Vector

"Epic poetry," Remus said.

Sirius ignored him and went through his mental list of Remus Lupin's Things To Do While Riding The Muggle Underground, As Composed During Seventh Year, So Sirius Black No Longer Sprains Anything Not Minding The Gap. It was longer and more difficult than Sirius liked, but Remus was always meticulous about those sorts of things.

Sirius busied himself staring at the map affixed to the wall of the subway. Knightsbridge was the next stop. From there it'd simply be a matter of finding Brompton Road and then --

"There's a reason it's called 'epic,' you know, Sirius," Remus continued.

Sirius turned, a disgusted curl to his lip. "Remus. No books."

Remus frowned. "I don't see the gift of literacy as sub par."

Sirius Black rolled his eyes and leaned against one of the worn steel poles. He looked at the way that Remus' gloved fingers curled around the fading, cream-green plastic of a handhold above his head and thought about Harrods. He'd been seeing the colorful advertising inserts in their copy of the Times for weeks. They were green and red and shiny with glittering Christmas trees and wonderful piles of sweets and things. "Remus, no self-respecting Wizard reads this rubbish," Sirius had said him. "Says the man poring over the Tattler," Remus had replied primly.

"You've always given books as gifts," Sirius complained. "Think of something different."

Remus narrowed his eyes. "Just for that, I'm buying you an encyclopedia," he warned.

"Knightsbridge Station," a woman's voice chimed. "Next stop."

Sirius smirked. "So I'll use it to level a table."

The train pulled to a stop and Sirius minded the gap.

*****

When Sirius had first moved to London after Hogwarts, he'd spent days on end hounding Remus endlessly. Sirius had lived in London his whole life but he'd never been, he explained, and watched Remus blink large, hazel eyes in bewilderment. It had taken just over two weeks before Sirius had finally become content, having dragged every iota of knowledge of the city from Remus' lips: Bengali sweet shops in East End, bangers and mash in Muggle pubs with old war heroes, Hyde Park and Sunday Speaker's Corner, Camden and Highgate Cemetery.

It had seemed to Sirius then as if the world had suddenly exploded into a thrilling blossom of colors so much broader than the village lines of Hogsmeade or the aging stone walls of Diagon Alley. Romania was no longer the height of chic sophistication, and one didn't necessarily have to fly out to Xi-An in order to obtain good Chinese food; apparently, there was some uncharitably small place in north London that served fabulous Szechuan chicken.

And the Muggle world, for its lack of wands and Wizards and magic and shortcuts, had more interesting winding roads. Scenic hills and rolling grasses; Sirius saw the world and loved it in all its clashing, overenthusiastic glory. He opened his arms to London and it swallowed him like a much-sought-after lover.

"'S freezing out here," Remus said, voice muffled by his Gryffindor scarf, wound tightly around his neck.

Sirius couldn't help but smile at that: Remus kept everything. The colors on the scarf were still as brilliant as ever -- magic woven along the curls and knots and rings of yarn, golden-yellow tassels swinging. Remus' hands were buried deep in his pockets despite the very warm kidskin gloves Sirius had given him Christmas sixth year.

They'd been a peace offering back then, one of many that Sirius had long lost count of, deep into the sleepy winter of seventh year. All he remembered from that Christmas was how he'd gone home for holidays and spent a month's pocket money on a pair of dark brown gloves in a high-end Wizarding clothier, and then had them charmed to stay warm forever. He remembered mailing them to school and hoping for the best.

Sirius frowned. He also remembered returning to Hogwarts only to find Remus still wearing his old gloves, gray and aged and cozy but not Sirius'. Never Sirius'.

"Oi."

He blinked, and the world came back into focus. Remus was watching him with a vaguely worried expression on his face; late-afternoon sunlight making his hair more red-gold than brown.

"You were about to weave into traffic," Remus said, frowning.

And it had been a wonder, toward the middle of seventh year, when Remus had started wearing dark brown gloves to classes instead of gray ones. Where apologies and contrition and tears and stalking the Lupin household over summer had failed, Sirius found success in Remus' innate goodness, in being tired of being angry, and in cold weather. There'd been no exact moment, no declaration of forgiveness, just a weary rebuilding of tumbled walls, and Remus' eyes more hazel than black looking over a newly-repaired section, as if gauging Sirius' behavior.

He stared at Remus, silent and still and appreciative, feeling the full impact of what they'd survived in that moment.

Fuck brooding, Sirius decided, resolute. Three years down the road, he reflected, and there was Remus: concerned and wearing those kidskin gloves and still bloody cold. Some things would never change and some things would and Sirius would take those as they came. He'd learned his lesson and paid his dues -- Sirius knew better than to worry Remus with old memories and scars.

A grin crept across his face and Sirius looped one arm over Remus' shoulder. "Just caught for a moment, mate," he said lightly. And lowering his voice, he brought their faces close enough to touch foreheads to add, "You look utterly fetching in that light, Moony. Really delicious."

Remus rolled his eyes and pulled away. "Sometimes, Sirius, I really wonder about you."

Sirius waggled his brows. "Why, Mister Moony..."

Remus elbowed Sirius' midsection and stalked up the street and around the corner.

*****

"You said they had everything," Sirius said accusingly.

They were standing on the fourth floor of Harrods and Sirius was frowning, a plush dog in his hands. The fur was black and thick, shining like Padfoot's own hair, of which he was exceedingly proud. Sirius had spotted it from the escalator, exclaiming all while about how well Muggles had learned to make do without magic or moving stairs or Floo powder. (He'd half-expected Remus to slap him for talking so loudly about Muggles right in front of them, but all he'd gotten was a half-distracted nod.)

"We're on the fourth floor, Sirius," Remus said judiciously.

"So?" Sirius retorted. "You said, and I quote, 'Sirius, don't be silly. There's no point running around all over London if Harrods has everything.'"

Remus smirked. "Tell me, Sirius. In your world, is it really good sense to sell playing cards with naked women on them on a floor with mountains of children's books, clothes, and something called a Toy Kingdom?"

Sirius opened his mouth to say that yes it was, until a little girl with her mother walked by and giggled as she waved at the plush dog in Sirius' hands.

"Oh, bollocks," Sirius muttered, and Remus smiled.

He had Remus' full attention now.

And Sirius had never quite figured out all the details, but he liked to have Remus' focus.

Liked it centered squarely on him, and liked the rest of the world to back off. Sirius hated telephones, loathed intercom systems, and all of Remus' undergraduate literature students, who tended to wander into the overflowing office as if it was their God-given right while Sirius was sprawled out in the visitor's chair. "It is their right," Remus liked to remind him. "They're paying for their education, and I'm part of that."

The sentiment was unsettling, strangely, that Remus would be part of anything Sirius couldn't quite be a part of, too.

"Nice," Remus drawled. "Corrupting the youth of the United Kingdom."

Sirius snorted and continued to pout.

Remus rolled his eyes and nudged his left shoulder. "Come on, you said you wanted to buy Harry's gift first." He nodded at the stuffed dog in Sirius' hands and said, "You've decided then?"

Sirius held it up and looked at it carefully: bright, black-button eyes and a friendly smile. It was soft and well-made; Harry could slobber over it as much as he liked, which would be a welcome change from wiping newborn drool off of his pants every time he visited. Yes, Sirius decided with a satisfied smile, it'd do.

He nodded. "We'll call him Footpad."

"Terribly creative," Remus said lightly and scanned the floor for a register. Seeing one, he started off toward it, musing, "It's very nearly a perfect match, too -- well, if it weren't for the eyes."

Sirius nodded, distracted: something about the way that Remus walked.

Like he was loping across the forest floor, moon flashing on his hair.

