Bénja reaches for the beer standing by his feet. It’s lukewarm and tastes flat. Only the Fisherman knows how long it’s been standing there. It might have been opened at the last party and forgotten. Maybe even the one before that.

Nevertheless, Bénja doesn’t much care. He’s in high spirits and comfortably sloshed. The air in the room is a dense concoction of cigarette smoke, staleness, and liquor of any kind. Someone put on the old folk songs played at the pubs and inns back at home, and Kostya is hitting the keys on his accordion alongside them. Tomorrow morning, Bénja will most likely wake up with a pounding head and a mouth as dry as sand, but that’s a worry for when that morning arrives. Right now, not ending up as the fool — that is what matters.

Easy, considering how drunk Sasha already is.

“Arse. I don’ thing I can defen’ that, Бэньюша.”

Bénja smacks his lips, smiling remorsefully. It is a mocking, playful sort of pity. He leans over, thumbing his best friend on the back.

“You’ll get it next time, old chap.”

Sasha snorts. “Sure will.”

Bénja claps him on the back one more time, a little harder, for good measure.

“Well, gentlemen. It has been my utmost pleasure to best all of you.”

“Pish off — utter dunce.”

The other blokes who have joined the game of fool chuckle, amused, and raise their beverages to their lips or light another cigarette in anticipation of the next round. Smirking, Bénja takes the bottle of beer he had been drinking from and excuses himself from the table. Then, he makes his way through the small cluster of bodies.

Kostya is striking up another classic, and soon everyone is joining in on his singing, clapping and whistling to the rhythm. As the song picks up speed, some of the girls get up to whirl one another around what little space is still left, laughing and giggling while doing so. Bénja has to stop twice on short notice to avoid accidentally bumping into them. He pushes past, mumbling apologies.

His friends call his name, clap him, too, on the back as he passes by, but he doesn’t turn to listen. His mind is set on a different destination.

Rosier is out on the balcony, which has been carved out of the rock the Academy is built into and overlooks the sea. He’s talking to Henwood, the current head of the student council — an upstanding and fair young fellow. While others of the council would grimace in distaste at the prospect of the council’s boardroom being used for such bashes, Henwood never took issue with them. Once he’s graduated in two months, Bénja is set to take his place as the council’s leader. The votes are already in his favour.

“Well, it was a fucking disaster. The room kept smelling like burnt carpet for the rest of the month, and Wilkes had to sleep next to his desk. I swear, the halls were only this abandoned because everyone else kept steering clear of our door.”

“I always wondered what had happened. It sure is a lesson to never experiment in one’s dorm, I must give you that. Perhaps you’re not wrong in assuming one would be better off breaking into the laboratories for some… late-night experiments.”

It’s quieter out here, less overwhelming. Most of the party’s noise is muffled by the curtains and door leading outside, and the crushing of waves against the rock and shore has a calming effect.

Bénja leans against the handrail, next to Rosier. He doesn’t speak, merely listens to their conversation. The sea’s salt burning his numbed tongue, and the cotton-like feel of his head are only more indicators of how drunk he is. One always realises it more effectively once they take their first breath of fresh air after a long night out.

Rosier has not acknowledged him yet, but Bénja knows he’s noticed him. Their arms rest against each other on the handrail, and their hips brush when they move. Half a year ago, Rosier would have withdrawn from the touch, but now he appears comfortable with it, searching for it even. Whenever he raises his arm to emphasise his words, he always places it back against Bénja’s. A lot has happened since they first started working together. A lot has changed.

Bénja smiles. He doesn’t even realise that he does.

“What? No insight from the great Belshazzar Crouch? That’s a new one.”

A humoured snort escapes him, and he turns around to mimic Rosier’s position with his back turned towards the sea. Henwood has gone back inside, checking whether ‘everything’s in order’, but Bénja knows it is only half the truth. He has seen the head of the student council eye interestedly the cocaine Jamal has procured from somewhere unknown.

“Sometimes, it is better to observe,” he answers. “It’s a lesson I learned all thanks to you.”

Another half-truth. Not because Bénja doesn’t mean what he says, but because he likes listening when Rosier speaks. He’s grown accustomed to his voice due to all those hours locked together in either the library or his room. Those days when he’s not met with at least one of the other man’s dry remarks or blunt jabs that are aimed at his person somehow feel less complete, as if something is missing.

