#mmcf work

“I really wanted to apologise for the confusion,” Sirius muttered. He couldn't stop staring at the man and the way his eyes half-closed every time he took another bite of the pastry, only to open again to reveal the two coloured eyes, the dark and the amber. One seemed to reflect hunger. The other sparkled with mischief.

Sirius tried to regain his ability to carry on a civilised conversation: “And I, uh…” Great, now he was stuttering. “I also wanted to know more about what you do?”

"Is that so?" The man looked at him with a questioning look, waiting for him to continue.

Truly, Sirius didn't really want to pursue it. But the man's glaze was open and friendly, and he was waiting patiently for him to explain further, so he sighed and added, “I do have one tattoo I'd rather not have anymore, but I can't remove it.” He looked down at the floor before adding in a whisper, "I hate it."

And for over a decade, their flirtation has smouldered—sometimes scorching other relationships in its wake—while Remus holds himself back. After all, he was the one who first shut the metaphorical door in Sirius’s face. For ten years, he’s believed all that's left are stolen, shame-filled, yearning glances of Sirius, taken in through windows and from a distance. But Sirius knows most doors don’t stay closed—and exactly how to coax one, make it beg to open. This is the story of Remus’s forty-third birthday. Of the years after a marriage ends and a life begins in the middle of things: of queer joy growing like blue irises, of fatherhood, of desire, and of learning to forgive oneself for old punishments.

Snippet:

Then Remus let himself peek out of his second-floor bedroom window, as a little treat. Dragged his eyes around, slow and indulgent, until they landed—of course—on the object of most of his ire and interest: Sirius Black.

And as always, he was there—surveying his garden, hose swung around one hand. He’d once overheard Sirius tell someone that it was good to water your Hydrangea canes in the Spring, even if it was too cold for anything else.

Today, he was draped in an olive robe, gorgeous gold embroidery on the sleeves, surprisingly modest compared to the usual get-up.

Remus let himself enjoy this one—like it was the first, deep hit off a quitter’s last cigarette.

And he was quitting something that day. So he let his eyes trace over the man, luxuriating in the distance.

Sirius was tall, lithe, moved every muscle with a practiced grace that was intoxicating. And as he moved, the art that skated over most of his skin seemed to rise, to move and dance with him. Remus knew some of them now— the tattoos that were usually kept at such a distance and made Remus’s mouth water. He’d seen some up closer, even, over the years. But as always, he craved to know how they might feel, under his tongue, against his cheek.

He craved to know what any of Sirius might feel like. They hadn’t even shaken hands once, in the ten years of being neighbours.

But that was what made this little look Remus was taking so good, wasn’t it?

Somewhere around that thought was when Sirius looked up, met his gaze. Let a lazy smirk twist around his mouth and lifted his hand in a flippant wave, a flash of an emerald ring on one of his fingers.

Then he stared at Remus as he took a seat at his patio table, flung his legs up into another chair and slowly let his hair out of his bun.

Remus gulped, even if he already knew this show was for him.

Somewhere along the road, Sirius figured out that Remus maybe, perhaps, obviously, liked long hair. And so sometimes, when they were in broad daylight, and he was sure Remus was watching, he would give him this—like a naughty present.

His hands untangling his hair, then tying it back up again. Oil-slick blue-green-black. The way it curled and softly brushed against skin. How it begged—to be twisted. Pulled.

Remus laughed at the absurdity, even as he felt something predictably tighten between his legs. He was used to this provocation now. It’d been this way—worse even—for years. He’d known he was fucked when it came to Sirius almost immediately. But the gravity of it had mounted year after year of living so close to each other—of letting something simmer between them but then barely using their words to make it spark.

And because it was only seven am, and he had his whole day ahead, he felt no need to rush Sirius.

He kept watching. Cocked his head to the side, let his tongue flick out to lick his chapped lip, slowly took a sip of water out of his cup and let a hand almost palm himself lightly.

Smiled innocently back when Sirius’s hands seemed to stutter for a second.

This is what they did. No words, just this maddening, escalating exposure.

Sirius let his hands move naturally from his scalp, down to his neck, as if he were just making an adjustment to the green robe he wore. Tugged it a bit to the side, as if his chest needed to feel a touch of cool breeze. And Remus grinned, because he knew the green definitely was for him. So he let himself run a hand down his body, and lightly, but clearly. Reached his destination and gave one firm squeeze.

Sirius seemed to exhale a very deep breath with that.

And the Lenten rose pink blush that bloomed across his cheekbones: that was a great birthday present.

Remus felt like his heart was racing. He liked when he won one of these bouts fair and square.

Check. Mate. Black.

Or whatever.

Because they had been playing this game for years. Remus just didn’t know if there were any rules.