*****

Remus leaned against the Egyptian escalator as Sirius dealt out the odd, Muggle money; paper, edges rough and surface soft from use. Of all the Muggle eccentricities, it'd taken the longest to grow used to this one; Sirius came from old money, liked the feel of it heavy in his hands; there was a thick, metallic tang to a Galleon in his fingers, how the scalloped edges of the gold coin felt against his skin.

The girl at the counter smiled brightly at him, a faint flush to her cheeks that had become familiar to him sometime around the end of fifth year. Sirius smiled back and took the package, grateful for the complimentary gift wrapping. Harry's dog was in a large, cream-colored box, nestled in foamy, green tissue paper, and covered over all with thick, shiny red paper with loops of gold ribbon.

Red and gold like Gryffindor, Sirius thought slowly, waiting for a crowd of grandmothers to navigate past him in the wide aisles.

He'd sat with Bellatrix, Narcissa, and Andromeda his first ride on the Hogwarts Express, and he'd spent most of the time listening to how Naricissa went on and on about some gorgeous, blonde creature she'd spotted at their last family outing. He thought about how vaguely twisted it was that Narcissa not only seemed to fancy a relative, but that she'd been looking for prospective boyfriends at a Black family dinner party. Then there was also the matter of being reminded constantly that he was already riding on thin ice with Mum, and how she'd favor Regulus for sure if he didn't shape up like a proper member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Sirius had narrowed his eyes and told Bellatrix to go shag a cow.

Then there'd been the carriages pulled by nothing, the Great Hall with its enchanted ceiling, and the bloody Sorting Hat. And sounding suspiciously like Andromeda, it'd said in a sly voice what a surprise, the first Black to break line in over a hundred years. Before Sirius had even been able to ask just what the hell it meant by that, the hall was echoing with the word "Gryffindor!"

Any wizard who knew anything knew the Blacks were Slytherins, through and through. Their blood (slightly-diluted through years of earnest intermarriage) was as tightly associated with the Slytherin House as was Salazar himself. He'd walked into the Great Hall shoulder to shoulder with his brethren -- and now, Gryffindor?

Andromeda had been hiding her laughter behind one hand while Bellatrix and Narcissa propped one another up, open-mouthed and scandalized. The entire Gryffindor table was silent for one long, long minute.

It was the worst minute of Sirius Black's life.

But then-prefect Frank Longbottom had slapped Arthur Weasley (who had been staring wide-eyed) hard on the back of the head and started clapping, brown eyes glaring across the table as if in warning. The applause was grudging, and then louder, and then loudest, as Gryffindor's threw up their collective hands and welcomed Sirius Orion Black, first of the year, and most unexpected of all. A redheaded witch who'd grow up to be Molly Weasley had made a spot for him next to her on the bench, and said, "Maybe we'll break that Black legacy after all," with a wicked grin. Sirius spent most of the feast wavering in between an anxiety attack over what his Mum would say and so grateful to Frank Longbottom that he couldn't breathe.

"Christ, Sirius, just what is the matter with you today?"

Sirius blinked, and the world refocused. Remus was stalking toward him, watching him intently, eyebrows knit in grudging concern, hands shoved deeply into his pockets.

He shook his head. "Nothing. Just...wandering."

Remus looked skeptical but let it pass. "Well, in any case, anything Lily or James might want are on floors below this." He started to take a step, but paused, shifted his weight back on his heel again, and cocked his head. When Remus did that, he looked strangely like the wolf, all piercing eyes and blurred edges, nature in relief. "Are you sure you're all right, Sirius? You've been like this all month."

Sirius nodded. "Fine." He made an indistinct gesture toward the escalator. "Swear."

That day he hadn't even noticed James or Remus or Peter until they'd gotten up to the first year boys' room. The awkward introductions were made there, with Peter the most shy, James the most hesitant, and Remus strangely empathetic.

Remus sighed and acquiesced. "I suppose."

That day, he hadn't noticed Remus until the boy had said, "Very nice to meet you."

Sirius hadn't stopped noticing him since.

*****

Defining the way that he felt about Remus was a slippery slope.

Things had been less complicated before the Trick.

Before the Trick, Sirius and James were brothers, Sirius and Remus were best friends, and Sirius tolerated Peter because Remus got a hard-edged look in his eyes every time that Sirius did not. Despite Remus' best efforts, it had taken Sirius all of two weeks to realize that Remus J. Lupin was not shy. Remus was quiet, and there was a vast and important difference between the two.

Silence was control, Sirius had observed with unabashed awe during first year, and Remus controlled his every action, every aspect of his life. Sirius had always joked that it had to be overcompensation. At the time, he'd meant it as an extremely crude joke about premature ejaculation; by the middle of second year, he knew it was the moon.

Sirius had never wanted to protect Remus then.

But after sixth year, after that horrible November night and the look on Snape's face the next day in Dumbledore's office. After James giving him a busted lip and a black eye in the hallway outside the boys' dorm and after he sat by Remus' bedside until morning dawned and the truth came out -- after.

It was strange, even in retrospect, to pause and take stock of the way reality had rippled outward that night. Sirius had done any of a million horrible things during his lifetime, not the least of which had been calling Lily Evans a great dirty Mudblood the first week of school and only taking it back under the quicksilver glare of Remus' eyes three weeks later. So out of a hundred thousand different mistakes and deliberate cruelties he'd dealt out, how had it been that in sixth year, having learned how to behave like a human being and not merely like an adolescent boy, he'd done such an unforgivably stupid thing?

Sirius didn't remember. The details were fuzzy. He remembered the way that Snape's eyes had flashed, and the flicker of hesitation in those inky-black irises as Sirius had told him about the knot in the Whomping Willow. Sirius remembered walking back to Gryffindor tower and remembered asking James where Remus was, as if he didn't already know.

And then Sirius remembered very little until the next morning, where he blinked and found himself in front of Dumbledore, looking for all the world as if the Sorting Hat had made a deathly mistake.

It was stupid to want to protect Remus; that much Sirius understood. Remus could kill any and all of them (and threatened to do so when pushed); he was strong and clever and subtle. He'd do it while they were sleeping or drunk or distracted by a Quidditch game and it'd look just like a horrible accident.

But for the past three years, the compulsion had been growing, slowly at first, creeping into Sirius' day to day activity and establishing itself somewhere in that nebulous place where he defined his friendships. It was nothing overt, just an unintentional hand on Remus' arm as they were about to cross a street, or how Sirius had a tendency to throw his broader shoulder in front of Remus' in a tense situation, as if to shield him from harm.

They were tiny, insignificant, and damning.

Remus might not notice, but the wolf would, and it'd only be a matter of time.

And it made sense that Sirius did it out of some lingering sense of guilt, a muted resentment toward himself that had been planted the day of the Trick and never quite dislodged. He could rationalize until he very nearly believed himself but it'd never sink through; Sirius wasn't that oblivious. Not when he had found himself thinking Remus was really quite beautiful at the end of sixth year, and not now, watching Moony's profile, washed golden in the evening light.

*****

"Green would look smashing. Dark green," Remus said speculatively. He had his chin cupped in one hand and was studying the rack carefully, eyes trailing along silk and satin. "And this is nice material, too," he added, turning to Sirius as if waiting for agreement.

Sirius was blushing, and he hated blushing.

They were standing in the women's department and garnering much of the passing attention. There were knowing smiles and giggles behind palms and one or two had even caught Remus' eye and grinned, big, broad, and bright. It was as if no woman who shopped in the Harrod's clothing department had ever seen two grown men before in their entire lives.

"Remus," Sirius said carefully. "I am not buying Lily knickers."

They were standing in front of the women's lingerie and Remus was studying a rack of ridiculously tiny green underpants. They were triangular and lacy and very thin; Sirius remembered thinking such underpants were sexy, once upon a time. Sirius now thought women were utter berks, paying that much for a scrap of cloth the size of a quartered handkerchief, and men were even bigger berks for driving them to it. And Remus was the biggest berk of all because he was looking at them with perverse intensity and telling Sirius that they were the key to all of his Christmas woes.

