a poetic mess

Here’s a cute little human high school reunion post based on the song Half of My Hometown.

982 words (no I don’t care what micro means), Remus Lupin/Sirius Black, Wolfstar, high school reunion, and a mean old Karen who goes by Pauline

remus who just needed an oil change but has now gone weak at the knees and lightheaded

anyway, life's good, but sirius kind of feels a bit alone sometimes since harry's taking up so much of james' time nowadays (sirius absolutely adores the kid but you know, everything is suddenly about family. where is the adventure?). since he's reconciled with his little brother (finally) he has the task of finding a birthday present for him, so he's walking around diagon alley, looking for something that could make the little shit happy for once.

and then he sees it, a little bookshop crammed in between two popular stores. the sign above the door reads blackthorn's books. it doesn't have as many customers as the stores beside it but it looks like a place regulus would adore. sirius walks in and realizes that it's gonna be impossible to find anything in here. he doesn't know a single thing about books, really, and there are books not only on the shelves but stacked in heaps on the floor. it's chaos, but beautiful chaos, if you're into reading and all that, he supposes.

then he sees the man behind the counter. the first thing he notices is the scars. his face and sleeveless arms are covered in them, making him look handsome in this sort of rougish and rugged way. he's sitting down on a stool, reading, and yet he's taller than sirius still. everything is quiet in here, making him feel like he's walked into some seperate world. sirius coughs into his hand and tries to get his attention.

when the man looks up his breath his taken away. he has the prettiest hazel eyes he has ever seen. the man blushes and puts the book down, immediately standing and showing his real height. sirius has to crane his neck to look up at him. he looks adorable as he sheepishly scratches the back of his neck.

“Hey,” Sirius said softly.

Barty didn’t look up. “Hey, hey, hey.”

Sirius hesitated. “They gave me more labels today."

That got Barty’s attention. He turned his head, expression unreadable. “Labels? Like soup cans? Or the kind they stick on your back when you’re not looking?”

“The second one, probably.”

Barty rolled onto his side. “What flavor are you, then?”

“Bipolar. Borderline.” Sirius shrugged. “I’m apparently a human mood swing with abandonment issues.”

Barty stared at him. “That’s a very dramatic soup. Bit spicy.”

Sirius snorted in spite of himself.

“They said I’m emotionally unstable. That I feel too much. That I panic when people leave me. And it’s all true. But it still hurts, hearing it out loud.”

Barty slowly sat up, letting his journal fall shut. “They said I have schizophrenia. Did you know that? Voices, visions, wild things. They think I’m bonkers. I am, probably. But they’re not wrong.”

He leaned forward, oddly serious. “But you? You’re just… a cracked glass. Still sharp. Still beautiful. Just fragile in places.”

Sirius blinked at him. “That’s weirdly poetic.”

“I’m an artist,” Barty said simply, picking up his red crayon again. “All of us are just shattered things trying not to cut each other.”

Sirius lay back on his pillow, exhausted. “I hate how much that makes sense.”

Barty began to draw again, humming softly under his breath. After a while, he said, “I’m glad you’re still here.”

“Me too,” Sirius whispered.

And for a moment, the silence between them was almost comforting.

It was late, the ward quiet except for the irritating buzz of the hallway lights and the occasional soft shuffle of staff rounds. Sirius lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, sleep eluding him again. Barty sat cross-legged on the floor, drawing against the side of his own bed with a crayon, the paper pressed to his knee.

“Your boyfriend came again today,” Barty said quietly.

Sirius turned his head, his voice rough. “Yeah. He did.”

Barty didn’t look up. “He always comes. Brings you coffee. Talks to the nurses. Smiles like it’s not hurting him inside.”

Sirius blinked slowly, throat tight.

“You’re lucky,” Barty said. His voice cracked a little, soft but trembling at the edges. “My boyfriend used to visit. He brought me sweets once. He said he’d wait.”

Sirius didn’t say anything.

“But he doesn’t come anymore.” Barty’s hand stopped moving, the crayon stilled mid-line. “He’s dead. They told me he died.”

There was a long pause.

“I still see him, though,” Barty murmured. “Sometimes he’s in the corner. Sometimes outside the window. I draw him, so I don’t forget.”

He lifted the journal and turned it toward Sirius, revealing a sketch... delicate, almost angelic, of a boy with wild eyes and a soft smile. “His name was Evan.”

Sirius’ heart sank.

“I don’t think he knows he’s dead,” Barty whispered. “I don’t think I do, either. Not really.”

