half-asleep on her lap, and mutters softly, “Enough crying, sweetheart.”

Sirius kicks one more stone toward the lake’s edge, hard enough that pain shoots up his toes. It flies, misses the water, and thuds against the dirt.

“How could he?” he roars, pitching forward with the weight of it, eyes red from everything—wind, sun, tears, betrayal, take your pick. “How could he invite me home, give me chocolate, hold me, when he has a darling waiting for him somewhere?”

Andromeda doesn’t look up from Ted’s hair. “Did Marlene say it like that? Darling?”

Sirius flings his hands in the air. “Yes, Meda. She said, his darling calls him that, I get why he’s all soft about her. Can you believe that? He has a girl at home!”

“Ooh,” Xeno murmurs from where he’s lying belly-down in the grass, one boot off. He passes the stub of a cigarette to Clementine, who’s using Ted’s coat as a blanket. “He’s calling her Meda. He’s really pissed.”

Clementine exhales smoke without looking away from the sky. “Maybe it was one of those casual types of darling. You know, for the health benefits.”

Xeno makes a noise of disgust. “Clem.”

“What?” Clementine mutters, plucking a dandelion head. “That’s perfectly normal.”

Sirius rounds on her, wild hair sticking to his wet cheeks. “He’s not like that. Remus wouldn’t—” He stops himself, stares at the stone in his hand, then lets out a choked laugh that sounds more like a hiccup. His shoulders shake, too hard to be funny. “Fuck, this doesn’t even make any sense! I thought he wasn’t a liar, either. And now I don’t even know who he is anymore.”

Clementine sits up slightly, frowning. “Didn’t you push him away first? A few weeks ago?”

Sirius scowls. “Yes. So what?”

“And,” Ted chimes in, from where he’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, just below Andromeda, “you said you just wanted to be friends.”

Sirius glares at a dandelion near his foot. “Yes.”

Clementine lifts an eyebrow. “So why are you this worked up?”

“Because he wrote him a love song,” Xeno mumbles, rolling to his side.

“Xeno,” Sirius hisses.

“It’s true.”

Clementine nods, exhaling another trail of smoke. “Yeah, well… Remus couldn’t exactly predict that.”

Sirius scrapes at his nose with his sleeve, snot and tears smeared across the fabric. “Clem, whose side are you on? He told me he’d wait. Said he wanted more with me. He kissed me back. And now what? He’s—he’s just with someone else? Who does that make him?”

Clementine shrugs. “A man.”

“Hey,” Ted warns, tossing a blade of grass at her shoulder.

Sirius kicks another rock. “Man or not, it was cruel.” His voice rises again, thick with heat. “Just—just—dickheadish.”

There’s a long pause.

“...Dickheadish?” Clementine repeats slowly.

“Jerskish,” Sirius mutters to himself.

“Jerkish isn’t a word either,” Ted notes, sitting up a bit. “You could literally just say terrible.”

“Shut up, Ted,” Sirius snaps, voice still nasal from crying. “It’s what he is.”

“Or awful,” Ted goes on under his breath.

“Shut up, Ted.”

Behind them, Andromeda pulls Ted’s head back into her lap and kisses his forehead, murmuring something Sirius can’t hear. The gesture makes Sirius blink hard and fast, and he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees sparks. Everything inside him is too full. It’s been too full for days.

The sky is purple now, laced with blood-orange. Sirius hates that it looks the same every evening. Hates that the world keeps moving.

He drops onto the grass when his legs stop holding him up. The chill seeps through the thin fabric of his trousers, but Sirius doesn’t care. The lake blinks under the sunset, still and unaware, and he stares out over it with his arms around his knees, watching where his own reflection barely forms—too many ripples, too much motion, and maybe that’s fair. Maybe he’s not really here either.

The night of the kiss flashes in pieces—Remus’ breath, slow against his cheek. The warmth of his fingers brushing Sirius’ jaw. The way Sirius thought, foolishly, stupidly, that maybe someone had finally chosen him.

How do you fake that? How do you fake all of it?

How could Remus kiss him, and mean it, and then walk away like Sirius meant nothing? Like they meant nothing? How could he smile while hiding a whole other person somewhere in his life?

Sirius wonders if she’s pretty. If she's kind. If she knows Remus has a mole behind his left ear, or that he can fall asleep literally anywhere if you scratch his head just the right way. If she gets to lie beside him, nose to his cheek, and hear that hoarse suppressed laugh.

Sirius presses his forehead to his knees and lets the breeze comb its fingers through his hair. His shoulders jump once, then again. The tears come faster than he can hide, choking his throat, wetting the tops of his knees. The grass smells of water and smoke and metal and dirt. He breathes it in as if it’s his punishment.

A shadow falls beside him. Sirius doesn’t have to look to know who it is; he recognizes Andromeda by how still the air goes. She lowers herself into the grass, without a word at first, the fabric of her brown skirt folding under her knees, then rests a hand between his shoulder blades and rubs gently up and down. A human weight against the sharpness inside him.

Sirius lifts his head, eyes still wet.

“You’re freezing,” Andromeda murmurs, fingers brushing the edge of his spine.

“Maybe it’s for the best.”

“Don’t say that.”

Sirius lets his head drop back onto his knees.

“This wasn’t meant to be, Andy,” he croaks. “It was never supposed to be. People like me only ever have one path, and it ends with rot.”

“Sirius, stop it,” Andromeda says, firm, and cups his face in her hands, guiding it up. Her thumbs wipe gently beneath his eyes. “Look at you, baby. You’re so beautiful. So smart. So lively. You care so much and you always make everyone laugh.”

“I make everyone leave,” Sirius whispers. “Or worse, I make them lie to me until they figure out I’m not that easy to love.”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” Andromeda soothes. “You’re the easiest person to love. There’s so much softness in you, it makes it impossible not to.”

Sirius tries to shake his head, but she holds it still. Her words are so tender, so honest, that Sirius chokes again. He lets out a ragged sob, and Andromeda pulls him in without hesitation, guiding his head to her chest. He presses his face against her sternum like he’s six again, terrified of his mother screaming too loud or his father taking a leather belt from the drawer. She wraps around him tightly; one arm around his back, the other cradling his head.

After a long time, he whispers into her shoulder, “For a second I thought it was real.”

Andromeda strokes his hair, her chin resting lightly on top of his head. 

“Real or not real,” she murmurs, “it just wasn’t yours, my star. That happens sometimes. It’s not about you.”

Sirius pulls back, just enough to see her face. His own is blotchy, splotched pink and red, eyes puffy.

“Do you know what’s actually real?” he asks. “That he was lying to me and to some other girl at the same time. She was probably out there waiting for him, thinking about him, while he—” his voice breaks again, “while he was kissing me.”

Andromeda tucks a lock of his hair behind his ear, careful not to rush him.

“He used me. Just like he did with her.” Sirius curls back into himself. “He let me think… I don’t know what I thought. That I was safe with him? That I wasn’t just a fucking—” he lets out a hollow breath, “—diversion. He managed to touch me like he was afraid I’d disappear. And I believed him. Every stupid word of his. He made a music box for me, Andy. How could he make something like that and then just… lie to my face?”

Andromeda winces as if the words physically cut her. She smooths her hand down his hair and says softly, “You’ll find the right person. Someone who sees you for exactly what you are. You’re wonderful, Sirius. My favorite person in this whole damn place.”

Sirius shakes his head once, hard, and presses his face back into her, eyes squeezed shut.

“I don’t want someone, Andy,” he breathes. “I want him.”

Andromeda’s fingers still gently, resting in his hair. Her voice cracks when she finally answers. 

“Oh, sweetheart…”

Sirius breathes in through his nose. His next sob is quieter than the ones before, but it hits just as deep. Andromeda kisses the back of his head, over and over, her lips pressed to his curls as if she could kiss the pain away. Her fingers comb gently, untangling the worst of it, cradling what’s left.

“You are so special,” she whispers into the crown. “Do hear me?”

He nods against her ribs.

“I love you, Sirius,” Andromeda says fiercely. 

“You, too,” Sirius replies. “So much.”

“So much,” she echoes.

She pulls him in tighter. The moon is out in the lake now, fighting the setting sun, a little cold mirror of a sky that never asked what Sirius wanted in return.

They sit like that for a long time, until quiet footsteps move closer from the tree line.

Clementine settles on one side, her head against Sirius’ shoulder, fingers curling around his sleeve. Xeno lies across the grass, pressing his cheek to Sirius’ arm. Ted sits behind him, resting a heavy palm between his shoulder blades. Andromeda stays where she is, still cradling him.

They let him cry, right there by the lake, into the hollow between his sister’s collarbones, while the water holds the sorrow buried in the secret of his first love.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

The inside of the Hall smells of scrubbed metal, old wires, and the burnt-rubber scent of Auror boots on polished tile. Everything is quiet. Even the sound of the doors locking behind Remus feels rehearsed, like part of a larger, faceless system that’s already forgotten his name.

The cell they put him in is wide, with transparent walls and a single bolted bench. The glass is thick—reinforced, etched with faint, crisscrossing threads that gleam under the static lights. There’s no sense of time here, only the steady mechanical breath of ventilation and the low click of fingers against tablets. A single barred window above the door lets in no sunlight. Remus stares through it anyway.

Across the room, an Auror sits at a slim desk beneath an overhead panel, writing something down. He hasn’t said much to Remus—Aurors rarely do, unless you make them. To him, Remus is probably just another petty case from District 9, one of a dozen this week.

They called it unauthorized messaging on government property. Remus had overheard that much.

Now, he has no option but to wait, silent, sitting there on the bench with his legs long, his hands clasped together between his knees, fingers raw from nerves. The bandage on his palm itches where it meets the skin. There’s still iron dust under his fingernails. 

He should be at home, honestly. He should be doing something useful. Instead, he’s here, with nothing but the heavy hum of the Hall’s walls and the echo of a stupid decision pounding at the back of his skull.

He didn’t plan much past get arrested. The rest was just find out the truth. See the guy. See what kind of person Sirius finds appealing. Because it had to be something, right? Some kind of dazzling, golden-eyed bastard you don’t even try to compete with.