"They're panties," Remus correctly idly. "And they're lovely."

It made Sirius lightheaded for some inexplicable reason and he wanted to knot up a few pairs of the panties and shove them down Remus' throat. "Ha very ha," he said. "I'm not buying Lily underpants."

Remus looked up, utterly unabashed, and grinned. "Pitiful."

Sirius blinked three times and then he scowled. "That wasn't a very funny joke. Or very well-planned. Or good in any way at all."

Remus hummed, unconcerned. "And still, you fell for it."

Sirius narrowed his eyes.

*****

Sirius, contrary to popular opinion, was frequently found falling for things.

The latest Nimbus model, the latest Nimbus model model ("That's cheap pandering," Remus used to say with a smirk, and Sirius would be too busy drooling all over Altitude Air mounting a broom to respond properly), and more and more frequently -- Remus.

December of seventh year had been frightfully cold, and at the time, Sirius had been seventeen enough to attribute it to his and Remus' falling out. Looking back, Sirius thought the outlook couldn't possibly have been as dire as he'd imagined. There was no instant transition he remembered, just a slow crawl of acceptance that seemed vaguely like a second chance. By December, Remus had stopped ignoring him, but no secrets were exchanged. There were polite and sometimes even jovial conversations, but there was a necessary distance, like Remus was terrified of letting Sirius back in -- and Sirius hadn't blamed him.

But in December, Sirius had stumbled into Advanced Herbology five minutes late to find Remus bickering with Lily over what type of fertilizer to put on what plant -- wearing the kidskin gloves.

Then things had taken a terrifyingly fast turn for the better -- for more -- in rapid succession.

Afterward, every inch of leeway that Remus gave seemed more important, somehow. Moony's smile was warmer, his eyes were brighter, and the protective instinct that Sirius was terrified would give him away only amplified to an utterly unmanageable level. He was sent to Dumbledore's office no less than six times for fighting with Slytherins at the frequent, sly comments that were made just out of Remus' hearing, but the real punishment always came after, when he'd get back to Gryffindor tower and Remus would level a stare at him. "You didn't have to do that, Sirius," Remus would say, and Sirius would shrug. Moony would sigh and add, "Come on, lets get you to Madam Pomfrey's before that eye gets any worse."

It had been apparent to everyone but Remus himself that the balance of power had suddenly shifted. Years of prefecture provided Remus with ample skill to wield power, and Sirius yielded beneath Remus' gaze and his words like never before, and to no one else. James Potter's cajoling words and suggestions, the urgent desire for friendship and popularity and acceptance that had fostered itself shortly after the worst sorting ceremony in Hogwarts history faded. "Christ, aren't you a good little wife," James had commented in amused disgust. "Better than having shit for brains," was Sirius' perpetual reply. He didn't deny it, didn't fight it.

There were greater things at stake than his dignity at that point, and it had taken a long time before Sirius had really appreciated that.

Moony had always said he didn't want to talk about it, but Sirius always pushed the point. He'd lost track of how many times he'd apologized, how many different ways he'd tried to make it up. Even after Moony had forgiven him, there were still moments where Sirius felt a sudden shock of vertigo after an argument, unsettlingly frightened that it'd all fly in retrograde and Remus would take off the gloves forever.

"I didn't mean it, Moony," Sirius had said.

Remus, always cool, had smirked and waved it off. "We've established that, Sirius."

"I really didn't."

Sirius remembered how Remus had looked that morning, like a forest caged, wild and out of place and hauntingly beautiful. First moon since the Trick Padfoot had run with the wolf, and dawn was seeping into the edges of the sky. Pinks and oranges fading into faint blue over the line of trees and around the turrets and angles of Hogwarts in the distance. Remus had been wearing nothing but the cloak Sirius had thrown over him as the wolf had released him, and Sirius was sprawled on a blanket of early spring grass, green and fresh and sweet.

"Jesus Christ, Black. Shut your fat mouth about it already."

Sirius had smirked. "You're so British, Moony."

Remus had smiled then, at the wide sky above them, open like a pair of wings. "You can't fight what you are, Sirius." Hazel eyes had slanted downward to burn into Sirius' mind: a flash of silver moon and the fanged teeth, so very unlike the exterior of books and shaggy hair and a pleasant smile. "Let it go, Sirius, I get your point."

And Sirius had said, "Okay."

That had been the root of it, the terrifying truth Sirius hadn't know until then:

Remus, Sirius discovered, somewhere along the line, had become more important than the sum of all things.

*****

"No books," Sirius said resolutely.

Remus rolled his eyes. "It's a bit late for that."

Sirius scowled. "I hate that you do your Christmas shopping ahead of time."

And though Sirius harassed Remus about it, Remus' gifts were infuriatingly perfect. Nine years they'd been friends, and Sirius had gotten nine books for Christmas (birthdays usually yielded alternate presents). Remus, somehow, had a preternatural ability to always find the exact volume that you needed or wanted at exactly the right moment; Lily swore by book shopping with the werewolf, and always came back with armloads of novels and trashy romances. Remus claimed he had nothing to do with the latter; Sirius had his doubts. Remus had been seen reading the Song of Solomon sometime during his seventh year, and regardless what Moony might say, Sirius had given it a glance and it was racy material.

"You didn't really buy me an encyclopedia, did you, Remus?" Sirius asked, vaguely concerned.

Remus looked supremely involved with a cracked-glaze dish in a hideous shade of lavender. He said, "Maybe Lily needs new dishes."

Sirius snorted. "Maybe you should stick to books," he said tartly. "Did you, Moony?"

"You'll find out soon enough," Remus said smoothly. "And I don't see how I have bad taste."

Which was an appalling statement. "Remus, you're wearing gray pants with a brown jacket and a red and gold scarf. I don't even have to look at your choice in gifts -- which by the way was underpants and crockery -- to know that you have bad taste."

Remus' face had gone from curious to annoyed to annoyed amusement, and he shot back, "Says the man who dyed all of his shirts pink trying to launder his own clothing."

"Oi," Sirius said in warning, blue eyes thinning, "I thought we agreed not to talk about that anymore."

*****

It was a terrible attempt at faux offense. Sirius couldn't work up genuine irritation if his life depended on it. Something about the holidays and Remus.

The Christmas crowd in Harrods rushed past in a blur of bright colors, girls and boys and husbands and wives buzzing about whom to get what and at which price. There was a wonderful tempo to large groups of people -- Wizarding or otherwise. The colors and snatches of conversation all blended into a large, white noise, and Sirius liked to let it sink in around himself, to absorb it into his fingertips.

But more so, Remus.

Which was strange, and didn't make sense. Remus pissed him off, Remus frustrated him. Remus could make him laugh and Remus could make Sirius feel like he'd become a better person, or was trying to get there, at least. Something about forward motion and inertia with a positive acceleration, physics terminology that Sirius' Advanced Arithmancy book had touched upon, very briefly.

He'd chalked it up to Remus' disgusting ability to control the universe sometime during fifth year.

"That's got to be werewolf magic," Sirius had said.

"Bad tradeoff, if you ask me," Remus had said tiredly.

Sirius had scoffed and started winding the last piece of linen around Remus' palm.

Remus had been on his third cup of willow bark tea, and popping white, oval tablets he claimed were perfectly safe. Sirius disapproved. He didn't like the way Remus had explained the so-called medicine: made of chemicals? Like potions, but without Madam Pomfrey's stamp of approval. It was probably unsafe and horrible. But Remus had a way of steamrolling complaints that made Sirius feel stupid and invasive, so he'd resigned himself to bandaging Remus' hand and frowning.

It was always hard to think the morning after the moon, especially with fragments of the Animagus transformation running through his mind like a most tantalizing tease. Sirius' whole head was filled with thoughts and images of Remus, of Moony, of the Forbidden Forest at night and the way night had fallen in a cloak around wolf and dog, and the earth had opened up beneath their paws. It had always seemed so suddenly constrictive as dawn drew over, and wolf shifted back to boy -- just slightly more tame -- and the dog shed its own skin.

