hey love! yes, absolutely, my heart beats for this

sirius once got really drunk at a party and admitted he sometimes feels guilty for not being “consistent” enough for remus. remus spent the next hour kissing every inch of his face and telling him he fell in love with all of them, every version, and that’s never changing

hair is sirius’ biggest gender expression thing. sometimes it’s long and wild with little braids remus does for him (remus learned just for sirius and it’s the most tender thing), sometimes he goes full soft curls with glitter in them for parties. remus’ hands are always in it, no matter the style

sirius loves when remus calls him “baby” on masc days and “darling” on femme days and just “sweetheart” or “my love” when he’s somewhere in between. the way remus adapts without making it a big deal makes sirius feel so seen it’s almost embarrassing

he has this collection of thrifted skirts in every length and fabric. his favorite is a deep burgundy one that he wears with high heeled boots on going-out-nights. remus can’t stop staring at his legs the entire evening and keeps absentmindedly playing with the hem when they’re ordering drinks at the bar

on days when sirius feels more feminine, he steals remus’ cardigans and wears them over lacy tops. remus comes home from work and finds him curled on the couch like that and just melts, calling him “lovely” in that quiet wrecked voice

they have a necklace with a little moon charm that remus gave him. wears it every single day, no matter how he’s presenting. sometimes runs his fingers over it when he’s anxious about how people might read him that day

he still gets giddy when remus instinctively corrects people who misgender him, but even more when remus just uses whatever feels right in the moment without thinking. that effortless love makes sirius weak every time

makeup is another love language. sirius is really good at it. remus watches him through the mirror while he does it and it always ends in making out and being late to whatever event they were about to attend

sirius has a “secret wardrobe” in his mind, (not just physical clothes, but like, entire personas that align with his gender for the day)

sirius never understood hook-up culture. the idea of physical intimacy without the absolute bedrock of trust and shared history feels like hell. for him, sex is an extension of profound emotional love, so it makes every touch, every kiss with remus feel sacred

he struggled with the whole “ladies’ guy” persona at school because, while he enjoyed the attention and the performance per se, he rarely felt a genuine spark of physical attraction. he’d see james and lily, or even remus and peter, developing crushes with a certain intensity, and wonder if there was something wrong with him because it just didn't click like that

demisexuality means sirius used to feel broken in his late teens, because everyone around him seemed to want to fuck anything that moved and he just didn’t (until remus). now he jokes that remus “ruined” him for anyone else, but it’s half-serious. no one else has ever made his body light up like that

the concept of “love at first sight” or instant physical desire was utterly alien to sirius, but also there was remus who made him feel very weird, and so sirius was like ??? what’s going on ?? half the time

this is precisely why remus is, and always will be, his person. their bond wasn’t forged in a flash of physical longing, but in years of friendship, protection, shared secrets, and seeing each other through their worst moments. with remus, sirius gets captivated by his mind and his kindness long before his body ever thinks of following suit

the first time he ever felt that profound physical pull towards remus wasn’t during a grand, movie-like romantic moment, but during a mundane, intimate one, like remus quietly explaining a complicated concept for a school project they’re collaborating on or smth like that

in that absorbed closeness, a switch flips inside sirius. love he already knew, but now there’s an undeniable need to be physically close, to cherish and protect this specific soul

when he and remus are finally intimate, sirius finds himself surprised by the sheer emotional intensity of it, the feeling of finally being completely seen and accepted in every facet of his being

remus never pushes sirius for physical affection until sirius is truly ready to open that door. he waits for sirius to lead the way, knowing that when sirius finally reaches for him, it’s a decision of his entire being

in the quiet sanctuary of their shared apartment, after years of knowing each other, sirius finds complete freedom. he can wake up feeling like a he, a she, a they, or something in-between, and remus’ gaze never falters, always holding the same adoring love for every single one of sirius’ beautiful, shifting selves

He is afraid, he thinks. It is one-twenty-five in the morning and he can’t pretend he’s not anymore. He sets the quill down next to the empty length of parchment, shame at his failure coursing through him. He has been trying to write for three hours, and he has written nothing. Not even

Dear Sirius,

Because. Because is “dear” too much? Too presumptuous, too forward? Or, alternately: too formal? Too teacherly? Is Remus too old now? How had he started his letters to Sirius when he was a teenager and they were separated for the summer? It wasn’t dear, surely—though he rather thought that when they’d been older, and Remus had been newly in love and dreadfully sentimental as a result, it had been something like it. And there’s another question: Sirius. Is that wrong? Should he write to Padfoot instead? Almost certainly, he thinks, for the twentieth time that night, nearly taking up the quill again—but no, no, what if he has no right to call him that anymore? Or what if it hurts too much, stings Sirius like it does Remus, with the echoes of all they’ve lost, with the other names that used to accompany it?

Dear[est] [Moony, Wormtail,] Padfoot, [and Prongs],

Remus huffs out a noise of frustration and looks around his shabby hotel room. Less than a week since he left Hogwarts, left the only job he’s ever loved. Less than a week since he saw Sirius again. Since his world turned upside-down, or rightside-up, depending on how you look at it.

What’s right? What’s the right thing to say? I’m sorry. I’m not sorry. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be sorry for, or what you are. Maybe neither of us is meant to be sorry. Maybe that’s what we’ve learned, that it wasn’t our fault, it wasn’t our fault. 

The thought is dizzying, breath-stopping. For a second Remus glimpses freedom.

But no. Sirius may not see it that way. Twelve years in Azkaban. One on the run, eating rats. If only Remus had—what? What could he have possibly done?

Remus presses his palms into his shut eyes. He could have believed better. In Sirius’ innocence, or in his guilt. He could have chosen something, at least, to keep faith with.

Dear Sirius,

No. They’re the wrong words, Remus is sure of it. It might be wrong to write to Sirius at all. Sirius might not want him to. Sirius might hate him. Yes, they had embraced with apparent fervor that wonderful and terrible night in the Shrieking Shack, but that might have been temporary madness; Sirius might blame him. Or he might just—not—he might not care, anymore—if Azkaban did its work, or if time did. Or, or, he might care too much, hurt too much: there, again, Remus considers the possibility that he himself is too haunted by ghosts to be desirable by the living, that Sirius doesn’t want a missive from beyond the grave.

He is afraid. Of the writing. Of the reaching out. He is afraid of getting it wrong.

He has always been afraid of getting it wrong. There’s something broken in him, he thinks; however brave he wants to be, he’s never been brave enough.

But he thinks something, suddenly, something that has the quill back in his hand before he realizes he’s picked it up. Sirius knows this about him. Sirius has always known that Remus is afraid. Sirius used to pull him along, anyway, used to help him break the rules, help him get in trouble. If the Sirius now is still the Sirius that Remus used to know—and however afraid he is, he can’t truly pretend he didn’t glimpse his old friend behind the matted hair and wild eyes—Sirius will remember this about Remus. 

At least, Remus thinks, at least Sirius knows him.

Dear Sirius,

he writes, at long last,