Remus leans back against the wall and lets his eyes close, breathing shallowly. The sting in his palm pulses again, but he doesn’t scratch it. 

The noise of the switch comes ten, maybe fifteen minutes later. A murmur of boots on the stone floor, then low voices. Remus doesn’t move until he hears one of them say, “Here, Curio.”

He lifts his head.

The boots come first, dark and worn, then the rest of the uniform, snug at the shoulders, sleeves rolled slightly at the wrists. Curio, in the flesh, exchanging nods and small talk with the other Auror, pulls off his gloves and slaps them against his thigh. 

Remus knows the profile now—only from across a bar, under low light, when Sirius laughed and leaned a little too close to whisper something into his ear. Just one second of shared air, and now, watching him laugh, unaware that he’s the reason Remus is behind glass, Remus feels the heat rising to his face.

Curio and his shift partner exchange a few more clipped phrases—switch time, no incidents, quiet afternoon—and the newcomer sets a hand on the desk, while the other reaches for the tablet. The same hand Sirius had once leaned toward.

As soon as the other Auror leaves, Curio steps forward, clipboard in hand, pacing slowly toward the glass, probably checking routine notes. His eyes pass across Remus without pause at first, then flick back, and linger.

“Well,” he says dryly, tapping the clipboard, “guess you’re the artist.”

Remus doesn’t answer. His knuckles tighten around the edge of the bench.

Curio scans the page. “Hall of Vultures, huh? That what they’re calling us now?”

Remus lifts a shoulder. “If the shoe fits.”

Curio huffs. “You lot always think you’re so clever with your slogans. Could’ve just written fuck Corvium regime like everybody else.”

“Too many syllables.”

“You do know this sort of thing could get you actual time, right?”

“Wasn’t exactly planning on a full stay.”

“Right.” Curio cocks his head. “Planning’s not your strength, I take it.”

“I like to keep things spontaneous,” Remus fires back.

That earns a faint smirk. Curio lowers the clipboard slightly.

“What was the goal, exactly?” he prompts. “Temper? Stupidity?”

“Boredom,” Remus mutters.

Curio doesn’t smile. 

“Right. Because nothing says entertainment like defacing government stone and getting yourself locked up for the night. Ever heard of a book?”

“Have you?” Remus snaps.

Curio’s brows lift. “Okay, teeth. Got it.” He comes closer to the glass now, arms folded, tone casual, almost amused. “To be honest, you look too clean-cut to be carving shit on a public wall.”

He tilts the tablet a little, flicks his thumb again, and then lowers it enough to finally look at Remus properly.

Their eyes meet, and Remus’ heart sinks.

Funny as it sounds, there’s no gold in them. Remus is pretty sure you’d never find even the tiniest flicker of gold there because they’re totally, irrevocably, unmistakably blue—cold, nearly transparent, as if color had stopped saturating halfway.

Remus squints harder, like he might’ve missed something, but no. 

Curio’s eyes are pale blue. Crystal clear.

“You—” he mutters then, without thinking. “Your eyes are blue.”

Curio’s brows draw together. “...What?”

Remus feels his throat close slightly, leaning forward before he can stop himself. He was already too busy spiraling, too busy replaying every second he ever spent with Sirius—every night they lay back to back, every shared joke, every time he touched him and Sirius leaned into it—and now, there’s this fucking guy with sky-colored eyes, and Sirius wrote a song about the eyes of honey hue.

“There’s no gold in them,” Remus mumbles, because his brain just doesn’t cooperate.

“Are they supposed to be golden?”

“I just thought—”

“You on something?” Curio steps back half a pace, eyes narrowing slightly. “Not bleeding from the head, are you?”

Remus doesn’t say a word. His heart pounds so fiercely it feels like every memory he’d reshaped to make sense is crumbling beneath him. The song. The speech before the performance. The stolen stare.

He keeps his gaze fixed on Curio because the lyrics, the melody, and the words Sirius said before leaving don’t make sense.

Until suddenly, oh, they do.

“Do I know you?” Curio asks, stepping closer to the cell.

“Do you know Sirius Black?”

Curio straightens, finally dropping the clipboard to his side. “Sirius?”

Remus nods. Curio studies him for a second longer. 

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I know him.”

“You two… are you…” Remus has to force the words out. “Are you a thing?”

Curio bursts into laughter. It’s abrupt and sharp and almost too loud in the empty room. He runs a hand over his face and chuckles again.

“Oh, hell, no.”

Remus frowns.

Curio leans toward the glass, eyes crinkled, and keeps going. “Man, you ever met Sirius Black? Try flirting with him sometime, I dare you. You’ll get verbally incinerated before you blink. He doesn’t date, he barely lets people near.”

Remus’ heart is still racing. He wants to feel relief. He wants it to matter. But the shame and confusion are louder.

“Wait a second...” Curio squints. “You’re not the… you’re not the moonboy, are you?”

“The who?”

”This—” Curio gestures vaguely, and it’s pretty strange that he grins along with it. “This honey-eyed boy he wrote a song about.”

Remus’ mouth is open but no sound comes out.

“I mean, I don’t know you,” Curio says, scratching the back of his neck. “But if you’re who I think you are... shit. I didn’t think Sirius was into lawbreakers.”

Remus exhales slowly, feeling his ears start to burn. 

“I need you to let me out,” he whispers, almost breathless.

Curio raises a brow. “Huh?”

“Can you let me out?”

“Man, you’re under arrest.”

Remus steps forward, hands flat against the glass. “I know. I chose this. I vandalized a wall so I could see you.”

“That’s not a great point, man.”

“I needed to ask,” Remus insists. “About the—about Sirius.”

The silence that follows is too dense. Curio stares at him, and Remus stares back. The Auror doesn’t look angry, but he doesn’t look amused either.

Then he mutters something under his breath, turns, and walks away.

Remus drops his head back against the glass. The bang is unforgiving.

He’s alone again for ten long minutes—alone with the dim lights, the humming in the wall, and the pounding in his ribs. He picks at the edge of his bandage, glancing quickly at his burned skin twitching beneath, and grits his teeth, lifting his eyes to stare at his reflection in the glass. There’s still soot from the forge on his jaw—the same soot Sirius used to wipe away with his thumb.

Somewhere inside the wreckage of pride and burnt hope, somewhere inside this mess of his own making, Remus realizes he wasn’t dreaming. He wasn’t wrong. He didn’t imagine the looks, the song, the touches. It was never Curio, and it was never anyone else—Sirius just made him believe the lie for a reason.

The only question now is the reason itself.

The footsteps come back before Remus can spiral any further. Curio appears again at the glass. He stops in front of it, then presses a few buttons on the wall. The lock gives a soft click, and the door unseals with a hiss.

“I pulled a string,” he explains, nodding toward the hallway. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Remus gets to his feet slowly. He brushes his palms on his thighs, unsure whether to speak.

At the door, Curio gives him a measured look. 

“I have no idea what kind of mess you and Sirius have going on, and I don’t want to know. But you can thank the fact that corruption still keeps this city turning, or you’d be in here ‘til morning.”

Remus steps out slowly. His burned hand throbs.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

“Don’t make a habit of it,” Curio replies, already turning away. “If someone asks, you were released for lack of threat. I vouched. Big mistake probably, but here we are.”

“Why would you do this?”

“I happen to be very generous on Wednesdays.”

Remus nods. The gratitude is real, even if his throat won’t let him say more.

“Also,” Curio calls after him, stepping aside, “don’t vandalize state buildings again. You’re a terrible speller.”

Remus huffs a laugh despite himself, and Curio turns back to his post.

As Remus slips past him, out into the evening air, there’s only one thing in his head. No matter what happens—no matter how humiliating it feels—he needs to look Sirius in the eyes and ask why.  

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

The tears have mostly dried by the time Sirius trudges back toward Covey lane, arms wrapped around his middle as though he could hold himself together if he just squeezed tight enough. The ground crunches under his boots. The breeze bites now that the sun’s fully gone; a thin blouse offers no help at all, and with every gust, Sirius regrets giving Remus both of his jackets back.

Now he has nothing to warm him except whatever’s left of his own self-worth, and frankly, that supply’s been running dangerously low.

The lake had gone still long ago. So had Sirius. He’d watched the reeds shift in the breeze and wondered if he could just disappear into them—be water, or wind, or shadow. Anything but this.

There’s nowhere to go, really. Nowhere that doesn’t carry a weight he’s not ready to touch.

Andy’s done enough. He won’t knock on her door again, won’t pull her from Ted’s arms. Xeno’s had enough of his sobbing, too. Alphard is not an option either, because Alphard doesn’t do heartbreak—he does vengeance. One whiff of this mess and he would charge across the district to beat the shit out of Remus, and Sirius has no interest in seeing Remus get socked for something he already feels bad enough about. Moreover, he’d have to explain the whole shitshow to Alphard in the first place, and there’s no version of that story that doesn’t hurt more.

Tobi is out of the question as well. He sees how Sirius acts lately, of course—he’s not an idiot, nor oblivious—but he’s kind enough to say nothing. He lets Sirius drift from room to room like a ghost, lets him sit silently in the dark, and doesn’t ask why. Sirius is grateful. Or would be, if it made anything better.

He can’t go to Sybill, either, because she’s still sick. Can’t go to Mary, because Mary spends all her free time with Marlene now. Clementine would probably say something like move on or district boys are shit, and mean it lovingly, but Sirius can’t stomach that either. Pandora would offer to lay cards and show him what the stars say about Remus’ darling—if she weren’t currently holed up at Lily’s, who just returned from the other side of the district after staying with her grandparents—and Sirius doesn’t want to know. He’s not ready. Not when the answer might be even more heartbreaking than this.

So he walks. He walks the old familiar road, past the bend and the patch of flowers where Remus used to leave him at the end of each night. The path where they’d whisper, laugh, and delay their goodbyes with touches that didn’t yet have names. He should’ve taken the long way, perhaps, but his feet have been betraying him lately. They take Sirius down the same streets, past the same corners, the same porchlights. The familiar ache returns like muscle memory.