"You control the universe. Read minds, everything," Sirius had protested.

He remembered -- now more clearly than before -- the way that Remus' wrist had felt in his hands, thin, delicate, too delicate, impossibly fragile-feeling for somebody so supernaturally strong.

Remus had made a humming noise. "Maybe," he had said, mostly to humor Sirius. "But I'll never see the full moon."

And they'd both fallen so terribly quiet at that, solemn and too still for fifth-year boys.

So Sirius had said, "I could draw you a picture."

And Remus had laughed, bright, young, and happy.

*****

When Remus laughed, Sirius always became convinced he was in serious trouble.

The sound elicited an uncomfortable acceleration in his chest, and a clockwork warmth that spread to the tips of his fingers and through his skin like dawn creeping across a floor.

The Trick and its aftermath had taught Sirius to be grateful for any clarity at all, and losing Remus before had showed him how important it was that it never happen again. Sirius, at least where one bookish werewolf was concerned, rarely allowed the luxury of self-delusion, and he'd spent the past three weeks condensing all the fractious feelings that cluttered up his head into several brief facts.

One, Sirius was highly and irrationally overprotective of Remus, who could probably tear just about anybody limb from limb easily -- provided enough incentive.

Two, Sirius got stupid around Remus, which was annoying since while he was clever he'd never been eloquent, and the pitying-cum-amused expression on Remus' face when Sirius tripped over his tongue was getting to be a pain in his arse.

Three, Remus' happiness was currency in Sirius' world.

"You're a sodding idiot, Remus," Sirius finally said, since he couldn't think of anything better, thereby cheerfully reinforcing point number two on the list of Worrisome Things.

Remus smiled merrily, hazel eyes turning green for a moment. "Wanker," he said.

Sirius grinned back. It was easy to slip into and out of this comfortable name-calling, something that they'd been doing since they were first years, intuitive like sleep or closeness. There were many things like that, Sirius had discovered over the years, with Remus. How Moony always stacked and restacked his pillows three times before he slept, sometimes all at once, sometimes scattered between his shower and his midnight tea and book search. How they leaned into one another's space if there was a shortage of it, preferring to at least feel uncomfortably crushed near someone they weren't uncomfortable with. How Moony and Padfoot fell into step together with moonlight flashing off of their fur and fangs, huffing and playing like puppies when the others weren't there to watch -- intuitive, naturally, easy like breathing in and out.

Sirius opened his mouth to launch into an impressive volley of insults regarding Remus' parentage, sexual prowess, and ability to make omelets when they both heard, "Professor Lupin!"

Remus turned first, eyes wide like his smile and it irritated Sirius for some reason, to be pushed so quickly and totally out of Remus' attention. There was an instinctive, barely-repressed desire to grab Remus' arm, and pull him back, to catch hazel eyes again and say, "Hey."

For a moment, Sirius entertained the possibility.

And then he pasted a curious expression on his face and turned, too, in time to see four girls -- and they must have been just girls, no more than eighteen, each of them -- bouncing toward Remus at an alarming speed.

Sirius took half a step forward, shoulder in front of Remus'.

"What are you -- ?" Remus started, looking puzzled.

Sirius winced and realized exactly what he'd done.

For once, fate cut him slack and the girls were upon them before Remus had any time to wrap his too-clever mind around exactly what that move might have meant. Though in retrospect, Sirius thought, a little clarity might have been useful. If anyone knew what was going through Sirius' mind, it'd have to be Remus.

"Miss Chang," Remus said with a nod. He smiled at the others, who smiled back shyly. "Who are your friends?"

The girl waved her hand. "Oh. Claire, Fiona, and Molly. They're music majors."

Sirius watched with some amusement as the first two girls named raised their eyebrows in an unreadable expression trained solely on their friend.

Remus laughed, good-natured and cheerful. "I see," he said warmly.

It didn't, however, make him feel any better about the fact that she was leaning slightly forward, the smile curling around her glossed-pink mouth looking every bit as sweet as the chocolate Remus loved so well.

Sirius tightened his fist. The stray thought passed through his mind that Remus remembered this girl by name, and that had to be important. College classes were enormous, weren't they? Lecture halls filled with young faces. She probably sat front row, left side, where Remus liked to lecture. She probably knew all the answers and went to Remus' office hours and pestered him to discuss Anthropology and occultism with her -- Remus could never resist that.

She was wearing dark jeans and a peacoat and playing with her chin-length hair with one hand.

Jezebel, Sirius decided hotly. Temptress. Vile, wicked creature. She was putting Remus' job on the line, probably. And Remus, so involved with his history and words wouldn't notice until he woke up one day and went to work and accidentally shagged her on his desk, the arsing bastard.

She leaned over a bit more, eyes swinging from Remus' face to Sirius', and Sirius found himself taking a surprised step back at that. "And who's this, Professor Lupin?"

He was taking serious offense to the way she was saying Remus' name. That had to be criminal. It was the United Kingdom -- everything vaguely sexual had been condemned at one point or another.

Remus blinked three times, and then seemed to suddenly notice that Sirius was still standing there. "Oh!" he said, embarrassed. "Where are my manners?"

"Lost like your attendance," the girl supplied helpfully. She was blushing.

And if Remus noticed that his student was atrociously, horribly, inappropriately infatuated with him, he didn't say anything, just smirked and let the dig roll over him as he said, "Yes, well." He turned to Sirius added, "May, this is Sirius Black, one of my best friends."

That helped, Sirius grudgingly admitted. He managed a smile and to only look slightly like a vagabond as he gave a half-bow and said, "Enchante, Miss Chang."

Remus rolled his eyes and continued, saying, "Christ, Sirius. And this is one of our graduate TAs, May Chang."

May giggled and curtseyed. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Black."

Remus nodded approvingly and said, "Her name means "beautiful" in Chinese." Moony turned to smile at her -- and he was definitely getting his teaching license revoked if he kept up that nonsense, Sirius ranted in his head -- and added, "Fascinating culture, really."

"You don't have to comfort me, Professor," she shot back. "There's a reason that there're only three Asian Studies majors."

Sirius didn't growl at Remus or the tart in denim but it was very hard.

She let her eyes trace over Remus for a few lingering moments before offering up a shaking smile and saying, "Er, well, I ought to go." She turned to smile apologetically at her friends, who were all rolling their eyes at her. "Detained them long enough."

Remus smiled agreeably. "All right then. It was nice seeing you."

She nearly tripped over herself to agree, but thankfully, any lengthy goodbyes were cut short by the redhead grabbing her by the arm and hauling her off in the direction of house wares, muttering something at the brunette who was laughing herself sick.

"Whatever you're thinking," Remus said lightly, "you can stop it right now."

Sirius twisted about to see where Remus had drifted toward an escalator, and Sirius fell into line beside Remus just as they stepped onto the moving steps. "I wasn't thinking anything," Sirius said doggedly. "Aside from the fact that she was acting like a dog in heat."

Remus sighed and didn't look at Sirius. He looked at the Christmas displays, which Sirius found were suddenly less pretty than he remembered them being half an hour ago.

"Considering the number of undignified crushes you had in your lifetime, I don't think you've got the right to say that about her," Remus said tightly. His long fingers were tight on the escalator rail, skin sliding against smooth metal, and Sirius stared at Remus' hands because he didn't trust himself to look at Remus' face.

Sirius frowned. "I wasn't in a position to get them fired if people figured it out," he shot back.

"I'm not getting fired," Remus said airily, but there was a slight inflection in his voice. Sirius looked up in time to see Remus turn to him, a weary expression on his face, grudgingly affectionate and still annoyed. "She's not stupid."

