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*
“It would just be this nice casual thing.”
Remus stares.
“Just think about it.”
And Sirius is off, his hair sort of bouncing behind him.
*
The thing is, Remus has thought about it. Many times. Very explicitly and in great detail.
*
“So don’t do it. You don’t have to do everything he says.”
Lily is maddening as always, and Remus isn’t sure why he ever thought to discuss anything with her. “That is not what this is about.”
“Okay, then what is it about, then?”
It’s about love and fear and lust and panic and chasms of doom and clouds of heaven. “It’s complicated.”
“Right, can we go back to homework then, please?”
Remus gives in, and they resume talking about the advisable amount of merriwort in the Pleasant Potage. But truthfully, Remus’s mind is not really there. Remus’s mind is fully in the chasms of doom; the clouds of heaven; the crazy, otherworldly new: Sirius has suggested they have sex.
*
Maybe he can do it. Maybe it can be casual. Maybe Remus can be one of those people who go and do and win or whatever—he could put himself out there. But then Sirius would smile at him, and Remus would probably propose to him. And they’re sixteen. No one gets married at sixteen.
*
“Some people actually do get married at sixteen.” Mary pulls another book from the shelf and heads for a reading nook by the window.
Remus swiftly follows. “Right, as I was saying, it was a common wizarding practice in the Middle Ages.” Remus is an intellectual and this is a purely academic discussion.
Mary pauses mid-sitting down and looks at him, some sort of amusement dancing in her eyes. “Well, yes, there is that, but then there is also my aunt. Well, she was seventeen. Married her best friend when they were still in Ravenclaw. Said she just knew. Wasn’t wrong.” She opens one of her many books, adding serenely, “It could happen for you too.”
Mary is entirely too smart. “Who says I want that happening for me?”
Mary just shrugs. She is not only smart, but also always perfectly calm. “It’s okay to want him, you know.”
Remus takes a quick breath. “I wasn’t talking about him.”
“Who?” Mary looks at him and winks.
Remus runs for the bathroom, perhaps somewhat un-casually, murmuring something about teeth.
*
Remus studies his face in the mirror while pushing the toothbrush around his mouth in a noncommittal way.
Mary is dead wrong, of course. Sirius would never want to marry, and he would never marry Remus. He would probably make a long speech about liberty and freedom and freedom and liberty.
Or he would marry, but he would take it as a joke. It would just be a giant bloody joke for Sirius Black, marrying his best mate who gags after him on the daily. He would say he’s taking a stance against homophobia and—and then he would look at Remus’s face and say something … something … well, sweet, probably, like how his scars are artistic etchings, even though everybody knows they’re just scars. Obnoxious and—and weird. And then he would trace Remus’s scars and smile and Remus would die.
Remus chokes on the toothpaste, then quickly gulps down some water. The mirror reflects a flushed face with scars that are red, and run deep.
Who is he kidding? Sirius would never marry him. And anyway, this isn’t about getting married. It’s about—about—sex.
With Sirius.
He puts away his toothbrush and sighs. It’s death for Remus either way.
*
“Come here.”
“I am actually very comfortable where I am.”
Sirius shifts closer to the edge of Remus’ bed, which he is wantonly occupying. “But you always complain about these chairs.”
Remus clenches his knuckles around the edge of his seat. “No, actually, you are always complaining about them.”
“Yes, because you are always in them.”
“They are just really … comfortable,” Remus finishes lamely because Sirius’s hair is falling in his eyes. Remus is an intellectual and knows that hair in eyes is very uncomfortable. He is not intellectual enough, though, to understand how Sirius makes it look so … good.
“We are alone,” points Sirius out very unhelpfully.
It’s true, Remus realizes. It’s late and it’s true, they’re alone, and Remus suddenly has awful premonitions of Lily and Mary in cahoots with James and Peter, staying down in the common room, “giving the lovebirds the room” or some awful stupidity like that.