Sirius pushed himself upright and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Quietly, he walked across the room and sat beside Barty. He didn’t touch him, didn’t say anything. Just sat with him.

Barty turned another page and began to draw again. This time, he used blue.

“I think Evan would’ve liked your boyfriend,” he said. “Remus seems gentle.”

Sirius closed his eyes. “He is.”

And they sat together in the soft light, one broken soul beside another, while Barty drew the people they missed most in colors they could still see.

They sat there in silence for a little while longer, the soft scratching of Barty’s crayon filling the room.

Sirius glanced at the journal, then at Barty’s profile, pale in the dim light, eyes distant but focused on the page.

He spoke gently. “Do you know how Evan died?”

Barty paused. The crayon stilled in his hand. His head tilted slightly, like he was listening to something Sirius couldn’t hear. He was quiet for so long that Sirius almost didn’t expect an answer.

Finally, Barty said, “No.” His voice was soft. “I don’t.”

He kept staring at the page. “I think I used to. I think it was loud. Or maybe quiet. Maybe it was both. Maybe I watched. Maybe I didn’t.”

He pressed the crayon to the page again, drawing harder now. “Every time I try to remember, it’s like… someone’s holding a hand over my eyes.”

Sirius’ throat ached.

“I wish I knew,” Barty added, barely audible. “But I think… I think if I did, I might break.”

Sirius reached out, just barely brushing Barty’s shoulder.

“You’re not broken,” he said.

Barty let out a dry, breathless laugh. “Oh, Sirius. I’m so broken. But that’s okay. Evan was too. We were beautiful that way.”

And then he kept drawing, as if the memory might someday come back in red and blue and black lines.

The overhead lights dimmed with a low hum, then cut out completely, leaving the room bathed in the soft, blue glow of the hallway’s night lighting.

Barty didn’t move from the floor. He just kept scratching faintly at the paper, the sound barely audible, like the flutter of moth wings. Eventually, the crayon stilled. He whispered something as he stood, maybe a name, maybe nothing, and rolled onto his bed.

"Sirius, I’m reading."

"Just for a second. I need to see if the rumors are true." Sirius grabbed Remus's hand anyway, flattening their palms together and spreading his fingers wide against Remus's. "God, your hands are massive. Look at that."

Remus glanced down at their joined hands, then back at his book. "I'm taller than you, Sirius. It makes sense."

"No, it’s... it's a lot," Sirius murmured, sliding his fingers into the gaps between Remus’s, lacing them tight. He squeezed, his thumb stroking the side of Remus's palm. "They fit perfectly. Like they were specifically engineered to be held by mine."

"It's just basic anatomy. Larger surface area for better grip."

"I’m literally intertwining our souls through our phalanges, Remus. Do you feel the spark? The cosmic alignment?"

"I feel your rings digging into my knuckles," Remus said, though he didn't pull away. Sirius groaned, dropping his forehead onto their joined hands. Then he glanced up again towards Remus, batting his long eyelashes.

"Is there something on my face?"

"Only the most devastating bone structure in the history of Hogwarts," Sirius sighed.

Remus squinted at him. "Do I have a smudge? I was using the charcoal pencils earlier."

"No, Remus. I'm saying you're attractive. I am staring at you because you are beautiful."

Remus reached up and rubbed his cheek with his sleeve. "Is it gone now?"

"Is what gone?"

"The smudge you're being so polite about." Remus went back to his book, sounding relieved. "Thanks, Sirius. I’d hate to walk into class looking like a mess."

Sirius stared at him, mouth agape, before slowly hitting his forehead against the table. Thump.

"Are you okay?" Remus asked, sounding concerned.

"I have a headache," Sirius muffled into the wood. "A massive, fucking headache."

"I have some ginger sweets in my bag," Remus offered, patting Sirius’s shoulder. "You really should take better care of yourself."

Sirius blinked. "You’re killing me. I’m actually dying."

The worst part about living with chronic pain, Remus thought as he tried not to scream at a piece of lint on the carpet, wasn’t the pain.

It was the being perceived.

And right now, he was being perceived by a very beautiful, very loud, very not supposed to be here Sirius Black.

“You didn’t answer your texts,” Sirius said, standing in the doorway like a rockstar who’d stumbled into the wrong green room but stayed because there was free champagne. His motorcycle helmet hung from one tattooed hand, black curls wild and a bit sweaty.

“That tends to happen when I throw my phone under the couch out of spite,” Remus said, not looking up from where he was half-folded on the floor, an arm brace beside him and a heating pad nowhere near the socket.