"Oh and I am," Sirius scoffed.

"Oh for Christ's sake," Remus said.

They stepped off the escalator into the men's department and Sirius decided that he was never going to talk again. Every time he opened his mouth he ruined something: the grand secret of James crush on Lily, the Whomping Willow, and that thing about Kingsley Shacklebolt that Kingsley'd never forgive Sirius for mentioning.

They looked at sweaters and ties and socks. Sirius finally found the playing cards with naked women on them (four kinds), but then Remus reminded him given that Lily was with James, there'd probably be serious physical repercussions from buying James such a thing. Sirius froze for a moment, realization sinking in uncomfortably.

"What else will I buy him, then?" he asked, panicking.

He'd never bought James anything of any actual substance for Christmas; it had always been candy or pornography between the two of them, and it was a system that worked. If Sirius or James had ever wanted a gift that was expensive and grand, it nearly always came from a fawning Peter -- and thank God he'd grown out of that stage. The enormous alabaster profile of James' head had been enormously creepy, more because James liked it so well and kept it in the dormitory than the fact that Peter had gotten it commissioned.

If Sirius wanted a gift that meant something, he inevitably waited for a present from Remus.

Remus smirked and motioned at the entire men's department. "There's loads of things here. Just pick something."

Which meant that Remus was still angry at him, Sirius thought with a scowl.

There was something fundamentally unfair about the way they operated when waiting for one or the other to give in. Remus was inclined toward silence, drifted in quiet like a dream and soaked it into his fingertips -- stillness had never bothered him. Sirius craved motion, needed sound and grew nervous when a situation yielded none.

Sirius cleared his throat and grabbed at a tie. He said, "What about this?"

Remus looked at it for a moment, and reached one hand out to stroke along the length of it, eyes intent. And Sirius watched him, focused and narrow in that second, concentrated in one place. It was suddenly very important that Sirius stay close like this forever. Close enough so that he could watch Remus' hands, fingers trailing down silk cloth and catching on the knot with a thoughtful pause -- close enough to be in orbit.

"Nice color," Remus said, finally, "but James would never wear it."

Sirius nodded. "Ah."

The first fight Sirius had ever had with Remus was almost a decade ago, second term of first year. He'd come back from Christmas hols unsettled and slighted, remembering his mother's glare and his father's disapproving glances more clearly than his numerous and expensive gifts -- because affection wasn't parceled in money; presents were expected like breathing, but attention was what the Black brothers had always fought for, and what Sirius had mostly won, once long ago. He'd been stinging from Regulus' new favor, and from the expression on his father's face when he said that he'd made friends in school, and hadn't wanted to go to Durmstrang.

And that hurt, too, remembering how it wasn't his happiness that had his parents suggesting a transfer. It had only been tangential, something to be spoken after a pause.

He'd ripped into Remus, shouting and throwing up his hands, not even caring about the startled flash of pain that had gone through Remus' eyes as he'd ranted. All that Sirius had known that day was that nothing was right, everything had gone off course, and it was Remus' fault even though it wasn't at all. It was as likely as to have been James or Peter.

"It's all your fault!" Sirius had shouted. "It's all your fault. You freak Mudblood -- "

And then Remus had decked him. One punch and Sirius was laying flat on his back and walking around with a puffed nose for a week since he wasn't about to go to Madam Pomfrey and tell her that the slight, perpetually ill Remus Lupin had made Sirius Black lay there on the floor of the dorm with a bloody nose, barely stemming tears.

That had been the way it always went. He and Remus had never bothered to settle fights with actual words or apologies until they'd been seventh years. It had never seemed necessary before the Trick. And it always came back to that, no matter how far or fast Sirius ran or ignored it or reminded himself that Moony had forgiven him; the event, the after, seemed like a pivot point, an origin, with lines of fate spiraling out of it wildly.

He was never going to find James an appropriate present, Sirius realized dismally.

Remus kept his eyes on the tie and said, "I'm not going to get fired, Sirius."

"I know," Sirius said quietly. He replaced the tie on the rack and looked round, at the still-rushing crowds and the small groups of women, bent together over wallets and belts and shirts for their husbands and fathers and sons. "I just -- " he started, and decided he didn't know what to say. It made him itch.

"Never knew you as the jealous type," Remus said lightly, smiling just a bit at the corners of his eyes. Merciful Moony, Sirius thought with admiration, always offering everybody a way out.

Sirius threw one arm over Remus' shoulder possessively and pulled his friend closer. Close enough to feel the wiry-muscled shape of Remus' arm underneath his worn but comfortable coat. Close enough to smell the winter air and faint odor of books on Remus' skin. Close enough to breathe in the smell of Ivory soap and shampoo that lingered in Remus' hair, clean and too-young for the too-old eyes those brown bangs obscured.

And it took a moment of Remus staring at him skeptically, not fighting to get out of Sirius' grasp before Sirius could work his tongue properly. "'Course I am, Moony," Sirius said, voice softer than he'd intended.

Remus made a chuffing sound and pushed Sirius' arm off of him. "You sound like you started bathing in treacle," Remus said, gruff.

That had been...unsettling.

Warmth there and gone and the cold all the more abrupt for it, as if after nine years of the same thing there'd suddenly been more to it than teasing and brotherly affection. As if Sirius had touched Remus to touch Remus, and not to help him up or knock him down.

"And now you're acting as if it seeped into your brain," Remus commented with a frown, grabbing Sirius by the elbow and dragging him off to a more deserted corner. Remus waited until a terrifying group of women passed by, shrieking and giggling, before he turned to Sirius and stared at him intensely, far more intensely than he'd looked at Sirius in a long time.

And that, Sirius admitted to himself, was so good.

Sirius had never been deprived of attention as a child. He'd shown magical talent very early, and his mother had told him stories about his father's hair and their house elves and how neither of them had ever been the same after Sirius Black had made his mark on the family tree.

"But your father was proud," his mum had reassured him, stroking one hand along his hair. She'd always smelled like the Sandalwood incense she burned to cover the smell of the potions brewing in the basement, and Sirius had always buried his face in the fleshy part of her arm, breathing in home. Uncomfortable and dark and claustrophobic, but contained and his, so well loved before Regulus had come along, before he'd realized how many people he was supposed to hate.

But for arguments and accidents, he'd been coddled, well-loved, spoiled and privileged; every bit the haughty prince of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black that he'd been expected to be. It'd taken Hogwarts, the most miserable two weeks of his life, and the quiet voices of the most unexpected friends of all to teach him that attention was not so much a given as granted for merit.

Ever since, Sirius had strived to be meritorious.

It hadn't mattered that much before, Sirius told himself crazily. In first year through fourth and part of fifth -- it hadn't mattered so much. But that pivot point, that night where he said stupid things and watched James run off into the darkness to prove he was a hero. The morning after when he watched Remus lay in the bed and close his eyes.

*****

The morning light in the infirmary never changed after full-moon nights, always gray and watery as if the day didn't want to let go of the night. Sirius remembered a story that Professor Sinestra had told them once during first year, about the sun and moon being lovers, and chasing each other throughout the sky. "That's so stupid," Sirius had always said when girls sighed at the story during inconsequential dates.

But night and day, tangled like lovers, melted into a charcoal colored light that washed out across the floor. Sirius had become intimately aware of the floor, of the night and of the day and of that space in between. He had waited by Remus' bed and still thought, how stupid, for all the stars in the sky, that the moon still wait for the day.

And Madam Pomfrey had stared at him a long time, some combination of pity and disgust that she couldn't keep from her expression. She'd said, just as Remus seemed to stir in his sleep, "He'll need the bandages on his hand changed," and left.

So Sirius had been careful and precise -- as always, and always only with Remus -- and wound linen bandages around Remus' palm. He ignored the worst of the damage: deep gashes and flayed skin along his arm, bruised flesh from an unnatural pull, and the weary way that Remus slept, with a peaceful exhaustion, so lost in inky black that the moon never thought of the stars, much less the sun.

