an

"I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world."

-Patroclus

Lol I have never been in love and my love life consists of people saying how cool I am blablabla and then proceed to ghost me, it has happened to me sooo many times, it's embarrassing.

ty so much for the tag @lifeisabitch-butimcute! this is so cute! here's a snip from the next brave face chapter! just a chunk of some domestic nonsense

3 eggs 1 teaspoon milk A knob of butter for the pan Instructions: Crack the eggs into a medium bowl and add the milk. Give them a brisk whisk with your wand until the mixture is perfectly smooth. Sirius thinks he's read enough to get the gist of it and cracks five eggs directly into the pan he's been pre-heating on the hob. Their gooey innards sizzle and spit and fuse right to the skillet like rapidly cooling tar. He mumbles a swear around the ashy cigarette hanging from his mouth. Ash that snows right down onto the charred white-yellow wreck of what had once been eggs. Sirius has been doing a lot of cooking lately. Like, multiple times a day every day (it's incredible, actually, how much people eat. It's possible that he never gave Kreacher enough credit for his constant cooking. Not that he'd ever tell Kreacher. Whatever.) Sirius scrapes the pan into the bin and scowls at the recipe book Remus uses to cook from. He makes it seem seamless. Bit daft that Hogwarts doesn’t offer a practical magic class. I can tell a redcap from a hinkypunk. Grand. But I can’t flick my wand and make a plate of eggs. Manky arse education system— CLACK—CLACK—CLACK! The hammer-against-wood sound is coming from the front of their house, the garden. Happy for an excuse to abandon breakfast efforts, Sirius wipes his hands on his monk-like bathrobe and stalks towards the front door. Rooms pass him by as he goes—Remus' clashing knitted blankets and their new burgundy sofa and the tin bucket for collecting fireplace ashes and the little photo Remus had insisted they hang of Hope Lupin with her hair in pink rollers. (When Remus talks to her Sirius pretends not to notice.) It's sunny outside; the morning light is floating with fluffy seeds. Sirius stands on the stoop looking out over the lawn and sees the source of all the clanging. "Oi! Cut it out! You woke me up." "No, I didn't," Remus doesn't look up. He's hammering something onto the front of the gate, a brown paper bag full of shopping on the grass beside him. "I can smell breakfast. Burnt eggs again?" Sirius grumbles something about educational reform. "I see." Remus swings the gate inward to display his work to Sirius and crooks a dry, proud-of-himself grin. "Luckily, they were selling scones at the village." Onto the gate, he has hammered a red and white Beware Of Dog sign.