A small hum comes from afar, rising and falling like a soft kind of music, or bees drowsing under the stems.

Sirius slows, glancing toward the meadow. It’s dusk now, but not fully dark. The grass glimmers with the last of the gold. The flowers sway gently in the wind.

There, between the stems and petals under the darkening sky, are two swinging braids. They bounce with each step, little guitar strings moving in time. 

“Lulu!” Sirius calls out.

Her head lifts immediately. When she spots him, her whole face opens into a smile that feels like a lantern lighting up the field. 

“Sirius!” 

She waves, fist full of tiny flowers, and Sirius finds himself smiling back before he even knows it. Lulu runs toward him right when he starts moving closer to her, arms still folded tight across his chest.

“What are you doing out so late?” he asks.

Lulu reaches for him, looping her arms around his middle. 

“Picking flowers for Mama,” she says, muffled against Sirius’ blouse.

Sirius smooths a hand over the crown of her head, fingers catching in one of her braids. He twirls it loosely between his fingers.

“It’s almost bedtime,” he murmurs.

“I know,” Lulu mumbles into the fabric. “But I couldn’t find the blue daisies. They’re Mama’s favorite.”

Sirius smiles again at that, and tugs lightly at her braid. “Blue daisies are picky. Want help?”

Lulu leans back, chin pressing into his stomach. “You’ll help me find them?”

Sirius looks down at her, the warmth of her still wrapped around his waist. Her cheeks are pink from the wind, and her nose is a little runny. She blinks at him with absolute certainty.

“Course I will,” he says gently, then straightens up and offers her his hand. Lulu grabs it without hesitation. “Come on.”

They walk the field together, eyes scanning over tufts of wild green and bursts of pale color. Lulu hums a little tune under her breath, one Sirius doesn’t recognize, but it’s soft and sweet and goes well with the breeze. Every so often, Sirius spots a bloom he thinks might suit her little gift and offers it up without a word. Lulu squeaks every time and adds it eagerly to the bouquet.

“Does your family know where you are?” Sirius asks eventually, plucking a buttercup and handing it over.

Lulu nods vaguely, scanning the grass. “I left with the girls earlier, but I came back this way. Thought I’d make Mama something sweet before sleep.” She tilts her head at him, eyes big and curious. “Do you know what time it is?”

Sirius shakes his head. He never really keeps track unless Remus tells him. Used to tell him, since he had those old wristwatches with cracked faces. Sirius liked the way Remus would glance at his wrist whenever he asked the time.

Now there’s no watch. No Remus either.

“Look,” Lulu gasps, pointing.

At last, they find them—blue daisies tucked near the edge of the slope, nodding gently in the wind. Sirius crouches beside Lulu as she gathers a few, trying to pick the ones with the brightest centers. They arrange them carefully into the bouquet, tucking them between the wild pinks and yellows Sirius helped her find.

When they stand, Lulu beams up at him, then leans forward and places one daisy behind his ear.

His breath hitches a little. It shouldn’t mean anything—just a child playing—but there’s something about the softness of her touch, the look on her face. Something about being given a beautiful flower by a pure, sincere human being who doesn’t yet know the weight of cruelty.

“You’re so pretty,” Lulu tells him.

Sirius breathes in slowly, eyes prickling. “Yeah?”

Lulu nods. Sirius clears his throat and reaches for another daisy, a smaller one this time, and gently weaves it into the band of her braid.

“There,” he says, stepping back. “Match.”

Lulu giggles happily, and they keep walking, slow, steps brushing over grass, flowers swaying around their legs.

“Are you mad at Remus?” Lulu asks after a while, looking up at Sirius.

Sirius glances down at her, brows pinching a little. His hand goes automatically to another primrose, but he doesn’t pluck it just yet.

“Why would you think that?”

Lulu shrugs, the way only children can, as if the truth is just a guess away. “He’s been really sad lately. I asked Kingsley why, and he said Remus fell in love.”

Sirius stares out at the horizon, jaw tightening. “And you think… with me?”

Lulu’s voice is so casual it almost stings. “With who else?” She hums a little. “I could just feel it. That he’s slipping away.”

Sirius huffs a short laugh, dry and not really amused, but he can’t help the faint tug at his mouth. Lulu’s whimsical like that. She says things no one else dares to, too observant for her own good.

“He talked about you all the time,” she continues, bouncing a little on her toes. “That you’re funny and pretty. And that he likes your hair.”

“My hair,” Sirius echoes, voice hollow.

“Yeah. He always said he wanted to touch it. I asked once if he wanted to braid it like mine and he said yes very much.”

Sirius huffs quietly, not sure if he wants to cry or laugh. “That’s how he said it? Yes, very much?”

“Mhm.” She spins in a circle, skirts brushing the tops of the flowers, then bends to pick another. “So are you mad at him?”

“Yes, Lulu.” Sirius sighs, gaze unfocused. “I’m mad.”

“Why?”

“Because Remus lied to me.”

Lulu giggles, like it's a joke. Sirius lifts a brow at her, not finding anything funny.

She tugs the belt loop of his trousers, grinning up. “Remus never tells lies. Only good ones.”

Sirius frowns. “Good lies? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Like when he’s planning a surprise.”

Sirius exhales through his nose. Sure. Some surprise.

“Or when he doesn’t want to make you sad,” Lulu adds.

Right. That, too. Maybe that’s what Remus told himself each time he looked Sirius in the eye and let him believe there was only one person in his heart. When he kissed him so gently. When he let Sirius talk about moons and stars and gave him back a smile. When Sirius bought him the charm with the moon on it. When he said, oh, Sirius, I really liked it. Maybe it was all just a good lie.

Apparently, Remus Lupin specializes in those.

Lulu tugs at a petal and looks up at Sirius with furrowed brows. “So what did he do to you?”

Sirius waves a hand, eyes locked on the tall grass. “Nothing, Lulu. He’s your friend. I don’t want to ruin how you see him.”

“You won’t!” she chirps, hopping up and planting herself right in front of him. Her eyes are big and shining and heartbreakingly sincere. “You’re sad, and I don’t want you to be sad. You can tell me, I’ll listen. I promise I won’t get mad at Remus.”

Sirius stares at her, heart cracking for maybe the tenth time this week. This kid. This kid with her wildflowers and messy braids and honest heart, this kid who still believes sadness should be fixed by listening. This kid who is too sweet, too radiant, too much light for a world that burns people like them down by the dozens.

How could anyone deserve her?

Sirius reaches out and grazes her cheek with the back of his hand. “You’re such a kind girl, sweetheart.”

“I like that nickname,” Lulu hums, pleased.

“It suits you.”

Lulu twirls around in a wide circle and hops back into the field, braids bouncing behind her. “Will you keep calling me that?”

“Of course.”

“Great!” She spins again, laughing. “You’ll call me sweetheart, and Remus will call me darling, and Sybill will call me pearl, ‘cause she always says I’m her little pearl—”

Sirius’ head jerks toward her so fast his neck cracks.

“What?” he asks, but it barely comes out. It’s breath, not voice.

“And you need a nickname too!” Lulu chatters on, oblivious, plucking a purple stem and adding it to her bouquet. “Because Remus already has Moony, but you don’t have one. I’ll think of something, maybe about stars or flowers, ‘cause you’re pretty like a flower, and I think—”

“Lulu,” Sirius says under his breath, reaching for her hand to stop her. His fingers curl gently around her wrist. “What did you just say?”

Lulu stops, confused. “Sirius, did you not clean your ears today?” She cups her hands around her mouth, speaks louder, teasing. “I said I want to think of—”

“No, no.” He shakes his head, heart thudding. “No, what did you say about Remus? About him calling you darling?”

“Yeah?” she answers, blinking innocently.

“He calls you that?”

“Uh-huh. And I call him Moony.”

Sirius sways, slightly. “But—but why Moony?”

“Well,” Lulu begins, chewing her cheek as she thinks, “when I was little,  I heard Marlene call him Loopy, but I couldn’t say it right, so I said something silly like ooey or whatever. I don’t know, I was tiny. Then I just started calling him Moony, and I guess I just liked it, and now I always call him that—”

Half of the story turns to static. All Sirius hears is the blood rushing to his face as he stands there, staring at her, the inside of his chest flipping inside out. All he sees is every wrong conclusion he ever made flashing in humiliating color behind his eyes.

There was no darling. There was no other girl. 

There was Lulu. 

Lulu, a twelve-year-old girl, Kingsley’s sister, whom Remus has known forever and who loves him like a brother.

Sirius had taken that word, darling, and gutted it like a fish. He held it up to the light, twisted it, made it something it wasn’t. He’d taken it to mean something big and horrible and final, when it never meant anything like that at all.

He’d gotten used to mourning their connection, letting the ache stretch through his chest like a slow-burning fire, sobbing into other people’s shirts, spiraling on lake shores, snapping at everyone he loved, and biting at the memory of a boy who apparently did absolutely nothing wrong. He’d spent days grieving something that was never broken. 

He made it all up. Sirius made it all up, out of one overheard conversation. Out of fragments he didn’t understand. Out of assumption he never questioned.

“Oh, no,” he breathes.

“Time to go home?” Lulu asks.

It’s a miracle, really, how quickly children can shift gears. She’s already looking up at him again, eyes hopeful.

Sirius swallows hard and nods. “Yeah, Lulu. It’s getting late. You should go.”

She pouts a little. “Can we hang out again soon?”

“Of course,” Sirius says quickly, then has to clear his throat and try again. “Of course we can.”

“When?”

Sirius looks at her, trying not to hyperventilate, trying to keep his head from flying straight off his shoulders. 

“I’ll come get you, uh—” He presses a hand to his chest, rubs it nervously. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow afternoon, alright? Want that?”

Lulu grins, her whole face lit. “Yes!”

Sirius nods, pushing a smile out. “Good. Here—take these, yeah?” He offers her the last of the flowers in his damp hands. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

“You’re a gentleman!” Lulu declares, hugging the bouquet to her chest.