It was nearly twenty minutes later, with Sirius still like a stone when Remus had slowly blinked into waking, that the light in the room had turned yellow.

Reason always came slowly to Remus in the mornings, and hazel eyes had blinked three times before all the wild, werewolf gold had faded from his irises, before the savageness of night had disappeared. He had said, "Sirius."

And Sirius had said, "Hello."

And he didn't remember what he'd said afterward, only that by the time that Remus closed his eyes and murmured, "I never want to talk to you again," that the whole world had collapsed in on itself.

But Sirius remembered being afraid, being truly aware, and that sensation was far worse than he'd ever imagined. He likened it to the point of a knife, dragging along his palm, or immersing himself in ice water, or most frequently, the dull ache of living in Gryffindor tower for a year -- watching, but not seen.

"Remus please," he'd always said afterward.

For a moment, Remus' face had always softened, the natural inclination to forgive his friends, let them get away with it -- they were Remus' only friends, after all -- almost winning before night shot through Remus' expression, and hazel eyes closed over. Before Remus simply walked around Sirius and into Charms, where Lily Evans was as likely as anything to have already saved a seat for him beside herself, and spend the rest of class blushing faintly every time their elbows brushed.

And Sirius remembered hearing the blood roar in his ears.

He nearly failed Charms that year.

It was strange what memory chose to keep and what it chose to discard, like sorting through photographs after someone had gone.

*****

It had mattered then. It mattered now. It'd probably matter forever.

"What is going on with you?" Remus asked, eyes dark.

Remus' skin looked preternaturally white under the lights of the store, and the red and gold scarf that was still looped around his neck looked too much like blood for Sirius' liking. His hands itched to pull it away, to replace it with something that belonged, something green or brown, lush like life and pale like moon.

Sirius opened his mouth to reply but Remus stared him down. "Don't say you're fine. You've been in and out all day." Remus' expression softened and he looked for a moment as if he wanted to reach out, to comfort Sirius somehow, before he pulled his hand back, and shoved it deep into his pocket. The concern remained, and he added, "Sirius, you can tell me."

Sirius sighed. "I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know."

"Do you feel sick?" Remus asked. "Or have you had trouble sleeping, or -- ?"

"None of the above," Sirius said, suddenly impatient. He took three steps away and found himself feeling unaccountably stifled. It was strange and upsetting that after years of being so close to somebody, that proximity would become -- not unwelcome, but uncharted territory, as if Sirius' center of balance had shifted, and he was learning to walk all over again.

Remus frowned. "Right." There was a pause and then Remus said, "Do you want to go home?"

Sirius' mouth remained doggedly shut and he stared straight ahead to avoid staring at Remus.

His brain locked on one word, and it echoed in his head: home.

Home had never been that important before, just a nebulous construct of obligations and terrifying relatives he'd pranked at school and would certainly repay him in full over the summer. And after leaving 12 Grimmauld Place, after sixth year and after the world had reshaped itself, home had been a cottage near the edge of the Potters' property line, granted on charity, small and humble but his own, and very well-loved. Summer rolled into seventh year and home had been Hogwarts, and the bed to the left of Remus, where shafts of morning light fell on the stone floors between the trailing red bedsheets and always caught Moony's attention at sunrise and set.

And home for what Sirius had somehow along the way decided was forever: London.

London was fast and London was thick with people and things. London was Moony and his silly Muggle eccentricities, like making tea with a kettle and hot water and no magic. London was the smell of the streets and the Thames and Remus walking a large, shaggy black dog when the fancy caught Sirius. London was twinkling lights at night and nothing close to silence at any hour of night.

Home. Sirius turned it over and over in his mouth. Home.

When had home become more than four walls and a door? A soft bed and a good night's rest? At what point had home changed, developed features, started garnering things unique to itself? When had home caught onto the sound of Remus flipping the pages of a book and the faint drone of the Muggle radio, constant chatter or strange music?

And furthermore, home was demanding, specialized, and concentrated in the way that Remus had rested one hand on Sirius' arm as he'd said the word.

"Home," Sirius finally managed.

Remus' eyes searched Sirius' face and Sirius stared back, unabashed. This had been a border he'd crossed years prior: a fascination with the occasional otherworldly glint of gold in Remus' irises long since defeating any impropriety that he still entertained when it came to watching people intently. And Remus had thrown up his hands and admitted defeat after three years of claiming Sirius was just imagining things -- it had become clear that if Sirius convinced himself he saw something, it was as real and tactile as if it had always existed, always been.

And when had that happened? When had Remus and home become to intrinsically tied that Sirius couldn't find one without the other?

"Yes, home," Remus said matter-of-factly. His eyes were half-lidded now, amused and dark with it, less concerned now that Sirius had reanimated, but still there, reserved and close enough to --

Close enough.

It sounded, and Sirius was starting to doubt his sanity, a lot like something uncomfortably intimate.

For the moment, he stared at Remus and wondered if it was even possible.

He shook his head and muttered, "No, I have to finish this."

Remus frowned deeply and Sirius recognized that expression with the barest hint of amusement. It wasn't to say that Remus didn't try to hide his alpha wolf tendencies -- because he tried very hard -- it was just that he was spectacularly bad about it, at least to people who knew what to look for. And naughty as it was, Sirius had derived no greater joy in the last three years than to subtly tease Remus, to push the boundaries. He'd always had a rough time following directions; Remus should have known that by then.

That was something else that was cause for concern: that push.

For no reason that Sirius could understand properly, the idea of Remus snapping -- as he so rarely did -- of Remus baring his teeth and flashing his eyes and digging his long fingers into the flesh of Sirius' shoulder and slamming him back against the wall was deeply tantalizing. The idea that he could say this or that or put a toe or six out of line and have Remus flying out of his own orbit, spun wildly out of that carefully kept control --

Delicious, powerful, intoxicating, and addictive. Something for which he couldn't puzzle out an origin or even begin to explain.

"You have four more days, and you already bought Peter's present," Remus said diplomatically, and pulled away, just enough to make Sirius feel the distance between them. But Remus' voice was soft as he added, "There's no rush."

But there was, somehow, Sirius realized.

"Why are you always so bleeding reasonable?" Sirius grumbled. He kicked at the ground and found his fingers digging into the wall, wishing his dull nails would cut marks into the surface, to produce something solid for him to use as an anchor.

"Someone has to be," Remus said curtly. "We're going home."

And again, the shock went through him like an electric thrill. Home was such an ordinary, frequent thing, it had no business making Sirius weak and flighty, unsettled and uncomfortably comfortable, like melting into someone you knew very well.

Sirius rubbed his face in annoyance. "Bugger," he muttered, and left it at that.

He could feel Remus' frown. "Home," Moony said. "Right now."

Sirius desperately, desperately needed to make Remus stop saying but he figured that shouting that at Remus would produce nothing but corrosive levels of testosterone -- which, if worse came to worse, might induce Remus to sink his human teeth in Sirius' human neck in a very canine indication of dominance.

And the thought, as it had been since before Sirius could properly remember, was oddly appealing. He'd always maintained that Remus needn't be so terrified of what was inside him, part of him, intrinsic to the person that Sirius had met and learned to care for at school. Pieces of the wolf and Remus wound together and when Sirius saw kind hazel eyes, he saw them with a golden streak, as supernatural as Remus' perpetual calm.

He felt itchy and irate, like something was crawling across his skin.

Sirius turned purposefully to the menswear department and stared through the one of the glass partition windows and said loudly, "What do you think of that coat, Moony?"

He felt Remus' stare burn into his cheek for nearly a minute before Remus buckled and said, "It's a very nice coat, Sirius."

Sirius blinked and really saw it for the first time.

He blinked again, regarded the cut of the shoulders and the narrow waist and said, almost surprised, "Why -- yes it is."