Rosier lifts his brow, but the corner of his mouth curls up into that subtle and shrewd smirk of his. He’s not buying it, of course, but that doesn’t stop him from taking the compliment. There is a particular sparkle in his eyes.

“If you say so.”

He lights another cigarette, using one hand and tilting his head slightly to better reach the flame. Bénja watches him; the curve of his neck, the shimmer of his blonde hair under the pale moonlight. It surrounds him like a halo, the way it stands out against the night. Like the flicker of a candle, the beacon of a —

Lighthouse.

“Huh?”

“Hm?” Did he say this aloud? “Oh, nothing. Nothing, really. Just a… drunken thought.”

“Drunken thought, yeah? Gotta say, I was impressed when you kept up with that weird little dance Travnikov dragged you into. Right after downing four shots of vodka, too. I firmly believed you would land flat on your arse back there.”

“You? Impressed?” Bénja laughs, loud and heartily. “Who is full of surprises now, hm?”

Rosier takes a drag from his cigarette, the smile lingering.

“Don’t let it get to your head, you big oaf.”

He holds his hand out, offering Bénja a drag from his smoke. It’s a habit they developed during one of their many all-nighters when Rosier misplaced his own pack of cigarettes. Bénja cannot explain why exactly they stuck to it, but he never questioned it to begin with. It simply felt natural.

Leaning forward, he accepts the offered smoke right from the back of the other man’s hand.

His lips almost brush his fingers.

“Do you want to leave?” he asks, blowing out the smoke.

“Ditching now, too, huh?” Rosier chuckles. “Shouldn’t you help clean up that mess, Mr ‘future-head-of-the-student-council’?”

Bénja shrugs, empties his beer. “There is always the next morning.”

“Sure. It’s your name on the line, not mine.”

“My ego can suffer a small blow.”

At that, a curious noise escapes the back of his classmate’s throat. He regards Bénja with an almost disbelieving sort of glance, like an experiment that has shown a new set of unsolved quirks. Bénja swallows, his heart suddenly pounding in his throat. He has never been looked at this intensely before.

“Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

The halls of the Academy are abandoned. And why wouldn’t they be? As long as no one else is throwing a party, which they could, there is no reason to be drunkenly stumbling from one door to the next at this late hour.

“Your turn.”

“My brother once cut a hole in every shirt I own. I used to dye my hair. And my mother took me to the Opera every week from the ages of three to fifteen.”

“Dying your hair, obviously.”

“You seem very sure of that, Rosier.”

“Yeah, because you’re too vain to dye your hair a different colour.”

“Perhaps I am dying my hair to hide any greying hairs. Wouldn’t that fit my supposed vanity just the same?”

Roser huffs a laugh, his eyes darting up to Bénja’s hair. He shakes his head, decidedly.

“Nah. I would have noticed if you did.”

Bénja grins. “Careful, you might feed into that ego you despise so much.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Certainly, but first, it is your turn—”

They come to a sudden halt at Bénja’s door. He didn’t realise how quickly the time had gone by.

Rosier smiles. It looks sad in the dim light of the hallway. “Guess we have to reserve that for next time.”

“Or,” Bénja licks his lips, weighs his words, “we don’t. Join me. I still have a bottle of wine lying somewhere, surely.”

“Well, who am I to deny such an offer?”

They enter, and Bénja turns on the standing light in the corner. While he searches for the promised bottle, Rosier takes a seat at his desk, turning the chair so that it faces the set of bunkbeds of which only one is being used.

“Oh, wow. Are you sure you want to share that? This looks expensive as hell.”

“I can always request that my mother send another. See it as a moment to celebrate the success of the project we almost killed one another over.”

He sits down at the edge of his bed, using his teeth to pull out the cork sealing the bottle with his teeth. With a quiet plop, the bottle opens, and Bénja hands it over to Rosier to take the first sip.

“There is something I want to show you,” he admits once the bottle has found its way into his wind and the wine has wet his throat. “It’s a most peculiar find, and I would love to hear your opinion on it.”

“All right. Let me give it a shot.”

Bénja leans forward, trying to open the drawer of his desk to fish for the glowing orbs he found stranded on the beach, caging Rosier with his arm. Only inches separate their faces now. Rosier studies him intently, his lips parted, and the warm light of the lamp dancing in his dark eyes. His gaze is attentive, intense in the same way as it had been out on the balcony. A question lingers between them, a tension unbroken. There had been many moments such as these in the past months: when Rosier dropped his pen, and both reached down to grab it; when the crowd accidentally shoved them together at the welcome back ceremony a few weeks prior; when Bénja fell and almost crushed him during that volleyball match at the beach.