Sirius blinked. “Do I want to know?”

Remus squinted up at him. “My shoulder tried to secede from the union. I decided to pretend the couch was Switzerland.”

Sirius grinned. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m disabled, actually,” Remus snapped, immediately regretting it. But Sirius just raised an eyebrow, unbothered.

“I know,” Sirius said softly. “You also didn’t answer my texts for four days. So I assumed either death, abduction, or, more realistically, a spiral of Netflix and apathy.”

Remus grimaced. “It was a mild spiral.”

“You watched five seasons of Hell’s Kitchen, Remus.”

“…I stand by that.”

Sirius crossed the room, tossing his helmet onto Remus’ ancient armchair. “Get up. We’re making pasta.”

“I can’t get up, hence…” Remus gestured vaguely at the brace, the heating pad, the general aura of despair.

Sirius knelt beside him without a word, scooping up the brace with practiced hands. “Do you want help?”

Remus hesitated. The line between “want” and “need” had always been blurry. But Sirius never made him feel like a burden—just a very sarcastic houseplant with medical accessories.

“Yes,” he muttered.

Sirius nodded and helped him up with the kind of gentle ease that made Remus feel seen, not exposed. “I brought garlic bread,” he said as they shuffled toward the kitchen. “And James.”

Remus froze. “What?”

“James is in the car. He insisted. He has theories.”

“About my pain?”

“About why you ghosted me for four days,” Sirius said cheerfully. “One involves aliens.”

Remus sighed. “James Potter is a human migraine.”

“And yet, you adore him,” Sirius said, smirking as he slid the brace into place with a practiced twist.

Remus didn’t say it out loud, but Sirius wasn’t wrong.

The kitchen was small, dimly lit, and currently filled with the scent of garlic, basil, and tomato.

James had let himself in and was setting up a Bluetooth speaker like he lived there. Which, to be fair, he nearly had during uni. Peter was texting in the corner with a cat on his lap—Remus’ cat, who betrayed him instantly and fully the moment food arrived.

“I’ve solved your mystery,” James announced, holding up his phone. “Remus hasn’t been abducted. He’s just deeply, tragically in love with you, Padfoot.”

Peter didn’t look up. “We knew that in 2018, mate.”

“Shut up,” Remus groaned, already regretting not faking a coma.

Sirius beamed. “I knew I felt eyes on my ass.”

Remus gave him a look. “That was the cat.”

“You named the cat Virginia Woolf. You don’t get to talk.”

Virginia purred smugly.

They cooked like idiots. Burnt one batch of garlic bread, turned the pasta water into a volcano, and used enough parmesan to offend an entire Italian village. But Sirius was relaxed, sleeves rolled up, tattoos peeking from under flour-dusted skin, talking to Remus like they hadn’t been orbiting each other for years.

Like he knew.

And maybe he did.

Remus leaned against the counter, shoulder aching but tolerable now. “You didn’t have to come over.”

Sirius didn’t glance up. “You didn’t have to answer the phone either, but here we are.”

“I mean it. You don’t have to—”

“Moony.” Sirius looked up. “Stop. I wanted to. And I’ll keep showing up, even when you don’t ask.”

Remus swallowed.

There it was again.

Being perceived.

But this time, it wasn’t unbearable.

It was Sirius, seeing him with all his broken pieces, and not flinching.

That night, after everyone left and the dishes were mostly done and Remus was curled up on the couch with Virginia on his chest, Sirius hovered by the door.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Define ‘okay,’” Remus replied.

Sirius gave him a look.

“I’m better now,” Remus added. “Less pain. Less… apocalypse.”

Sirius hesitated. “I could stay. If you want.”

Remus blinked. “Like… stay?”

“Not in a weird way,” Sirius said quickly. “Just… hang out. Watch something awful. Make sure you don’t throw your phone into another abyss.”

Remus considered it.

Then patted the couch beside him.

Sirius grinned and dropped his bag, slipping off his boots. He settled beside Remus carefully, their shoulders brushing.

Virginia stretched dramatically between them.

“I’m not good at this,” Remus murmured after a while.

“At what?”

“Letting people in. Asking for help.”

Sirius didn’t look away from the screen. “Good thing I already broke in.”

Remus laughed, quietly.

They sat there for a long time, the flicker of some terrible sitcom lighting their faces, silence easy between them.

And for once, being seen didn’t feel like a burden.