Sirius lets out a brittle laugh, the thinnest crust of ice over a deep lake. His feet start moving but his head is already gone, spinning, crashing through the ruins of every memory he’s just reinterpreted, full of guilt now, full of Remus.

Remus, who never lied.

Remus, who was sweet, and soft, and honest.

Remus, who stood there with a music box and a jacket in his hands and got nothing but coldness from Sirius in return. Who watched Sirius turn bitter and mean and cruel over something that didn’t even exist.

Poor, good, lovely Remus, who let Sirius spit venom, while Sirius thought he was the wounded one—looking Remus the eye and telling him that his gift was broken. Telling him he’d written a love song for someone else. Telling him that their kiss was bit of a mistake.

Remus just wanted to be loved, and Sirius left him in ruins. Left him humiliated and alone, licking wounds he hadn’t even earned. All while Sirius sat and cried over his own imagination.

He closes his eyes and exhales, his heart slamming against his ribs as if trying to escape.

First, he’ll walk Lulu home. Then, he’ll run as fast as he can.

Straight to Remus Lupin.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

Sirius isn’t home when Remus reaches the Covey lane. All the windows are dark, which could mean anything. That Sirius is sleeping. Or not home at all. Or maybe he is home, and sees Remus through the window and just doesn’t want to be seen himself. Or maybe he isn’t alone, but laughing with friends, retelling the story of Remus standing there, holding his jacket and his useless music box.

There are plenty of maybes. None of them are kind to Remus.

By the time he reaches his own block, he drags his feet, his body feeling wrung out and tired to the bone. His shoulder aches from the weight of his work bag, his hand from the burn, his ribs from holding it all in. The whole world feels bruised, exhausted, bitter, and sore all over. Remus wants to curl into a gutter and sleep through tomorrow, the Reaping day, and every day after.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters to himself, kicking at a stone. “Piece of shit.” He kicks again, this time at a patch of stubborn grass. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—fucking fuck—oh fuck—”

Remus glances up, fuming, and then stops mid-breath.

“Sirius?”

He says it like a question because it doesn’t feel real.

But it is Sirius. Standing right outside Remus’ house, a little off the path. Not in a skirt tonight, but in trousers and a vivid orange blouse, soft and loose and fluttering a little in the breeze. There’s a delicate blue flower tucked into his hair, half-wilted now. His arms are wrapped around himself, and his eyes are red-rimmed.

For a second, instinct burns through Remus so fast it almost knocks him over. He wants to wrap Sirius up, shield him from whatever did this, fold him in and close the world out. He doesn’t even know why. He just knows he needs to.

“Where were you?” Sirius asks quietly. “It’s nearly curfew.”

Remus stares at him. His heart has already started pounding again.

“I was under—” He pauses. The words feel idiotic already, but there’s no good way to say it. It’s going to sound ridiculous no matter what. “—arrest.”

Sirius frowns. “What?”

“I was… I was in the Hall of Virtue.”

Sirius’ eyes practically pop out of his head. He steps forward fast. “What did you do?” He glances over Remus once, then catches a sight of his bandaged hand. “What—what happened to your hand? Shit, did you get into a fight?”

He reaches out, gently cradling Remus’ hand, turning the wrist carefully to see the bandage. His fingers are warm and hesitant and it makes Remus’ heart thud so loud it feels audible.

“I just—” 

“No, no,” Sirius mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t… you wouldn’t fight. You’re not like that.” His eyes meet Remus’. “What happened?”

“I’m trying to tell you.”

Sirius pulls back a little, lets go of his hand. “Sorry. Sorry. Go on.”

Remus looks at his face, pink around the nose and eyes. The flower tucked above his temple. That same loveliness he carries with himself everywhere he goes.

“Why are you here?” he asks, nodding toward his house.

“I asked first.”

“Okay,” Remus says. “One sentence at a time?”

Sirius narrows his sore eyes at him, then nods once. 

“I came to see you.”

“I got arrested for vandalism.”

Sirius’ mouth falls open. “You what?”

Remus shrugs, dragging his bag off his shoulder. It drops into the grass. “Botched a carving on the Hall’s wall.”

“Why would you do that?”

Remus clenches his jaw and looks away.

“Remus,” Sirius repeats, softer now. “Why?”

Remus exhales through his nose. “Because I wanted to see Curio.”

Sirius says nothing, just stares at him, eyes glassy in the porch light. 

Remus looks back, watching his face carefully. “I did. He was friendly. Let me out early.” He holds Sirius’ gaze. “He also has blue eyes.”

Sirius opens his mouth, then closes it again. His gaze doesn’t move.

“You’re not in love with him, are you?” Remus asks quietly.

Sirius hesitates, then breathes out right when his shoulders fall, “No.”

“Then why…” Remus shakes his head. “Why did you say all that at the Hub?”

“I’m so sorry,” Sirius mumbles quickly. “I’m really, really sorry, Remus. I feel horrible, I—”

“I’m not blaming you,” Remus interrupts. “I just want to know why.”

“Because—” Sirius’ voice cracks. “Because I’m in love with you.”

Remus’ pulse skyrockets. He squints, eyebrows pulling tight.

“You told me you liked him,” he says slowly, confused, “because you’re in love with me?”

Sirius clutches at his elbows, arms crossed tight over his chest, and it’s such a defensive, disturbed posture that Remus’ stomach churns just looking at it.

“I know how it sounds,” Sirius whispers. “But just—just let me explain.”

Remus gestures softly, palms up. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sirius shifts, eyes not leaving Remus’ face. “Someone told me something. Back in the Hub.”

Remus watches him, wary. “Who?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sirius deflects, swallowing. “What matters is… I—I thought you had a girlfriend.”

“A girlfriend?”

“A darling, more like.”

There’s a whine of wind curling through the street, a quiet so loud it presses in on Remus’ ears. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. But here, now, there’s only silence. Silence and the grind and click of gears shifting into place in his head.

Darling?

Oh.

Oh.

Darling.

“Shit,” Remus breathes.

“Yeah,” Sirius mutters. “I know.”

Remus looks at him, and everything inside hurts even more now. 

“You thought I was messing with you?”

“I jumped to conclusions, alright?” Sirius rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, voice rising. “I just—I got so angry, Remus. I couldn’t see anything past it.”

“But how could you even believe I’d play you like that?”

Sirius drops his arms, motioning helplessly with his hands. “Because that’s what people do, Remus! They flirt with me, and fall in love with me, and give me gifts, and say they see me. I’m a performer. That’s my whole life. People are supposed to fall in love with me.”

A string that was pulled tight inside Remus finally snaps.

He’s so fucking tired. His hand aches, because it literally caught fire. His mind’s been spinning for hours. He’s walked through his days like a ghost, arrested himself just to see a man he thought Sirius liked, all for what?

“Oh, they’re supposed to fall in love with you,” he repeats, a little laugh escaping, but it’s a jagged, tired thing.

Sirius tilts his chin up, defensive. “Yeah.”

Remus takes a breath. “With what parts of you, exactly? Are they supposed to fall in love with the way you bark at the start of a real laugh, perhaps? The little sound you make when you’re not faking it, when you’re really laughing—and then you double over because one laugh isn’t enough to hold the rest?”

Sirius’ brows draw together slightly.

“Or maybe they’re supposed to fall in love with the way you scrunch your nose when you don’t like something? Or the way you chew with your mouth open like you don’t care who’s watching, or the way you lick your fingers after eating and tear bread apart with your hands because you say it tastes better that way? Or how you nibble on your pointer finger when you’re nervous? Or how you bite your lip to stop yourself from smiling too wide, which, frankly, drives me fucking mad?”

Sirius' arms start to fold back in, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Or the way you hide behind me at the market when you notice someone you don’t wanna talk to,” Remus goes on, softer now. “The way you keep flipping your hair from shoulder to shoulder, twisting it, braiding it, pinning it up, like the length itself makes you itch. The way your smile disappears the moment you’re offstage, and you start fiddling with your necklace because you hate being looked at by strangers. Are people supposed to fall in love with that?”

Remus presses a hand to his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt, soaked through with sweat and grime from the long day. He’s exhausted. Utterly, completely drained. And still, there’s this thing inside him that just won’t stop.

“Because if they are, then lucky me,” he says. His eyes shine, too bright to be dry. “I did.”

Sirius’ lips part as if he might speak, but Remus doesn’t give him a chance, because he’s spiraling now, and there’s no way back.

“I didn’t even know it was possible to fall this hard for someone,” he admits, shoulders loose now in defeat. “I thought I could move past it, just be your friend. Focus on work, on what we had. But it’s too late for that; you’re under my skin. I go to sleep and you’re there. I wake up, and it’s like I never left you. I think about our kiss every night. Your smell’s on my clothes, and I don’t wanna wash them because I don’t want to lose it. You’re everywhere, Sirius. In every corner of my life. All I’ve been able to think about lately is how badly I want you. How much I need to be near you.” Remus tries to laugh, but it cracks. “It’s probably a little pathetic, but I think I fell for you at first sight, and it’s—”

“I fell for you from the first sight too,” Sirius interrupts. His eyes shimmer wetly, swollen and red-rimmed, and Remus hates the look of tears in them. “Maybe I didn’t realize it right away. But since that Friday, every time I danced on that stage, it was for you, Remus. Everything I do with my body, every arch, every spin—it’s for your eyes only. You’re all I think about. You’re all I care for. You’re the only thing that matters.”

Right above Remus’ stomach, something folds and twists and roots him to the ground. The world contracts to one shape, one color black.

Sirius lets out a real sob now, one that catches on his throat and scrapes past his teeth. A tear falls from the ends of his lower lashes, streaking down his flushed cheek.

“This is what I meant, Remus,” he whispers hoarsely. “Any version of me you pick—daylight, midnight, jabberjay or mockingbird, performer or just Sirius—I’m poison either way. I’ll make stupid assumptions, I’ll invent entire worlds of shit in my head, I’ll hurt you, and push you, and poke at you—”

Remus steps forward and gently hooks a finger under his chin.