It would be so easy to lean in and kiss him, and yet, Bénja hesitates. He, who is always so sure of himself, so confident in everything he says and does, hesitates, because this is a moment of significance. If he leans in and kisses him, everything will change. He isn’t sure whether he is ready to destroy what has only started to bloom.

“What’s wrong?” Rosier mumbles, breaking the heavy silence.

“It is hard to read you,” Bénja replies, smiling weakly. “You read me so easily, and yet… Just once, I wish I knew what it is that you are thinking about.”

Rosier nods. It is barely a jerk of his head.

His eyes flick down to Bénja’s lips just for a second, but Bénja catches it. His breath hitches in his throat.

“You want to know what I am thinking?”

Bénja exhales slowly, nods too. “Yes, if you’d like to indulge me.”

“Right now, I wonder what it would be like to kiss you.”

His heart skips, his head spins. He’s fucking drunk, cannot think clearly. Too much is at stake, too much at risk. One wrong move, and he will lose something he cannot even name.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“We could… couldn’t we?”

Rosier’s eyes keep clinging to Bénja’s lips, and every thought dissolves into nothing. He cannot take back his idiocy, never gets the chance to. He’s captivated by Rosier’s dissecting gaze and the lick of his lips. As he leans in, Bénja closes his eyes on instinct.

At first, it is only a soft brush of lips, chaste and cautious; the faintest idea of a kiss. But then, Rosier’s mouth presses against his, and whatever tension had been building up between them rips like a wave through a weakened bow.

The restraint Bénja had tried to practice fails at once, and he chases Rosier’s lips as if his life depended on it. He tastes of wine and smoke, soft and firm at the same time. His tongue is rough against his own, hungry, as if kissing him is not enough. He tests and explores, always in the search for more, and Bénja is willing to give him everything he has.

He moans into his mouth, presses his hands to the back of his neck. Rosier gasps as he moves his lips along his jaw and throat, his hand fisting and tearing at his shirt. Not long, and Bénja pulls him into his lap, holding onto his hips. His hands wind up his back, tracing every muscle and curve of his spine. Rosier shivers under his touch, kissing him once more before ridding Bénja of his shirt altogether.

Soon, Rosier’s shirt joins his own on the ground, revealing the scars on his chest.

But Bénja doesn’t care about those. He has only eyes for him.

“We—we really gonna do this?” Rosier pants out, back arching slightly as Bénja maps out his collarbones with his tongue. Bénja is hard beneath him.

“Not if you don’t want to,” he assures him between kisses.

“Fuck. Yeah, okay. But this is a one-time thing, yes?”

“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Bénja would have agreed to anything just to keep Rosier in his arms.

The blonde man dips his head and tilts Bénja’s up to meet him in another starving kiss. Then, it is his mouth that is moving downward, kissing all over Bénja’s chest and the trail of hair below his navel. Suddenly, Rosier is between his legs, looking up at him with dark eyes clouded by lust, and makes quick work of his belt and boxers.

Bénja can only stare back, slack-jawed, mesmerised.

When Rosier takes him into his mouth, he groans gutturally, his head tipping back. The blonde man’s mouth is tightening around him, his tongue swirling and teasing his length as he swallows almost everything in one go. It’s certainly not the first time he’s done something like that, and Bénja is gritting his teeth and clawing his hands into the sheets.

He’s never felt so unravelled in his entire life.

“Shit. Evan—”

Struggling, he tries to sit up, even though he’s aware that once he sees that beautiful man devouring him with such ease, it will be his undoing. But his arms are weak, and the weight of his own body drags him back down into the cushions. Only with much effort, he manages to straighten up, chest heaving and moaning through clenched teeth.

Evan — he is beautiful, always has been. His blonde hair is wild and loose, swaying with every bop and jerk of his head. Bénja reaches down, cupping his jaw, pressing his thumb into his skin. He wants to see him enjoy this, too.

And he does, by the looks of it.

Evan’s eyes are burning with desire. His hand has found its way into his own boxers, pleasuring himself hard enough for a wet spot to have formed on his crotch.