Sirius had never been good at sitting still. He liked movement—liked the hum of an engine under him, the buzz of a crowd, the rhythm of his own restlessness.

But right now, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Remus on a secondhand couch that smelled like lavender he didn’t want to move at all.

Remus’ hair was mussed. Virginia was purring on his chest like a tiny engine. And something in the air felt raw and good and a little dangerous.

Because Sirius had seen Remus Lupin vulnerable before—post-surgery, post-breakup, post-epic-migraine-that-laid-him-out-for-three-days.

But this was different.

This was soft.

Unarmored.

And Sirius was not okay about it.

He watched as Remus drifted—eyelids half-shut, pain visible only in the way his hand twitched occasionally near his brace. He always tried so damn hard not to let people see. Like it was a moral failing, being in pain. Being tired.

Sirius wanted to punch every person that had ever made him feel that way.

“Still awake?” Remus murmured, eyes fluttering open, voice low and rasped.

“Yeah,” Sirius said. “Too wired. Adrenaline. Garlic bread. Cat.”

Remus’ mouth quirked. “She did try to smother you earlier. Consider it a warning.”

“I’d die a noble death,” Sirius replied solemnly, scratching behind Virginia’s ear. “Tell my story.”

“Here lies Sirius Black. Mauled by an overeducated feline while pining pathetically for a sarcastic literature professor with chronic joint issues.”

“Catchy.”

Remus blinked slowly, his smile turning softer. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I want to stay,” Sirius said immediately.

He could tell Remus was gearing up to argue, so he cut him off with the quiet truth.

“I like being around you, Moony. Even when you’re cranky and sore and smell faintly of eucalyptus oil. You’re still you. That’s the bit I like.”

Remus looked at him, then. Really looked.

Not a glance.

A seeing.

And Sirius let him. Let himself be perceived too, for once—tired, anxious, hungry for something he hadn’t named out loud yet.

Remus’ voice, when it came, was quiet. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make me feel like I’m not broken.”

Sirius’ throat closed.

He leaned forward, carefully, slowly—just enough for their foreheads to touch, not quite a kiss, not quite platonic either.

“You’re not broken, Remus,” he whispered. “You’re just real.”

Remus closed his eyes. And for a moment, everything felt very still.

Later, they ended up horizontal. Not in the fun, R-rated way Sirius would usually be hoping for—but wrapped under a threadbare blanket, Virginia curled at their feet, some absolute garbage show droning in the background.

Sirius couldn’t sleep.

His mind kept running.

Not about the usual—his job, his family, the existential dread of aging—but about how peaceful Remus looked when the pain eased. About the fact that he had shown up, and Remus had let him in.

And Sirius wanted that. Wanted in. For real.

Not just the “occasional pasta and banter” level. The hard stuff too.

The days when Remus couldn’t get out of bed. The weeks when the pain flared and he shut everyone out. The dark spirals he never quite admitted to.

Sirius wanted in on all of it.

Which was terrifying.

Because Sirius didn’t do long-term. He was chaos, and people liked him in small doses. Fun, funny, charming Sirius. Not the version that stayed up at 3 a.m. reading disability blogs so he’d stop asking stupid questions. Not the version that wondered if he could find a heating pad that didn’t suck.

But Remus made him want to be better.

Not different.

Just better.

“Hey,” he whispered in the dark. “You awake?”

Remus shifted slightly. “Mmhmm.”

“I like you,” Sirius blurted. “Like… a lot.”

Remus huffed a quiet laugh. “Is this your idea of a seduction? Because it’s very NPR at midnight.”

Sirius chuckled. “I’m serious.”

“I know you are. That’s why it’s terrifying.”

Sirius turned to face him. “What if we tried it?”

“Tried what?”

“This. You. Me. Us.”

Remus was quiet for a long beat.

Then: “You sure? I’m… a lot.”

“So am I.”

“Yeah, but you come with leather jackets and Instagram thirst traps. I come with joint instability and a pharmacy in my kitchen.”

Sirius leaned in, eyes soft. “Then we’ll make room for both.”

Remus looked at him like no one ever had—like he wanted to believe it, like he almost did.

“Okay,” he whispered.

And Sirius smiled.

Because for the first time in a long time, the world wasn’t ending.

It was just beginning.

There were good days.

Days where Remus made it through an entire morning lecture without having to pop a shoulder back into place like a goddamn haunted action figure. Days when his joints played nice, his head stayed clear, and he didn’t have to put on the smiling “No really, I’m fine” mask he usually wore around students.

Today was not one of those days.