*****

Sirius realized he was in love with Remus when Remus was standing beside him in the three-panel mirror.

It was such a simple realization that Sirius boggled first at how long it'd taken him to reach it before the nature of the realization itself.

Sirius had never much bothered himself with queers, and he'd never much objected, either. But to come about face with the sudden realization that he was in love with one of his best friends and a person very obviously of the male persuasion put a tilt on the situation. He thought about touching someone else's cock and tried to process his being in love with Remus at the same time and decided it was too much for one afternoon -- one week -- one lifetime, and settled on the latter instead.

He tilted his head to one side and ignored the rising panic in the back of his mind.

It wasn't all that strange, to be honest, he thought calmly. After all, he'd known Remus during all of his formative years and continued to consort with him long after. Their memories and lives were so deeply intertwined, wound like tree roots in the forest floors, with night and a handful of stars blanketing them overhead. So much of what Sirius knew and loved was found to be part of, or inside of, Remus: precious and rare like the gold glow of Remus' eyes when he was more wild than tamed.

Always more wild than tamed, Sirius would argue.

That first spark had come to life long before Sirius had a name for it, long before he'd even known of the possibility. Wind and darkness carding through his hair and the earth yielding beneath his paws, Moony a silver streak at his side as their mismatched little pack loped through the woods. Sirius remembered how the oxygen burned in his lungs as he'd laid there at dawn, a cloak thrown over Remus' naked body and the four of them gasping, thrilled and terrified and wonderfully young. Sirius had reached out and grabbed Remus' hand, and their fingers had intertwined tightly as Remus said, "Thank you." It'd been girly and stupid but it'd been okay, too, because nobody had ever talked about it after and they'd only held hands for a little while.

It was so obvious now, with Remus pursing his lips at Sirius, deep in thought.

It wasn't terrible, either, Sirius decided. Remus was pleasant to look at, something Sirius had known since sixth year when looking was all Sirius had been allowed to do. Remus was, at first glance, very ordinary, with brown hair and brownish eyes and a tendency to fade into the background of any given situation. But Sirius had always noticed the light streaks of blonde in Remus' straight brown strands, bleached out from a summer of digging through his mother's garden. And later, after, when Remus stopped talking to him, Sirius noticed how Remus' eyes weren't brown at all, but a wonderful, changing hazel color, that shifted from green to gray to brown to gold depending on his mood, on the day of the month, on the hour of night.

Sirius noticed Remus' skin now, pale and rosy at the cheeks and nose from cold, even though they'd been in the store for hours already. Sirius noticed the elegant curve of Remus' neck, the line of his nose, the bow of his mouth and the rounded bottom lip, pink and bitten in Remus' concentration.

Sirius noticed Remus' hands, with such long and artful fingers.

Those same fingers stroking down the length of a page, of a patch of skin, along the line of Sirius' neck and pausing at the hollow between his collarbones before a flick and then mouth, tongue along his throat --

And the prospect didn't seem quite so odd anymore.

"Also I've been shagging McGonagall on the sly," Remus said.

Sirius blinked, panicked, and blinked again. "What?" he all but shouted.

Remus smirked and Sirius felt a rolling wave of nausea at the thought of Remus, pants around his ankles with McGonagall in the Transfigurations room. He paled and blinked hard to shake the image loose but it continued to rattle along his brain stem and he made a soft noise of distress at that, murmuring, "Christ, Remus."

"I was just having you on," Remus said, concerned. "If you can't tell then I shall seriously consider some drastic course of action, such as lobotomy, or perhaps suicide."

"Neither, please," Sirius croaked. It'd be a shame to finally figure out he was in love with someone only to drive them to death. "And what was that holy terror for, anyhow?"

Strange, Sirius thought distantly, how it hadn't gotten any more difficult to talk to Remus in the six minutes since the realization had set it. Even more puzzling, how his muscles had unwound, as if he had just taken a long breath, oxygen coursing though his body and waking up parts of his brain -- awareness seeping in at long last.

There was no space, no awkwardness, and he didn't stutter or start; Sirius of the day before melted seamlessly into the Sirius of that moment.

He realized he'd never given much consideration to his own sexuality before. After all, hadn't he bedded two girls in sixth year, earlier than any of the other boys? Hadn't he had his share of girlfriends and lovers? He hadn't stopped in the middle of making love to any of those women to apologize about it just not working for him. He'd never looked them deep in the eye to say, "It's your gender, you see." What had happened between the last woman he'd been with and that moment under the bad overhead lighting to rearrange the universe, misalign Sirius' thought processes, throw him so completely out of order?

He couldn't pinpoint an origin, an intercept, and it was unsettling, working from some ambiguous point on a vast coordinate plane and watching the function go wildly out of its own boundaries. Arithmancy unleashed, magic amplified and rearranged, restated to provide clarity. Perhaps it wasn't a reordering of events at all, Sirius thought dimly. Maybe, all the variables and coefficients had simply replaced themselves where they were most visible, lined up to form a simple concept and a simple thought.

"You were getting lost in that godforsaken head of yours again," Remus said, disapproval clear in his voice. "One more time and I'm taking you home without your input."

The fact that Remus was a man was less upsetting than he assumed it should have been.

Largely, Sirius assumed, because there was so much about Remus to love. So many tiny things that Sirius knew from seven years of sleeping on his blind side and watching him stumble into furniture in the late hours of morning, still asleep though it was nearly ten o'clock. It was in the way that Remus tilted his head when he scowled, and how he knew the heavens as well as the back of his own hands, could pinpoint a charm to the exact second and heartbeat with a line of numbers and letters and a flick of the wrist. It was in the way that he hadn't spoken to Sirius most of sixth year, and then how he'd forgiven him. It was in the way that he read books, quietly, indulgently, mouthing the words to himself with fingertips stroking along the lines of words printed on crackling parchment.

It was in the way that Sirius had probably loved Remus all his life, and only tripped into it now.

In the tri-fold mirror, there were three different versions of them. One where Sirius loomed over Remus, dashing in the dark coat, one where Remus blocked Sirius, warm and comfortable in his old Gryffindor scarf -- that thing was a mess, really -- and coat, and one where they stood side by side, Remus' shoulder brushing his own.

Sirius decided he liked all three. He liked how Remus' hair looked, brown against the pale of his face, and how it contrasted with the black of Sirius' own shaggy bangs, wild on his olive skin. Sirius liked Remus' smooth brow and the little wrinkles that had already formed around his eyes from years of worry, from years of being Remus. It was simply that, Sirius decided, he liked the way they looked together, close enough to touch.

And the thought heartened him for some reason. Hadn't that been all he'd ever wanted? Be close to his friends, to be near enough to reach out and grab the scruff of James neck, Remus' elbow, to pull them close and hold them dear. Eleven years too many spent in the Black household where love was present, but given jealously, dangerously, with the knowledge that it was a barter. And then Hogwarts and misunderstandings and a slow change. Sixth year and seventh and now, the very moment and the image of himself standing next to Remus under fluorescent lighting, unflattering and washing the color from their faces, but correct somehow, just right, in proximity.

Sirius smiled. He'd worry about the other things in the morning.

For the moment, he mulled the prospect: a boyfriend.

"It's okay, Remus. I promise." He grinned, feeling the expression more than he did earlier. "If you're tired, you could just admit it, you awful girl."

Though if Remus really was tired, Sirius felt that they ought to go home -- their home, and he'd never appreciated that properly before -- and let Remus sleep. It'd give him an excuse to watch Moony sleep, to study the way that Remus breathed in and out and how his eyelids fluttered in dreams and how he curled and uncurled his fingers around his bedsheets. Sirius wondered how those fingers would feel if they were curling and uncurling around his hands.

Remus raised one eyebrow. "You're right," he deadpanned. "I'd make an awful girl."