“No—no, wait. This isn’t how this is supposed to be. Come here. It is my responsibility to satisfy you, too.”

Evan stops, gasping for breath as he lets go of his cock.

“You—you sure? I am not like the others you had before.”

“No,” Bénja chuckles, breathless, still high on both liquor and being sucked off. “You certainly are not. But neither am I.”

Leaning down, he kisses him again and slowly guides him upward. There, he removes his trousers before kicking off his own. Evan’s right. He is not like anyone Bénja had before, but he’s slept with both men and women. This is hardly any different.

He rolls him onto his back and settles right between his legs, trying to make do with what little room they have. Gently, he sucks and nibbles at the heated skin of Evan’s throat and jaw. His moans reverberate against his mouth as he rubs his length against him. Once he enters, a unified moan escapes them both.

Evan arches his back again, pressing his body flush against Bénja’s. He wraps his arms around his middle in return, keeping him locked in a tight embrace. Sloppily, he presses his mouth against Evan in another attempt at a kiss, but he’s barely aware of what he’s doing. All he feels is Evan around him; Evan as a part of him.

Not even in his wildest dreams could he have imagined something as altering as this.

Altering, and yet so utterly and completely right.

They melt into each other, lose themselves in the process. Bénja moves inside him with the deliberation of someone making sure the other’s needs are met. While he’d usually chase his own satisfaction, he now puts Evan’s first, relishing in every appreciative twitch and shiver of his body. What he himself wants is merely an afterthought to him. He doesn’t realise that, like this, he is handing Evan his heart, unaware that he will never want it back.

The next morning is a cruel awakening. Not because of the pounding headache or the dryness of his mouth, but because of the emptiness he feels: beside him on the bed, deep down in his heart.

Evan must have slipped out from underneath his arms in the middle of the night, never addressing what had occurred.

Fuck. Yeah, okay. But this is a one-time thing, yes?

Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?

Oh, how stupid he has been! How blind! He should have known Evan was only trying to save himself the heartbreak of waiting for someone who would never make up his mind.

He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, slowly working through everything he still remembers from last night, the rightness he had felt throughout all of it.

No, he must prove him wrong, fall on his knees and beg him to change his mind if he has to. Because Evan is more to him than just a quick fuck or a classmate, even more than a friend. In all these hours they spent isolated and locked away with their final project, Evan had been what brought lightness to his days, the sharpness he often misses in others, the challenge Bénja had needed.

In all these hours, Evan had been not just his partner, but his —

Lighthouse.

Bénja is up on his feet in seconds. Never in his life has he been both sure and unsure at the same time. What if it is already too late? Evan Rosier is not known to wait. If he made up his mind about something, he’ll stick to that decision, come what may.

Regardless, Bénja has to try. He knows he will never be the same if he’d lost the one thing that made him someone better.

Throwing on the first clothes he can find, he rushes into the town at the feet of the Academy.

He must be standing there like a fool: hair tousled, shirt rumpled, unshaven, hungover, with not even his teeth brushed, and a massive bouquet in his hands. Whoever opens that door now is going to laugh at his expense. Belshazzar Crouch, the heir, the better son, a mess standing in the halls of an esteemed Academy.

But he finds that this doesn’t matter. His looks are no longer of importance, not when someone that matters so much more is waiting for him at the other side of that door.

He practices the words inside his head: the apology, the plea. Nevertheless, once the handle tilts, and Rosier appears before him, all those words, too, no longer matter. It is action that speaks.

The bouquet falls from his hands, petals drifting as the flowers hit the ground. Bénja grabs Evan by the neck, kissing him so hard it knocks their teeth together. They both stumble backwards and into Evan’s room.

“Forgive me. For everything I said and didn’t say,” he begs between kisses, cupping Evan’s face with his hands. The words tumble out of his mouth like a well doomed to burst at the seams.

“I was a fool, an idiot. I shouldn’t have let you go. When I woke up and you weren’t there, I realised the gravity of the mistake I had made. I don’t want this to be a one-time thing, not when you mean so much to me. You are the one I look for in every room. If I were a sailor cast out at sea, you’d be the rock I cling to, the beacon of light I’d search for in a storm. You are my lighthouse, Эванэчка. And—and I don’t believe I ever want to wake up without you by my side again, not after I know now this kind of loss this would mean.”