Sirius sniffles through his teeth, shoulders tight. “And I’ll drive you crazy, and throw myself into flames before thinking—”

Remus slips his other arm around Sirius’ waist and draws him in, until their chests touch, until Sirius is inside the space where he’s always belonged. With his free hand, Remus threads fingers into the soft waves of Sirius’ hair, guiding his head gently and pressing kisses to every part of his face—cheeks, eyelids, the corners of his mouth, his forehead, his red nose. 

“And I’ll make you question why you ever chose me in the first place, and it’ll be misery, Remus, it’ll be misery, I swear—”

Remus kisses him full on the slick mouth, lips salty from tears and trembling from how much he’s rambling. He kisses him again, and again, and again, because no matter how many times Sirius explodes or pushes or says the wrong thing, he’s still just joy. A breath of fresh air in the shape of a songbird, with lovely feathers and a heart always meant for gentleness, but taught violence instead. None of this was ever his fault.

“I know it’s selfish,” Sirius tries again. “I know it’s selfish, coming here and asking you to love me when I’m the one who twisted it all up, but I—”

“Shh,” Remus whispers against his lips. “Just kiss me.”

“I shouldn’t—shouldn’t ask you to be with someone who flies off the handle over made-up reasons. It’s not fair to you—”

Remus leans forward again and silences him with another kiss. “You talk too much.”

Sirius sniffles against him. “You always said you liked it when I talk too much.”

“I do,” Remus admits, brushing a wet curl back from Sirius’ face. “But not when you’re trying to punish yourself with every word.”

Sirius looks up, red-nosed and weepy, and still the most extraordinary thing Remus has ever seen.

“I shouldn’t have done any of it,” Sirius whispers.

“No,” Remus agrees. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I did anyway.”

“Yeah.” Remus strokes the flushed curve of his cheek with his thumb, and for some reason, it makes Sirius’ lashes flutter. “You did.”

Sirius' eyes dart over his face, desperate. When he speaks next, his voice is a breath.

“Kiss me again. Please.”

Remus smiles and does as he asks. And it’s good. It’s really good. It sinks straight into his bones, ties something tight in his lower stomach that hums and twists in the sweetest way. Holding Sirius like this feels like childhood magic, like catching a shooting star with your bare hands, just the way you always wished you could as a child but never believed would happen.

He cups the back of Sirius’ head, slipping fingers back into the soft dark strands. His other arm wraps around his neck, holding him in place even though Sirius doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere. Remus just needs to feel that he’s here. That he’s real. That he chose to come back.

Sirius rises to his toes a little, gliding his hands up Remus’ back—up and down, up and down—and it makes Remus dizzy, how much he wants this, how much he’s allowed to want this now. When their mouths part just enough for Sirius to flick his tongue into the kiss, Remus nearly sinks to the ground.

Sirius’ hands curl up, one slipping into Remus’ hair, the other finding his necklace with the moon pendant and tugging at it gently with his fingers.

Remus pulls back with a quiet sound, brushing his lips against Sirius’ once, then twice more, indulgent. He opens his hooded eyes to find Sirius watching him, teary and flushed, but more composed than before.

“Will you give me back the music box?” Sirius asks. “You didn’t throw it away, did you?”

Remus shakes his head.

Sirius nods quickly. “I want it back.” He swallows, fiddling with the pendant chain. “I—I lied. About the sound hurting my ears.”

Remus’ mouth curls at the edge. “Yeah. I figured out you’re a bit of a liar.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. Remus brushes a thumb across his mouth, wiping a smear of spit away. Sirius’ gaze drops, and his eyes trace slowly down Remus’ forearm until they reach the thick white bandage wrapped around his hand.

“When did that happen?” he asks softly.

Remus glances down, flexes his fingers inside the bandage. For a moment, he almost forgot it was there.

“This afternoon,” he replies. “Burned it at the forge.”

Sirius winces. His fingers reach instinctively and slowly take Remus’ wrist, feather-light and cautious, like he’s afraid of causing pain.

“Where exactly?”

Remus flips his hand in Sirius’ grip. “Outer side.”

Sirius takes it in both hands now, thumbs ghosting over the unmarked skin. Then, slowly, he leans forward and lets his lips brush the inner side. Not on the wound, nowhere near it, but close enough that every nerve in Remus’ body jolts awake at once. Giddiness swells beneath his skin, heady and so embarrassing.

Sirius looks up at him again, still holding his wrist.

“Better?” he asks, as if it could possibly have made anything less than perfect.

“Yeah,” Remus whispers. “You’re kind of a miracle.”

Sirius smiles at him, all teeth. He licks his lips, then scrunches his nose and lets out a half-laugh through his breath.

Remus chuckles. “What?”

“My lips,” Sirius says. “They’re salty.”

“Not a fan, are you?”

Sirius shrugs, staring at him, a little dazed. His eyes are half-lidded and gorgeous. A little dreamy. A little bruised. A lot in love.

“Tastes weird,” he muses.

Remus tilts his head, humming. “That’s funny. My girlfriend doesn’t seem to mind.”

Sirius’ eyes snap open wide. He really does look like a mockingjay, even without his usual makeup. All feral edge and feather-light movement, wild hair and those sharp, glittering eyes that pin you where you stand.

Remus can’t help it. He laughs, dragging him in by the neck, and Sirius lets out a gasp and slaps him on the chest, but it’s pointless, because his hands immediately find Remus’ shirt and twist it in tight fists all the same. He kisses him back, fast and sloppy and a little desperate.

And Remus? He lets him. Lets him kiss and kiss and kiss until the world blurs around them.

Because in the end, the star came falling right into his hands.

Chapter Text

The sun is warm on his back, the wind just soft enough to play with the hem of his shirt, and Sirius is practically skipping down the dirt path to the forge with a foil-covered potato pie in his hands and a lovesick grin stretched across his face.

He’s on his way to see his boyfriend.

The word makes his stomach do little somersaults of disbelief and glee. Sirius has already tried saying it out loud three times this morning—once to Andy, who just hummed and handed him a scarf in case it got breezy, which he's now wearing as a belt; once to Clementine, who squealed and squeezed him hard enough to nearly pop his ribs; and once to the mirror, where he said it with such shaky, breathless excitement that he had to sit on the edge of the sink and put his head between his knees.

Now he’s saying it to the dirt, to the pie, to the clouds. Remus is my boyfriend. I’m carrying his lunch.

Sirius still hasn’t fully wrapped his head around it. He knows he’s in love—has been for a while—but now the feeling is thicker, louder, like syrup rushing through his limbs. It’s a miracle he hasn’t dropped the pie yet.

By the time he’s close enough to the forge to see the glint of heat-warped glass in the windows, his legs are practically bouncing on their own. The door opens just as Sirius gets there—first it’s a few older men stepping out, boots scraping, voices low and tired. Some of them glance his way with the kind of half-curious look Sirius has seen a thousand times, so he raises his brows and lets his pinned-up hair sway behind him like a little silk flag of yes, I’m here, and no, not for you. They look away pretty quick after that.

A moment later, Kingsley steps out with a cigarette in his mouth, already digging for a lighter. He notices Sirius almost immediately, gives him a smile and a casual little wave. Sirius tips his head in greeting, craning his neck to peek inside past him, but it’s too dark to see anything.  

Then, there it is: the bandaged hand holding the door open. The rest of Remus follows a second behind, still talking to someone inside, probably finishing up whatever he’s working on. Sirius bites his lip as he waits, feeling his whole body vibrating again.

When Remus finally steps fully into view, face warm and brown hair messy from work, Sirius can’t stop himself from beaming, lips parting, pie raised.

Remus mirrors his wide smile instantly, and the sight of it—all genuine and a little tired and so fond—makes Sirius’ lungs twist. He watches as Remus closes the heavy door behind him and steps away from the noise and steel, waving off Kingsley with a wordless gesture. Sirius barely keeps from jogging toward him, his boots clicking softly on the stones. 

Remus breathes in. “Hi—” 

“Will you kiss me now?” Sirius interrupts, bouncing impatiently on his heels.

Remus pauses, snorts a laugh, and glances over his shoulder at the few stragglers still leaving the forge, watching with interest.

“Can we maybe step around back first?” he suggests. “My coworkers are fond of listening in.”

Sirius frowns faintly, studying his face, but follows without complaint. The moment they’re tucked away in the side alley, cooler in the shade where the stone wall shields them from view, Remus reaches out for the pie with his good hand.

Sirius yanks the pie away and hides it behind his back.

Remus chuckles. “No pie?”

“You’re ashamed of me?” Sirius asks, eyeing him.

Remus’ brows draw down, but he laughs once, confused. “What?”

“Tell me the truth,” Sirius demands, squinting now. “Are you ashamed that I showed up with a pie? You don’t want your coworkers to see us?”

“That’s not—” Remus sighs and rubs his brow. “Sirius. No, sweetheart.” He reaches out to catch a curl that’s fallen out of the pinned-up bun. His fingers are gentle, brushing against Sirius’ cheek, then sliding down the curve of his neck to rest just under the collar of his blouse. “They just talk a lot. I’m sure they already are. I just don’t want…”

He trails off, brows pulling, clearly choosing his words.

“Don’t want what?” Sirius presses.

Remus exhales, squeezing his shoulder. “I don’t want it getting back to your uncle.”

Sirius huffs a laugh, leaning in. “Remus, come on. Tobi thinks you’re a good guy. You think he made this pie for nothing?” He lifts the pie slightly, crinkling the foil. “He made it knowing I’d bring it to you.”

Remus' fingers brush over Sirius’ collarbone. “Yeah, well, Tobi’s not the uncle I’m worried about.”

“Oh.”

“Judging by that oh, I take it you still haven’t said anything to Alphard.”

Sirius scrunches up one eye, lips tilting in a guilty wince. “Not exactly.”

Remus raises a brow. “Not exactly.”

“Fine, not at all,” Sirius admits, puffing out his cheeks.

Remus nods, looks off toward the road, then glances back with his usual Remus expression.

“Just give me a little more time,” Sirius says quickly. “I’m easing him in.”