Even worse, Sirius might be in cahoots with all of them! Yes, of course, he probably announced it before Remus came down for breakfast this morning; he gathered everyone round and said that he wants to see what gay sex was like and Remus is the obvious, silly, enamoured chap to do it with!
Sirius will probably report the results to everyone next morning. “Remus was too scared,” he’ll say, eyes that awful mixture of sympathy and pity. “Yeah, he just wasn’t up to it.”
Remus shivers, and then a soft touch makes itself known on his pinky toe, the smallest, softest little touch. It’s Sirius’s socked foot, and it’s accompanied by Sirius’s soft voice.
“Hey, Moony, is everything okay?”
It comes before Remus ever stood a chance of stopping it.
“I’m just a joke to you, aren’t I? You just think you can just—proposition me, and, and make room, and I will just fall into your arms, because you know I’m—I’m obsessed with you, and I dream about you all the time, and your hair is like this, and then you just assume that of course I will be game for whatever—whatever game you come up with, and that’s all this is for you, isn’t it, it’s just a grand old game where Sirius shags a boy and gets to be so cool and move on and have hair in eyes comfortably, and—and attractively, and meanwhile—meanwhile I’m here all wretched and alone and—and in love!”
The room is very quiet and Sirius’s eyes are huge and grey and very close.
“Remus,” Sirius croaks.
“What,” says Remus, looking at Sirius’s shoulder, which is also very close.
Remus feels rather than sees Sirius opening his mouth, then shutting it again. His shoulder remains still, though, and very close.
“Remus,” says Sirius again.
“What,” Remus repeats, mechanically.
“So I’ve been a fool,” says Sirius.
Remus nods. Sirius’s shoulder is moving, coming even closer. It’s suddenly pressing into Remus’s face, while the rest of Sirius is pressing into the rest of Remus. Remus’s eyes close, but not before getting an eyeful of Sirius’s hair. It’s actually comfortable. Remus could live like this. Sirius’s hair must be magical.
Remus realises that his arms are wound tightly around Sirius and that Sirius’s arms in turn are tightly wound around Remus and Sirius is saying something and it’s muffled, but it sounds like it could be important.
“What,” repeats Remus a third time, his voice also muffled by Sirius’s very strong, and hot shoulder.
Sirius pulls away a little, and Remus begrudgingly lets him, then gets to see Sirius’s face be all raw and pink. Remus’s heart feels like it might break out of his body and punch Sirius right in that raw and pink and beautiful face.
“Moony, I—I’m so ridiculous, you know I am ridiculous, but you don’t know—that is—I also didn’t know—I mean, I think I did know—”
Sirius stops himself, shakes his head, laughs. Then he takes Remus’s hand and places it directly over his heart. Remus can feel the heartbeat beneath the soft fabric of Sirius’s robes, beneath the soft, hot mass of Sirius’s muscles. Remus feels like he is melting.
Sirius is looking right into his eyes, pools of silvery grey.
“Remus,” he says again, and his eyes are so grey and so close. “This heart is entirely yours.”
Remus isn’t sure what exactly follows—his heart might have as well jumped out of his chest and left Earth for an ecstatic dance among the clouds. But now, he is lying on top of Sirius, kissing him, pressing into him, and Sirius is softly moaning his name, kissing him back, pressing back into him, his hair pushed out of his huge, deep eyes and Remus is so in love, and so alive.
After—Remus is not sure how much time has passed—possibly an aeon of love and life and goodness—Remus is tracing Sirius’s drying come along Sirius’s belly, and Sirius is gasping, his arm around Remus’s waist, and Remus can’t help himself, just like he knew he couldn’t.
“Marry me,” he says, and he doesn’t even sound bashful.
Sirius giggles, and if Remus didn’t know magic existed, he would know now.
“Oh my Merlin, Moony, you are such a nerd. I love you. Yes, let’s honour the old mediaeval practice of teenage weddings!”