“All right, all right!” Evan chortles, but there is a blush on his cheeks and a softness in his eyes as he meets Bénja’s gaze. He circles Bénja’s wrists, squeezing gently. “You’re laying it on a little thick.”

A crunch followed by a rustle rips them out of the moment. Wilkes is standing in the room, eating oats straight out of the package, and looking utterly entertained. Anger flares up beneath Bénja’s ribs. He always pegged Wilkes to be more of a simple background, but does this man truly have no manners?

The man in question grins, mouth still full of oats. “Oh, sorry. Don’t let yourself be bothered by me, sure. Go on. Continue. This was gettin’ interestin’.”

“Piss off, Wilkes,” Rosier snaps, but it’s not as venomous as Bénja knows he’s capable of being. Regardless of Bénja’s dislike for him, Wilkes remains Evan’s best friend.

Wilkes raises his hand defensively.

“Don’t twist your knickers, Rosier. I’m already out of the way now.”

Once the lock clicks shut behind him, and only a trail of oats marks where he stood a few seconds ago, Evan turns back to Bénja, raising an amused brow.

“You were saying?”

“Give me another chance. To make up for my mistake.”

“And you’re really willing to settle? For me? You could have anyone you want.”

Bénja chuckles, fond and soft, and rests his forehead against Evan’s. “What is the point if it would never be the same? My heart already belongs to you, Эванэчка. I simply had not realised it yet. For that, I apologise, too.”

“Do you actually mean that? You won’t go looking elsewhere?”

“Of course not,” he replies firmly, pressing a kiss to Evan’s forehead, holding him in his arms. “I could never break your heart.”

And, in that moment and many moments onward, he truly believes that to be true.

“A pretty nosy ghost.” James snorts, taking a step back. He holds out his hand, offering another pebble as it is Sirius’ turn to throw.

“It’s my only source of entertainment, Prongs. Cut me some slack.”

“All right, all right!” James chuckles, resting his elbow on the fence Sirius had stood before mere seconds ago. “It’s a damn useful source too. Every bit of information you pick up on can help The Order to avoid detection. I’d go as far as saying that our lives depend on it.”

Sirius scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Now, you humour me. Nothing I do in there is more than – wasting away.”

He grunts, flinging the pebble across the stream. It makes five jumps until it too sinks to the bottom. James lets out an appreciative whistle.

“And piss off guards”, he adds joyfully, not paying attention to Sirius’ bristling mood. He knows better than to argue. They’ve been over this countless amounts of time.

“And piss off guards”, the prince agrees.

“Heard they stationed a new lieutenant. Some… man from the West. How’s he like? Do you reckon he’ll stay longer than two months? I’m giving him no more than two months.”

Sirius doesn’t answer. His eyes fall back on the stronghold towering high above the mist that veils the hill and the village residing at the structure’s feet. For many centuries, this fortress had been their last defence. A loyal guard, that would survive even the harshest of battles. Now, this place is nothing but a forgotten monument; haunted and crumbling to dust. Sirius is its ghost, but he is – by far – not its only prisoner.

“He’s… different” he concedes, passing another stone back and forth between his hands. “He doesn’t seem like he’s happy to be here.”

“None of them are.” James huffs derisively, his eyes, which had followed Sirius’ gaze, landing on his brother again. “They hope to bask in the light of glory, licking even the last bit of shit from their superior’s boots, and not to be discarded like some… aged mule.”

A smile flickers over Sirius’ lips. His parents’ lapdogs have never been good in James’ books. They aren’t in most people’s, Sirius’ included.

“For one, he is not old”, the prince denies, finally parting from the stone held in his palm. It hits a rock protruding from the riverbed before plunging into the stream. “Early twenties, maybe a tad older. Frankly, it’s hard to tell since he never looks like he caught enough sleep.”

“And secondly?”

“Secondly, there is this… sadness about him, as if he carried the entire world’s burden on his shoulders, and no one is there to lift even the tiniest bit of it. Most soldiers are brimming with pride at the prospect of serving this godforsaken kingdom, but not him. Makes me wonder why…”

He closes his eyes, imagining the man before him; scars and freckles, a hunch in weary shoulders, and eyes as observant as they are withdrawn; a secret secured by many riddles. Sirius loves solving such. He’s always been good at it.

Yet, he cannot shake the feeling this one will be more difficult than anything he ever encountered.

“Ask him.” James shrugs. “Maybe he’ll tell you what burdens his mind.”