Today was the kind of day where just breathing felt like a chore. Where the soft ache in his back had graduated into a sharp throb that made putting on socks feel like an Olympic event. Where his knee had decided to dislocate while he was brushing his teeth, and he ended up sitting on the bathroom floor with a mouth full of toothpaste and a deep, dull resentment of gravity.

He hadn’t texted Sirius.

Not yet.

Not because he didn’t want to—but because he did.

Because Sirius had that look when Remus was hurting. The one that said he wanted to fix everything and couldn’t. And Remus hated being the problem someone couldn’t solve.

So he stayed on the couch, curled up like a comma, watching reruns of Taskmaster with the volume low and Virginia sleeping traitorously on his bad hip.

The front door clicked.

He’d forgotten Sirius had a key.

“Moons?” came the soft voice, a little muffled, like Sirius had a grocery bag in his mouth.

Remus didn’t answer.

Sirius appeared in the doorway, wearing joggers, an oversized hoodie, and the worried expression that came standard whenever Remus was quiet for too long.

“I brought oranges. And those crisps you like that taste like regret and vinegar.”

Remus made a noise that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a sigh.

Sirius set the bag down and crossed the room without ceremony. “Where are we at, pain-wise?”

“Seven,” Remus said. “Maybe an eight if I sneeze.”

“Mobility?”

“On strike.”

Sirius nodded. “Right then. Cuddle triage.”

Remus blinked. “What?”

“Tri-age, Remus. Three stages of care.” Sirius held up a finger. “Stage one: reposition the invalid.”

“I will smother you with this cat.”

Sirius ignored him, sliding onto the couch and gently shifting Remus’ legs across his lap. His hands moved with practiced care, adjusting the throw pillow, rubbing a thumb behind Remus’ knee.

“Stage two,” Sirius said, “is soup. Which I did not bring, because you hate canned soup, and I cannot cook soup. I did, however, bring crisps and those stupid gummy peaches that rot your teeth.”

Remus softened despite himself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And stage three…” Sirius leaned down, kissed the top of Remus’ head, just above his temple. “...is the most important. Which is reminding you that you don’t have to hide on days like this.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” Remus lied, immediately and unconvincingly.

“Right. You were doing highly visible floor yoga with a dislocated knee and depression snacks.”

Remus chuckled, quietly. His body still hurt, but it was different with Sirius here. The pain didn’t shrink, but it didn’t swallow him whole either.

“Do you regret this?” he asked suddenly, the words escaping before he could filter them. “Being with me. Like this.”

Sirius didn’t answer right away.

He just took Remus’ hand, running his thumb over the knuckles—gentle, reverent.

“I chose this,” Sirius said finally, voice soft but steady. “Every part of it. I want the good days and the crap ones and the days when you can’t move, and the days you make fun of my Spotify playlists.”

“They’re criminal, Sirius. You have Limp Bizkit and Phoebe Bridgers on the same playlist.”

“Eclectic taste, baby.”

Remus smiled. Tired. Honest.

“Do you remember,” Sirius continued, “that day in March when you couldn’t leave bed, and you let me sit with you for like, six hours while we watched Great British Bake Off and bullied Paul Hollywood?”

“Yes.”

“That was one of the best days I’ve ever had.”

Remus blinked at him.

“I’m not with you despite the hard days,” Sirius said, leaning down again. “I’m with you through them. On purpose.”

There it was again.

Being seen.

Being chosen.

And this time, Remus let himself believe it.

That night, Sirius cooked pasta while Remus supervised from the couch like a very opinionated monarch. They ate curled up under a shared blanket, Virginia curled between them, the room filled with the smell of garlic and the quiet sounds of two people who had finally, finally stopped running.

When Sirius dozed off, Remus watched him sleep.

He thought: I never thought I’d get this.

He thought: I want this forever.

And he didn’t feel broken at all.

He felt loved.

@wolfstarmicrofic May 21, word count 234

Remus saw the footprint, or rather paw print, the second he opened the back door to his little cottage. It was on the edge of the flowerbed, sinking into the damp soil, each little toe imprinted until he dug it over. That paw print could only mean one thing. Sirius was out there somewhere. 

He lifted his teacup to his lips and scanned the garden. It backed onto a small wooded area. A rather useful spot once a month. Remus didn’t spot anything right away, but on his second scan, he noticed a lolling pink tongue. He froze, the teacup still pressed against his lips as a mass of moss and dried leaves rose to its feet and slunk towards him. 