“By doing what? Pretending you’re not dating anyone?”

Sirius jabs a finger at the air. “I mean—” He gives Remus a once-over. “Let’s not pretend you’re not scared shitless of meeting Alphie.”

Remus copies the gesture, pointing right back. “Well, I am, in fact, scared shitless. But the longer we put it off, the worse it’ll get. That’s called logic, Sirius.”

“Logic?” Sirius echoes, as if tasting the word. “Who’s she?”

Remus shakes his head and reaches for the pie again. Sirius spins out of reach. 

“What,” Remus sighs, “still no pie?”

Sirius ignores the question, puckering his lips in a kiss. Remus rolls his eyes but leans in anyway, planting a few quick kisses before suddenly opening his mouth and kissing Sirius with exaggerated, slurpy intensity—practically devouring him and barely letting him breathe.

“Remus!” Sirius gasps, laughing into it, trying to dodge but failing miserably. “Remus, no, you stink—fuck, you’re all sweaty—stop—”

Remus ignores him. Completely. He’s burying kisses into Sirius' cheeks, jaw, and nose, muttering nonsense against his skin like don’t care and mine anyway, his hand half-fisted in the back of Sirius’ hair. Sirius is sort of laughing and sort of panting, trying to twist away; his boots scrape on the dirt behind the forge, where there’s no one to see them except maybe a bird or two perched high up on the gutter, definitely judging them, because yeah. Lovesick and gross.

“Please, Remus,” Sirius pleads breathlessly, half-turned away. “I’ve been doing my makeup for so long—”

“You’re not wearing any,” Remus mumbles back, halfway into kissing the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve been washing my skin for so long!”

Remus keeps kissing, again and again, until Sirius melts against him and kisses back, the pie held awkwardly in one hand, the other fisting into the collar of Remus’ shirt. He sinks into it, eyes fluttering shut, because it’s hard not to melt into the surety of Remus’ hands, the warmth of his mouth.

“You trying to eat me alive, moonshine?” he murmurs against Remus’ lips, voice wobbly with a grin.

“I’m very hungry.”

Sirius finally pulls back just enough to shove the foil-wrapped pie between them. “Lucky you have a very good partner who brought you lunch, hm? You’d waste away without me.”

He’s been trying it out lately, partner instead of boyfriend. It fits better somehow, softer around the edges, without asking questions Sirius isn’t ready to answer. There’s something about the word that allows space to shift. It has weight, but not pressure—a glove he picked out himself.

Remus never questions it. Every time he could call Sirius his boyfriend, he says partner instead. Every time Sirius wants to be called starboy, Remus knows; every time he leans toward starlight instead, Remus calls him that—as though it’s instinct, as though he knows without being told that Sirius doesn’t always want to be one thing and that he never felt like any word has really stuck. Except maybe sweetheart. And maybe now partner. And maybe, when Remus says it, mine.

Remus eyes the pie carefully, clearly not trusting that Sirius won’t yank it away again.

“I could’ve just asked Kingsley to share his food,” he points out, feigning casual.

Sirius tugs the pie an inch away again. “Yeah? Maybe you can go kiss him, too?”

Remus grimaces. “Not that, no.”

Sirius clicks his tongue and finally starts peeling back the foil, nudging a corner toward Remus. He holds the warm, half-split crust while Remus leans forward and takes a bite, humming the second it hits his tongue.

“Good?” Sirius asks with a smile, watching him.

“Very.” Remus nods, reaching for another bite. Sirius lets him. “Tobi’s hands are magic.”

“Unlike mine, which are cursed. I woke up late this morning and there were already three pies cooling on the counter.” 

Sirius smiles a little wider at that. Last night, he came home well past curfew, cheeks flushed from too many kisses in a boy’s too-small room. And still, his uncle had been in the kitchen, hands dusted with flour. 

“I’m telling you he made extra on purpose,” Sirius adds.

“Living the high life,” Remus says, chewing contentedly. 

“Oh, come off it. Hope’s got you and Lyall spoiled rotten.”

Remus grunts, mouth still full. “What’s your plan for the day?”

Sirius leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “First, feed you.”

“Done.”

“Then get to the workshop. Something’s rattling in one of the trucks. I promised I’d look.” Sirius brushes a crumb off Remus' lip with his thumb. The kind of intimacy that used to make him short-circuit now feels necessary. “Then I’m picking up Lulu again. She wants to go for a walk after she finishes her homework.”

“You two have a thing now,” Remus teases. “Should I be worried?”

Sirius smirks. “Maybe. She’s got better jokes than you.”

“She’s twelve. And my darling, in case you forgot.”

“Impossible.” Sirius makes an embarrassed noise, then adds, “Thanks for that, though.”

“Just so you know, I’m never letting anyone forget that story.”

Sirius rolls his eyes and pinches his shoulder.

Remus snorts, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Can I have more pie?”

Sirius lifts the foil. “All yours.”

“You eat anything today?”

Sirius stills. Says nothing.

Remus’ tone drops. “Sirius.”

Sirius groans, sagging a little. “No, I didn’t.”

Remus scowls, breaks off another wedge and holds it up to Sirius’ mouth. “Open.”

Sirius eyes it warily.

“Go on,” Remus says firmly.

Sirius grumbles but leans forward and bites.

“Good job, baby,” Remus praises.

Sirius will never admit it, but inside, something preens. 

Remus chews for a bit, then swallows and asks casually, “Mind if I come with you and Lulu?”

Sirius perks up instantly. “You want to?”

“I want to,” Remus confirms.

“Great! Sure.” Sirius takes another bite, this one on his own. “Want us to pick you up after your shift?”

“Mm, I want to shower first.” Remus smirks, nudging him. “Since you did say I stink.”

Sirius shrugs, kissing the line of his jaw. “I was just bitching.”

Remus grins. “See you after six, then.”

“We’ll be there.” Sirius dips his head in a little nod, eyes bright. His voice quiets, softer now. “We’ll get time alone after? Just us?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Sirius’ whole face breaks open into a smile, all teeth and stars and that buzzing happiness which hasn’t faded since the night he and Remus told each other they were in love.

“Okay,” he whispers.

Remus cups his jaw, thumb brushing gently beneath his chin. 

“Okay,” he whispers back.

They settle in the shadow, Remus perched on an overturned crate and Sirius curled up beside him, picking off bits of crust from the pie tin, feeding Remus every now and then, even if Remus is perfectly capable of doing it himself. 

Sirius blabs about everything and nothing the way he always does, his words bouncing from one topic to the next. Once he starts, he doesn’t stop. He tells Remus how the lake’s warming up already, just a little, and how maybe by the end of next month they could go swimming, if the wind calms down. He talks about Clementine’s next dance night, and how she mentioned the dress she’s been saving for it.

Remus hums, chewing slowly, eyes soft on Sirius’ face.

“Mary and I are supposed to go visit Sybill this week, too,” Sirius says, nudging his boot against Remus’ shin. “Her cough’s almost gone. She says by the next show she’ll be bright as a poppy.”

Remus glances at him, a little cautious. “Is Mary gonna be inviting Marlene to all the shows now?”

Sirius pauses, noticing the way Remus' mouth tightens at the corners. He shifts the pie on his knees and tilts his head, reading the undercurrent.

“I mean,” he starts lightly, trying not to sound like he’s stepping on glass, “she might? But you know… you don’t have to talk to her every time, moonshine. Really, you can just… hang out with me. You don’t even have to make eye contact if you don’t want to.”

“I never want to,” Remus grumbles. “I don’t get how you do. Doesn’t she always say—I don’t know—shit?”

Sirius snickers, tugging at the edge of his blouse with one hand, the other still balancing the half-eaten pie.

“Not really. She’s actually nice. Mostly. I think she’s just—she has her own stuff. You know?”

Remus scoffs at that.

Sirius pinches his forearm lightly, lips tugging into a scold-smile. “Remus. Don’t scoff. Everyone’s got their own kind of pain.”

“First of all,” Remus mutters, rubbing his arm, “stop pinching me all the time.”

Sirius raises both hands in mock innocence.

“Second of all, what pain could Marlene possibly have? Her family’s the richest in the district, she gets whatever she wants, she doesn't have to think about surviving every day like the rest of us. She just… plays at life.”

“Remus, she’s got twenty-five entries in the reaping bowl.”

Remus shrugs, licking pie off his thumb. “So? I’ve got twenty-two. Not much of a difference. Doesn’t give her the right to act like that.”

Sirius’ heart skips.

“What?”

Remus looks up, then back down, swallows the last of his bite. “What?”

“You have twenty-two entries?”

“I signed up for tesserae a few times,” Remus explains, not looking at Sirius. “When things got tight.”

Sirius feels it like a punch to the gut. The warmth in his chest curdles into cold dread, and the anxiety rises, thick in his throat now.

“Remus, that’s—that’s so many, you—” Sirius swallows hard, trying not to let the panic crack through too clearly. “You could—you could be picked.”

Remus tilts his head, eyes calm in that frustratingly grounded way. “Anyone could be picked, sweetheart.”

“No, but—not you—” 

“It’s fine, baby.”

“It’s not.” Sirius’ hand trembles just slightly, and the tin in his lap shifts. “That’s a real fucking chance, Remus. I didn’t know that. You never told me. I don’t—I don’t care if you’ve got twenty-two or twenty-six, or ten, I don’t want your name in that bowl at all—”

“Hey. Hey,” Remus soothes. He puts the empty tin aside from Sirius’ knees and shifts closer. One hand cups his knee. The other touches his wrist. “It’s alright. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“But what if—”

“Sirius, I’m here.”

Sirius’ throat bobs. He blinks hard, tries to get a grip on himself. “But if you get picked, what—”

“I won’t get picked,” Remus says firmly. “I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“We both have only one Reaping left, Sirius,” Remus insists. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Sirius tries to breathe through the rising tide inside his chest. He doesn’t say it, but the thought loops in his head like a broken refrain: 

I can’t lose you. 

I can’t lose you. 

I just got you.

“We should go to Pandora,” he forces out. “She will read your cards.”