Sirius hums, his eyes finding the fortress once more. He muses what this strange lieutenant might be doing at this very moment.

Remus is running late. He's never running late. He has never run late. In a world, where werewolves already are in a more than unfortunate position, he cannot afford to be late. Finding jobs is hard for people like him. This is less than ideal.

He rushes past the bedroom, a piece of toast clenched between his teeth and his fingers frantically fumbling with the tie around his neck. His worn-down leather satchel is propped against the front door, patiently waiting to be picked up. Five more minutes and his shift will begin. All Remus needs to do now is grab his belongings and apparate out of the flat.

Cursing quietly over his own daftness, he walks back in, opening the door as soundlessly as possible.

Well, that would be the case if he hadn't forgotten something.

Halting abruptly inside the hallway, he turns back to the bedroom door, which he had left ajar. The warmth of the bed is calling his name. Remus gnaws on his lower lip. He doesn't have time!

But he'll be damned to leave without a goodbye kiss.

The windows are opened and the early morning sun floods the sheets and furniture in a soft, bright light. As a cool breeze drifts over the bed, the thin curtains blow like a sail in the wind. It is a tranquil picture, but not as tranquil as the man still asleep between heavy blankets and gigantic pillows.

Remus has always believed, that Sirius must be from a different world. It is difficult to comprehend something as beautiful as him to exist in a universe as bleak as this one. Yet, he is very much real. The plenty of kisses Remus has pressed to his skin are proof of that. Even now, Remus can taste the taste of Sirius' skin rather vividly on his tongue. If miracles still happen, then Sirius is one of them.

Smiling softly, Remus leans in, wanting to press a careful peck to his lover's cheek. However, the moment he does, Sirius stirs, rolling onto his stomach. The blanket slides off his shoulder, revealing taut muscles, porcelain-like skin, and numerous artworks in the form of tattoos. Remus swallows heavily. His stomach flutters.

He shouldn't do this. He's running late and Sirius needs his sleep. But the full moon is close and Remus has grown more and more restless with each day. Seeing his love embedded in their bed like the star-kissed deity he is, is a temptation he can hardly resist. What are five minutes more, really?

Well, Moons, I wouldn't mind - you know - if you touched me in my sleep. I have plenty of wet dreams already. And what's better than waking up only for the dream to continue? What I'm saying is: if you're fine with it, I am more than fine with it.

Sirius Black. I should have known what a naughty dog you are.

For you? Always, my moon.

Well, who is the naughty dog now?

The heat flaring up his spine becomes unbearable. Remus' mouth runs drier than a desert would and he's hard before he has fully climbed onto the bed. Breathing heavily, he unbuckles his belt, not even granting himself the time to undress himself properly. All he does is take out his throbbing cock and give it two frantic pumps.

Fuck, he really is a desperate hound, isn't he?

Carefully, he pulls back the blanket, exposing Sirius' elegant frame. With a needy groan, he starts mouthing at his shoulder blades, rutting against his thighs. Sirius remains blissfully unaware, probably mistaking this for yet another wet dream. Well, at least, as of now.

The kisses become more violent, more lustful. Remus doesn't care if he leaves bruises the size of a fist. He has done worse before.

"Fucking hell."

Again, Sirius stirs. This time, much more strongly. Remus can hear him groan, can feel his muscles twitch. Not long and he'll be fully awake, drowsily trying to make sense out of the situation he suddenly found himself in. But Remus doesn't let up. He can't. Already at the brink of falling apart at the seams, with precum dripping off his tip, he pushes inside of his love. A moan wrenches from Sirius' lips.

Immediately, his body responds to Remus' advances, despite not knowing what is happening, feeling disorientated and maybe even confused. His spine arches into the thrust while his hand fists the sheets underneath. Moan after moan bubbles out of his chest while his skin starts to heat up worryingly fast.

"Fuck. I'm sorry, sweetheart. God, I'm so sorry. I couldn't- I- Fuck."

A string of nonsensical pleads tumbles out of Remus' mouth. Even though Sirius brought this idea up in the first place, Remus still feels the need to apologise. But, as inappropriate as it might feel as good does it feel too. Too good, truthfully. There is some thrill within the forbidden. And both men - now desperately moaning and grabbling with each other for one feverish kiss after the other - are known for chasing the high of that exact thrill. Always have been.