“You’d better shake all that crap off before you come in,” Remus warned, turning on his heel and heading back inside, ignoring the shaggy black dog. He made another cup of tea and got the emergency chocolate hobnobs from the back of the cupboard. He hadn’t seen Sirius since that night in the shrieking shack. Sirius had never sought him out, so he’d assumed he wasn’t interested in him any more. He knew Sirius had been writing to Harry, but never to him. 

Soft footsteps padded towards him. 

“What do you want, Sirius?” Remus muttered, tearing open the packet of biscuits. 

“Voldemort’s back.”

Remus spun around, the hobnobs slipping through his fingers. 

"Can I just ask a question?"

Remus, who had been laying in bed feeling rather sorry for himself, turned and looked up when he heard Sirius's voice. "What?" he murmured, not making an effort to change his melancholy tone. 

The shorter boy, who was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, shot him a glare. "Can you just let me know about how long you're going to be walking 'round all mopey, looking at me like you're guilty for bloody murder or something? Because I'd really like to pencil the end date in on my calendar, so we're on the same page."

He spoke with such sarcasm, such unadulterated sass, that Remus let out a laugh of surprise. "What?" he demanded, unable to stop a small smile from appearing on his face.

"Moons. You barely snapped at me. Moony and Padfoot were playing. Merlin, it's like...the whole point of being an Animagus, to give you a...a pack! I'm not hurt, and I'm not mad!" Sirius insisted, throwing his hands into the air. "Not to be a prat, but...get over it, mate!"

Now Remus was grinning. "Oh, it's that easy, is it?" he asked, sitting up a little and crossing his arms. 

"Yeah," the other boy replied, smirking. "Plus, we have other things to worry about."

"Like?"

"Like how good my arse looks in these pants. Look!" Sirius immediately turned, craning his neck to still smirk at Remus.

hello angel, thank yeeww. here, have some new wolfstar to fill the void:

they have this running game where they send each other voice notes at random hours describing exactly what the other is wearing in their head right then. remus’ are always detailed and a little reverent (“purple blouse, sleeves pushed up, that one silver ring on your thumb, hair messy and a little frizzy because you’ve had to use a diffuser this morning”). sirius’ are filthy-sweet (“my favorite grey sweatpants on you, the ones that sit low when you stretch, the cure t-shirt, bite mark from last night—fuck, i’m coming home”)

sirius has this thing where he’ll randomly press his cold nose against the back of remus’ neck when he walks past in the kitchen. remus always swears and swats at him at first, but eventually leans back into it instead of pulling away

remus collects those tiny metal tabs from soda cans and glues them together to make weird little sculptures on the windowsill. sirius never comments but starts leaving his own pulled tabs in remus’ coat pockets like tiny anonymous gifts. one night remus finds a whole pile shaped into a single jagged star

sometimes they sit on the fire escape at 4am sharing one pair of wired earbuds because sirius lost the wireless ones again. they listen to the same song on repeat until the battery dies, not talking, just shoulders pressed together while the city hums underneath them. the first time sirius falls asleep like that, remus doesn’t move for almost an hour even though his leg goes numb

sirius keeps a polaroid of remus stuck to the inside of his guitar case (not a cute one, but one where remus is looking mildly annoyed in a grocery store aisle holding a dented can of chickpeas). he claims it’s his good luck charm before every gig

remus is terrible at texting back but excellent at leaving physical notes. sirius finds them in strange places: inside his shoe (“don’t forget your amp cord”), taped to the bathroom mirror (“milk is expired, sorry”), once even folded into a tiny paper plane inside the fridge. sirius keeps every single one in an old biscuit tin under his bed

after particularly long days they don’t have sex, but lie facing each other in bed fully naked, trading slow, lazy kisses that never really escalate. mouths barely open, mostly just breathing the same air, hands loosely tangled. sometimes it feels more intimate than anything else they do

sirius is obsessed with remus’ hands. he loves how remus absentmindedly traces the veins on the inside of his own wrist when he’s thinking, or how he warms his palms by pressing them flat against sirius’ lower back under his shirt when they hug in the kitchen. sometimes sirius will just grab remus’ hand mid-conversation, press it to his own chest where his heart is and smile at him adorably

remus hates mornings but sirius has trained himself to wake up first just so he can make remus’ coffee exactly how he likes it (oat milk, one sugar, stirred clockwise because remus is weird about it lol). he brings it to bed and waits until remus sleepily wraps both hands around the warm mug before crawling back under the covers and kissing the sleepy frown off his face