Remus stares at him. “You want her to read cards about whether I get chosen for the Games?”

“She does it for us every year,” Sirius tells him, deadly serious now. “She’s never wrong.”

Remus leans back slightly, frowning. “How many entries do you have?”

Sirius looks down. “Ten. Like everyone else.”

“You never took tesserae?”

Sirius shakes his head. “No. We never had to. Alphie’s workshop always did well. Tobi’s got his job here, and Ted helped out too. I make decent money with repairs and the shows, Andy with her sewing and fixing furniture. When someone’s in a bad spot, the other Covey help.”

Remus hums. “Shame I’m not Covey, then. We had it rough sometimes. Kingsley helped when he could, and I helped him when I had anything to give. But most of the time everyone had their own problems. There were times when none of us had enough.”

“What about Emmeline? Lily?”

“They helped too,” Remus admits. “Especially when I thought I’d get kicked out from the forge for screwing up again and again. I couldn’t focus at first, couldn’t fix anything right. But it got better after that.”

Sirius reaches over, fingers brushing his shoulder.

“Remus,” he murmurs gently. “If your family ever needs anything…”

“No, Sirius.” Remus cuts him off kindly. “We’re fine now.”

“I mean if it ever gets—”

“We’re fine,” Remus repeats. When he looks at Sirius, no anger flickers in his eyes, only a steady line drawn by pride. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Sirius nods, lips pressed tight. He wants to push again, but something in Remus' expression stops him. So instead, he leans in and presses a kiss to his mouth, hands resting on Remus' knee, trying not to shake from the creeping terror of knowing that Remus' name is written twelve more times than his in that cold, glass bowl. Twelve more threads reaching toward the hand of chance.

It’s always like this. Every time someone mentions the reaping—even briefly, even in whispers—the sky darkens a shade. The ground feels less solid. For a moment, this already awful world turns one notch worse, reminding everyone that there are numbers to their lives.

What’s worse is that the reaping is in four months. That’s not much. That’s nothing. It’s the blink of a stage light. A bird darting past your window. A summer that hasn’t even started before it ends.

Sirius tries not to think about it, but it’s like trying not to feel the weight of water when you’re neck-deep. 

He presses one more kiss to Remus’ cheekbone, brushing his lips over that freckled skin, and watches as Remus softens under it.

“Remus!” a familiar voice echoes as a head peeks around the corner. Kingsley leans around the forge’s back wall, another cigarette perched lazily between his fingers. “Man, if you don’t get your ass back in five minutes, Rhubarb’s gonna use your skull for hammer practice.”

Remus huffs, licking his hand where pie filling stained it. 

“Coming,” he says, then looks at Sirius—a little sheepish, a little sorry, like he wishes they had more time—mouth still sticky from pie and kisses.

Sirius smiles, tipping his head in that soft way he does when he wants to say, Don’t worry, I’ll be thinking about you the whole time we’re apart. He gestures loosely toward the forge with a half-laugh.

“Go. Save your skull.”

Remus leans in, brushing their noses softly for a second, and Sirius tilts up, lips catching his in a short, warm kiss, fingertips brushing Remus’ shirt sleeve, wanting to stay but knowing this isn’t the time.

From around the corner, Kingsley lets out a loud supportive whistle.

Sirius breaks the kiss, middle finger already up in the air without turning around. Kingsley cackles.

Remus rolls his eyes, smiling against Sirius’ mouth, then pulls back reluctantly. 

“See you after six?”

“Sharp,” Sirius agrees, already missing him a little.

Remus mouths sweetheart, just so he can get away with saying it again, then backs away toward Kingsley, tucking the foil into his back pocket. He lingers at the corner for a second, sends Sirius a last look—full of so many things Sirius feels within himself—then disappears inside, swallowed by the shadows and the clang of work.

Sirius watches him go, the way the back of his shirt sticks to his shoulder blades, the concentrated tilt of his head even when he’s rushing. He’s got pie crumbs on his sleeve, and Sirius thinks about brushing them off later when they meet again. When they have more time.

The world immediately feels much duller when Remus isn’t in it. Sirius shakes his head and turns on his heel, heading off toward Alphie’s repair shop, dust rising in tiny puffs under his boots.

Still, even as he walks, Sirius feels that quiet, sticky unease lodged beneath his skin—the one that whispers twelve more slips again and again like a mockingjay in his ear.

───✩ ·☽· ✩───

The air outside is dry and dusty, warmed by the sun into that strange, slowed-down state where everything feels a little more distant. Behind Remus, the heavy tread of Kingsley’s boots crunches over gravel. The shift is over, but Remus still feels heat in his hands, a ringing ache in his shoulders, a fine coat of ash clinging to his skin. 

All of it fades the moment he lifts his eyes and sees Sirius.

He’s leaning against the gatepost as if he just happened to be passing by. As if he didn’t spend the last few minutes waiting for anyone in particular. Lulu is perched on his back, hooked around him like ivy, hair in two loose braids flying each time she turns her head toward them.

“Oh, clearly that’s for you,” Kingsley muses.

Remus feels the corner of his mouth curve. Lulu waves at them.

“What, no need for your brother anymore?” Kingsley teases, nodding toward Sirius. “Picked yourself a new victim?”

Lulu sticks her tongue out at him.

“I’m looking after him while Remus works,” she says, solemn. “If he starts talking nonsense, I smack him on the ear.”

“She does,” Sirius adds dryly. “No warning, either.”

Remus smiles but doesn’t say anything, watching instead. Something in his chest shifts heavily, balanced right on the edge of warmth but not spilling over yet.

It takes Kingsley less than a minute to say goodbye—he promised Sybill he’d drop by after work, because even though she’s getting better she still needs looking after. He tells Lulu to be careful, Sirius to behave, and Remus to be prepared to break up a fight halfway through their walk.

“Say hi to Sibby!” Lulu shouts, and Kingsley salutes before heading off.

That leaves the three of them standing on the familiar road. The treeline shimmers in the distance like a mirage, and the setting sun spills over their shoulders, onto the dust, catching the tied ribbons of Sirius’ blouse. Remus notices the way he’s rocking Lulu slightly, probably just because she’s there, and because he’s in a good mood. She hangs on his back like a sack of coal but Sirius moves as if he doesn’t notice. Light, as always. Like everything is just a game.

Their eyes meet briefly when Sirius tilts his head. The shift in Remus’ chest is almost audible—a click, a handle slotting home. He steps closer, catching the scent of soap and metal, and underneath it something that’s purely Sirius—smoky, almost like roasted nuts. That bitter almond oil again, warm on his skin.

“I could give you a ride too, if you want,” Sirius offers nonchalantly, but there’s a glint in his eyes that Remus knows how to read by now. The trouble is, every time, it catches him off guard. His ears heat up instantly.

“Got enough strength left at the end of the day?” he manages, his voice rough from the heat of the forge.

“For you? Always.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Remus says, fingers skimming the edge of Sirius’ sleeve. Barely there, but he knows Sirius will notice. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Sirius watches him steadily, saying nothing else, but Remus can feel the thread between them, stretched tight. Tug it, and it would hum through his whole body.

“We going?” Lulu demands impatiently. “It’s supposed to be a walk.”

“Course we are,” Sirius relents, winking at Remus.

They take the narrow path; Sirius walks just ahead, Remus half a step beside him. Lulu chatters brightly, tugs at Sirius’ hair, hums to herself, firing questions that he answers with exaggerated solemnity.

Every so often, Remus glances at him. The set of his shoulders under Lulu’s weight. The way his hair curls against his elbows. The way his arms flex around her, how his steps bounce slightly. And how, whenever their eyes meet, even in passing, Sirius’ grey eyes warm just a fraction, like a small light flaring to life.

Remus wants that fire closer. On his skin. Under it.

He doesn’t know where they’re heading. The lake, maybe, or just forward, down the dirt road into the shade of the trees where, for a while, they can forget about rations and the reaping and work and tomorrow. Remus could keep this pace forever—no map, no destination—even after a full day’s work, right here beside his favorite person.

The trees close in, the ground softens underfoot. The forge heat, the clang of metal, the noise of town all fall behind. What’s left is the hush of steps, Lulu’s laughter, and Sirius’ voice.

“And then I only wanted to try on the earrings, but she wouldn’t let me,” Sirius is saying. “Said I could look from a distance, so I tried to snatch them anyway, and she kicked me out of the market. Lulu, promise me if you ever sell jewelry, you’ll be fair.”

“No!” Lulu laughs. “If you come to my shop, I won’t let you in at all.”

“Heartless,” Sirius sighs. “The rise of a dictator.”

Remus walks a little behind, watching the straight line of Sirius' back and the faint pull in his shoulders from carrying her.

“Put her down, maybe?” he suggests softly. “I can carry her for a bit.”

“It’s fine,” Sirius answers over his shoulder. “I like knowing someone’s completely depending on me.”

“How sweet.”  Remus mutters, rolling his eyes, but the corners of his mouth tug upwards. “Just don’t complain later when your back’s sore.”

“Me? Complain? Never.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m not depending on you!” Lulu chimes in. “I’m in charge of you!”

“That so? If I trip, we’re both hitting the ground.”

Lulu makes a string of nonsense noises in reply, mocking him, and they both laugh, sharing a glance—half a second, all it takes. Sirius' smile widens, and Remus looks away first, but the heat on his cheeks stays long after.

The lake comes into view almost suddenly, the trees thinning to reveal a strip of quick, glassy water spilling over stones. The surface catches the sinking sun, breaking it into moving shards. Lulu lets out a delighted yell, wriggling down from Sirius’ back before he’s even fully stopped. Her boots are off in seconds, toes skimming the shallows, splashing herself and anything in range.

“Well,” Sirius says, shaking his loosened hair back over his shoulders. “That’s me free.”

Remus drops down onto a flat boulder by the bank, palms pressing into the grass. Water chatters over stones, damp earth and pine sap thick in the air. Sirius drops down beside him, close enough that the edge of his back brushes Remus’ arm.

“How’s the shop?” Remus asks.