"But if you were a girl," Sirius went on contrarily, "you'd be wonderful at it."

"Thank you," Remus said oddly. "I think."

Sirius threw an arm around Remus' shoulders. He liked that, too, the way that the curving bones and flesh of Remus' shoulder felt alive underneath his fingertips, through Remus' clothes. "Imagine it, Remus. You'd be the most sought-after creature in Gryffindor tower! Wanted for charm and beauty and the ineffable ability to grind the will of men into dust with just a glare."

Remus nodded. "Also, I could eat you."

Sirius frowned. "Yes, there's that, but it's not the most important bit, is it?"

Remus rolled his eyes and pulled himself out of Sirius' hold, saying, "Before you can start extolling the virtues of my hypothetical knockers, are you going to buy that coat or not? That salesgirl looks as if she's about to faint."

The thought of Remus' hypothetical knockers was a lot less attractive than it could be. Sirius liked Remus' chest, which was thin and pale and had one long, thin scar running from just underneath his second rib on the left side to the fourth. The thought of running his hands over Remus' imperfect skin, fingers riding up underneath Remus' shabby, comfortable sweaters and shirts; the possibility made him lightheaded.

"It's a big decision," Sirius said solemnly. "Big commitment."

Remus snorted derisively and said, "Astounding. I've known you almost a decade and this is the longest you've ever thought about something before doing it." He grinned wryly. "Is this a positive change I sense in you, Padfoot?"

He focused long enough to look away from Remus and say, "You really like it?"

He wasn't even sure if he was talking about the coat. Sirius stroked his hands over the sides of the garment, warm and wool and realized he'd never be able to look at it without thinking about Remus, and how he loved Remus. That wasn't such a terrible purchase.

And Remus, rolling his hazel eyes, said with a grin and a disapproving voice, "For God's sake, Padfoot. You're in no shortage of money or ego, please don't make me stroke your self-image."

Sirius grinned. No, not a terrible purchase at all.

*****

Sirius had already bought Remus' Christmas present -- three months ago.

He hadn't been looking for a present, he'd been looking for home. But over the years he'd found some of his favorite places in London while lost, and the bookstore was no exception. The shelves were dusty and the single clerk in the shop seemed to have read every single book on the shelf. He'd bought a copy of The Scarlet Letter, a first edition, apparently, and squirreled it away. It'd be perfect, Remus would love it, and already, Sirius was one down, four more to go.

But at that moment, watching Remus stare out into nothing and counting out bills to hand to the salesgirl, Sirius suddenly found the gift wanting.

So far that day, he'd seen dozens of things he'd liked, or thought Remus might: books, teacups, the odd trinket and something called a Tibetan calendar wheel. It was three brass pieces, circular and a waving edge, painted in red and blue and carved with indecipherable letters and numbers. But Remus, with excitement in his eyes, two floors ago, showed him to line up all those little marks correctly. "It's a mathematical chart, you see," Remus had explained. "A calendar for what, three, five years?" He'd glanced up to see Sirius' cocked eyebrow before setting it back down, flushing and muttering something about how he wasn't the one who got choked up every time he saw a broom.

And there'd been so many lovely things in that enormous store, Sirius felt silly and annoyed with himself, having set out that day to buy Christmas presents for Lily, James, and Harry, and coming back with a coat for himself and a stuffed dog. "It's like an effigy, really," Remus had said, and Sirius had scowled at that.

It had been perfect then, he thought with a frown, and it was still a good present, but lacking.

Sirius sighed and handed over his money, leaning back to stare past a multicolored display of sweaters to were Remus was standing next to a mannequin. His hands were in his pockets -- still wearing the kidskin gloves, Sirius thought warmly -- and that ancient scarf draped around his neck.

Sirius blinked, twice, and said, "Oh."

Then, he turned to the salesgirl and said, "Excuse me, I'd like to add something to that purchase."

*****

Sirius liked the way Remus read his books, with fingers tracing the lines and mouth shaping the words. He liked the way that Remus made his tea, half-distracted and always mostly asleep. He liked how Remus was under the impression that he hid his control-freak tendencies.

Sirius liked Remus.

So he asked that his last buy not be packaged, and that the salesgirl go on and cut the tag off. He grinned and she must have seen his stare; it was a grudging smile that crept across her face in time to Sirius' blush and then she'd simply said, "Happy Christmas."

And he'd made sure that Remus was still distracted, blurry-eyed at the dizzying number of Christmas lights and displays before he walked quietly to his side and he'd pulled the Gryffindor scarf from Remus' neck in a graceless move that left him choking for a second. Sirius flushed and muttered "Sorry" and then draped the scarf around Remus' shoulders.

For a moment, Remus only blinked, rubbing at his throat and seeming not to register the gift at all. But those long fingers stroking the length of his neck brushed cashmere eventually and Sirius tried not to beam too brightly as Remus took up the corner of the scarf and stared at it as if it were the eighth marvel of the ancient world.

Remus' eyes focused then, and he said, "Sirius, this -- "

"Early Christmas present," Sirius cut him off before he could protest about it being too expensive or unnecessary or that he liked his old Gryffindor scarf just fine -- though all those things were probably true.

Remus frowned, but it was barely there, just masking a smile, and Sirius could tell from the way that he was fingering the camel-colored cloth that he liked it. "But it's probably too expensive," Remus started, "and I don't need a new scarf, Sirius; my old Gryffindor one is just -- "

Sirius turned down the corners of his lips as far as they'd go and looped his arm over Remus' shoulders, drawing him close, effectively shutting him up. And Sirius liked that, too, feeling Remus warm and fitted to his side, the cashmere on his fingertips and the thought that in some way, he was keeping Remus warm -- wasn't that all he'd ever wanted?

Above all, Sirius liked throwing Remus off-center, loved nothing more than to see a flash of surprise in Remus' eyes and the softening of features on Remus' face. Something about having power over him -- any power at all -- was an intoxicating prospect.

And sternly, Sirius said, "Early Christmas, can't have my boyfriend looking homeless."

It should have done something, made Sirius turn, or made him blush, but it didn't do much of anything at all. As if he'd known all along, and his mouth was just catching up to his brain -- reversed order, strangely inverted, something that had never quite happened before. Sirius thought that it was right, in a worrisomely tamed way, that Remus should make him behave in such an utterly contrary manner.

But Remus said, grinning and not shoving Sirius aside at all, "I could do better, Sirius."

Sirius stared at him for a moment, letting the words sink in. "Yeah, I know, Moony."

Remus could. And so could Sirius. They were mismatched and ill-paired and all wrong: two left shoes who couldn't cook or keep house and tended to take things either too seriously, too lightly, or forgot about them altogether. They never dried the dishes before putting them away and one or the other was frequently found blowing something up, either through experimentation, ineptitude or some combination of the two. They had too many things in their cramped apartment and they should have been sick of one another already -- after so many years of learning each other inside and out.

But that was the point, Sirius decided, that he knew it all -- how Remus never put away his laundry and didn't understand sleeping hours and sometimes acted like everybody had to listen to him -- and loved him anyway. Maybe that was what had always been missing from the girls that hadn't stayed or hadn't wanted to: love in spite of and not because of.

Not quite as pretty, Sirius knew, but more honest, closer to real.

He'd worry about the other things in the morning. For the moment, he'd had a minor epiphany, and Remus was smiling, warm, and surrounded by Sirius. The rest of whatever realization he owed himself was a vector, with a certain direction and speed, inevitable and eventual; Sirius would take levity where he could find it.

They stayed that way until Remus said, "Oh, did you ever find anything for Lily or James?"

And it was the nature of their relationship, Sirius supposed, that let him hiss and mutter, "Oh, bollocks!" while Remus laughed and started toward the escalators again.

And it was the nature of their relationship, too, Sirius knew, that had him jogging to catch up, falling in step with Remus like so many times before, saying something silly and pointless, and having the moment be anything but.