“Messy. That truck they hauled in is worse than we thought.” Sirius leans back on his palms, eyes on the water. “I’ll be fixing it again tomorrow. You could come by if you want.”

Remus hesitates, picturing Alphard’s shadow across the workbench. 

“If your uncle is there—”

“He won’t be.” Sirius shakes his head. “It’ll just be Ted and Amos. Alphie’s got to go east to meet someone.”

That makes it easier. 

“Alright,” Remus surrenders, “I’ll come, then.”

Sirius' gaze drops to his bandaged hand. He runs a thumb over the back of it gently, fingers skimming the safe side. 

“Still sore?”

“It’s alright,” Remus lies.

“Sorry if I’m keeping you here after a long day.”

“Stop it.” Remus looks at the water, then at him. “This is exactly what I wanted.”

Sirius’ mouth quirks. “To watch Lulu dig in the dirt and run around barefoot?

The sound Remus makes is half a laugh, half a deflection. He turns to where Lulu’s crouched at the shore, scooping water into her cupped hands. He needs the distraction. Needs the space to breathe. But Sirius is still here, still too close, sunlight snagging in his hair in a way that feels almost dangerous to look at.

“Not exactly,” Remus mutters.

Sirius tilts closer, teeth catching his lip just briefly, enough to set Remus’ thoughts spinning. “Then what?”

Remus turns his head, locking eyes with him. He holds the contact.

“You.”

It’s just a word, but it means so much to him. Remus lets his fingers ghost over Sirius’ hand, quickly, like it might be an accident. Sirius shifts his hand so their fingers slide again, this time locking.

“I want you to kiss me,” he whispers.

“In front of Lulu?”

Sirius’ eyes flick toward the shore, where she’s building a wall of stones and pebbles. “She’s not looking.”

“She’ll never let us hear the end of it,” Remus replies. “She’ll tell the whole district.”

“Last time here she interrupted us. I think we should try again.” Sirius’ smile falters, eyes flicking to Remus' mouth. “Just one kiss, Remus.”

“That’s all it takes.”

Sirius’ gaze lifts. “All it takes for what?”

“For me to fall in love,” Remus says quietly.

“We’ve kissed before,” Sirius murmurs, silver catching in his eyes. “Did you fall in love then?”

Remus huffs a breath. “Like you can’t tell.”

Sirius’ smile tilts, crooked and impossible to refuse. 

“Then come prove it.”

Remus leans in immediately, because how could he not, when Sirius dares him like that, when there’s a challenge in his voice. Their mouths meet, coaxing each other open, finding the right rhythm. Sirius’ hand slides against his knee, so Remus threads his fingers into his hair in response, and the kiss twists low in his stomach. He drinks in the taste.

When they break apart, they’re still too close. 

Sirius’ breath brushes his cheek. “I like that.”

Remus smiles against his mouth, opens his eyes to see Sirius with his still closed. 

“Kissing?” he asks against his lips.

Sirius' brow creases, voice going soft. “With you, yeah.”

Remus feels everything thunder in his chest, heat climbing his neck in a way that’s already familiar to him. He leans in, nudges Sirius’ nose with his own, soft, and Sirius nudges back, just as gentle. Remus presses one more quick kiss to his mouth, and when Sirius opens his eyes, he glances toward the shore, where Lulu is still busy with her stones.

“Should we help her?” Sirius muses, still close, though his gaze is elsewhere. He doesn’t move anywhere, and his fingers tighten slightly around Remus’.

“Probably,” Remus says. “Don’t forget she’s got you under supervision. One wrong move and you’ll get smacked on the ear.”

“Then I’d better stay close to you,” Sirius murmurs back.

Remus can’t stop the smile. Sirius brushes the back of his hand against Remus’ cheek, light as air, before they get to their feet. They walk down together, still hand in hand.

When they reach the water’s edge, Lulu looks up from her pile of pebbles and stones. Her eyes flick to their hands, then their faces, then back down again.

“Uh-huh.”

Remus snorts. “What?”

“I think I should get back together with Wylie,” Lulu mutters thoughtfully. She shoots a quick glance at Sirius, then back to her stones. “Now that you’ve stolen Remus from me.”

Sirius doesn’t hold back. His laugh bursts out in that bark of his that Remus adores, shaking the air, and he tips his head back. Remus lifts his hand, rubs him between the shoulder blades, then pats him gently.

“You’re lucky, Moony,” Lulu continues. “He’s very pretty.”

“Yeah, tell him, Lulu,” Sirius says through his grin.

“As if I don’t already know,” Remus mutters.

“I think you need a little—” Sirius pinches his fingers close together, squints playfully, “—reminder.”

Remus smirks back. “Oh, do I?”

Lulu makes a gagging noise. “Enough already. I saw you kissing while I was building my castle. You’re not sneaky.”

Remus laughs, shooting her an apologetic glance. “Sorry, Lulu.”

“No more kissing,” she orders.

Sirius salutes. “Yes, my queen.”

“That’s better.” Lulu knocks over her stone tower in one sharp push, then dusts her hands, scanning the grass. “Let’s go pick flowers. I want a crown. Sirius, you can make one, can’t you?”

“I can,” he replies easily.

“Show me.” Lulu scrambles toward the taller grass by the boulders, where bellflowers, daisies, and sharp-petaled locals sway together, moving like breath in the breeze.

“Maybe we should go to the meadow?” Sirius calls after her.

“There are enough here!” Lulu insists, scooping flowers in both arms. “Come on, Sirius. Make mine the prettiest.”

He drops down cross-legged beside her, stretching out his legs, taking stems from her handful and sorting through them with slow fingers. Lulu sighs, heavy with contentment, as if the whole day led her here.

Remus settles across from them. Watches Sirius’ fingers braid the stems, the way he smiles faintly when Lulu tosses a flower at him, the way the orange light slides down his neck and collarbones. Watches the moments Sirius glances up, quick, and meets his eyes. Doesn’t look away right away.

“What about you?” Sirius asks. His eyes hold Remus. “Want one? Blue, like I wore last time. Or something pink.”

“Why pink?” 

Sirius shrugs, casual. “You’d look charming.”

Though it’s just a line, a familiar tingling stirs again in Remus' throat all the same.

“Pink sounds fine,” he answers. “Just… no nettles.”

Sirius chuckles. “No promises, pretty boy.”

He works on the second crown without speaking. Remus can’t stop watching—every weave of stem feels too close, too personal, as though it’s under his own skin instead of in Sirius’ hands.

As Sirius finally passes him a crown of pale pink primroses, Remus takes it carefully. Their fingers brush, and the jolt is immediate. He sets the flowers on his head.

“Looks good,” Sirius murmurs.

“I’ll forge you one out of copper,” Remus blurts.

Sirius laughs. “That’d be quite heavy to wear.” 

Remus lets out a laugh too, helpless at the stupidity. “Right. Didn’t think that through.”

The grin Sirius flashes at him is wide, sunlight itself.

Lulu flops onto her back, holding her own crown above her to squint at the sun through the petals. Her laughter drifts out of her chest, thin as glass. Remus feels the thrum inside him, the sense of a moment too good to be real. Something to memorize, detail by detail: the color of the grass, the shape of Sirius’ shadow across it, the exact way his voice wraps around his name.

Remus looks up and finds they’re only inches apart. Sirius watches him with half-lidded eyes, as if the minutes have shrunk and the longing stretched wide enough to fill them. Lulu’s giggle rings out nearby, flowers rattle in the wind, but the space between them thickens. Sirius is a living montage—lightning slowed to a marvel too dazzling to look away from.

“No kissing!” Lulu crows suddenly, breaking the spell.

Remus exhales a laugh and shifts back at the same time Sirius does. The moment folds shut, but the pull remains along with a look that lingers too long and fingers that almost, almost touch.

They rinse Lulu’s feet in the lake, laughing as she squirms, then help her pull her shoes back on. The flower crowns go with them—hers slightly crooked, Sirius' made clumsier on purpose, Remus' perfectly crafted—now all clutched tightly in Lulu’s hands, who apparently wants a whole collection. Together, they walk the dusty road toward the old playground—the same one where, weeks ago, Remus came with Kingsley and Lulu, right after Sirius had first rejected him and his flowers.

The place is nearly empty now. The sand still holds the day’s heat; the sun has dipped behind the roofs of the housing blocks, the wooden bars, the old swings, and the set of rings where kids show off their tricks. Today, only a handful of children remain, alongside Lulu, already racing ahead.

“First on the rings!” she shouts, sprinting toward the metal frame.

Sirius sits on a bench facing her, his hand landing naturally against Remus’ back. Remus watches Lulu haul herself up, legs kicking wild as she hangs from the rings.

“Look! I can flip backward!” she yells, not waiting for their answer before trying some reckless twist. Dust kicks up as she lands.

“Careful, sweetheart,” Sirius calls, not moving his hand from Remus’ spine. “It’s Moony who’ll have to carry you home if you fall.”

Remus turns his head. Sirius is right there. Eyes bright, mouth tilted, alive in a way that belongs only to these small stolen hours. Remus leans closer and brushes his nose against his cheek, and Sirius presses back a kiss to his temple.

“You’re always so warm,” Sirius murmurs, fingers tracing quick over his shoulder blade. “Like you’ve been stored in a furnace.”

“That’s the forge for you.”

By now Lulu has claimed the swing, calling for them to count her pushes toward the sky. They both call the numbers out in unison, loud enough for her to hear. Sirius rests his head against Remus’ shoulder, and Remus lets him, breathing in the scent of his hair.

“Look, Sirius!” Lulu cries, legs pumping hard, hair snapping behind her. “Look, I’m flying!”

Sirius laughs, lifts his head to watch her soar, but keeps his arm snug against Remus’ side. He turns back only when Lulu finally tumbles off the swing, shaking with excitement.

“Why didn’t I see Wade today?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“Wade,” Sirius repeats. “Didn’t see him earlier, when I brought you the pie.”

“He’s off a couple days,” Remus explains. “Rhubarb gave permission.”

“I see.” 

Remus’ brows knit together a little. “Why?”