Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The moon sits just above the highest branches of the treeline. He's magnificent, swollen and bright; the only thing to keep the approaching dark of night at bay, the only thing hung high, swaying, arcing across the sky on this cloudy day. The stars are destined to fall behind him tonight. And as he rises, larger than life, yet with a certain quiet that his opposite could not dream of attaining, the sun begins to dip.

He feels comparatively minuscule, irrelevant, sinking under the water's edge. His beams burn the surface, cast a blinding warning. One last flare, one final hello. It is the fall equinox, and the sun waves to the moon as they cross paths on opposing ends of the sky.

The two miss each other over and over again. It's a dance in which a hair-thin margin forever separates them. Two ships passing each other in the night, never crashing into each other in that surely-destined way. The way that the sun believes them to be—destined, that is. Or maybe it is less destined than it is this purposeful rewiring; the sun grabs the strings of fate and knits miles of warmth in the shape of the moon's name.

It's reverence, it's devotion, it's piteous. It's the only thing to get him through the endlessly dark days in waiting for it, in wishing for it: the selenelion.

"You were in my dream last night."

My soul has been clawing toward you since I first saw you, he'd like to say. He's gone rogue and escaped. It only makes sense that he'd end up in your dreams.

He doesn't; instead, he reaches over and grabs his sopping wet laundry from the machine. When he throws it into the dryer with a thwop, he prompts, "Oh?"

If James Potter knows one thing, it's that he's pathetic. He's lovesick, filled to the brim with this yearning creature he cannot get a handle on, and worst of all, probably very obvious about it, too. It's only a matter of time before the jig is up. He can't keep a secret to save his life, not before, not now, not ever. If it were between living another day and keeping this secret, Remus Lupin would know he was the object of his innermost desires, and James Potter would be a corpse on the floor.

"Yes," Remus replies, tugging one, then two, dryer sheets from a box. He hands one to James, which he takes, then tucks his own between the wet clothes confined in his own dryer. James hesitates while looking at the scrunched sheet in his hand, and before he can even say anything, Remus has given him two more. "Y'know, you really don't need more than one."

"Makes the clothes smell good."

Remus smiles, eyes trained on the roll of quarters clutched in his fist. It feels like some secret thing between them, that smile. It's almost one of those moments, just not quite (or maybe, hopefully, not yet). James smiles anyway, because it's impossible not to when Remus is so content like this.

He's had a good pain day, firstly. This usually determines the entire outlook of a day for Remus (and, if he's honest, for James himself). His cane sits alone in their shared apartment, set up against the counter, unneeded. Secondly, it's a Sunday, and the 24-hour laundromat is barren, completely empty this evening, which gives Remus the quiet to read while they wait between loads. Third, their local bakery hadn't been out of the croissants that Remus liked, and he'd bought two; one for then, and one for, presumably, now.

And fourth, or what he hopes is fourth, Remus is spending a domestic day with James.

It's hard not to be domestic when you're two adult men rooming with each other, and, yes, he knows that, but isn't there something special about it? Grocery shopping with Remus, getting coffee with Remus, organizing the pantry with Remus, going to the bank with Remus, doing laundry with Remus…

He just can't shake the smile; Remus is so soft like this, even under the harsh fluorescence of the laundromat. He counts his quarters once, then twice, as if he's honestly considered that the bank may have shorted him. His hair, tawny and mussed in the back, needs a cut. They'd tried to get him to a barbershop amidst their other errands, but couldn't seem to get in anywhere. That's okay. James will give it a trim when they get home.

"But, the dream," Remus continues finally, shaking his head as if ridding himself of some quarter-counting-induced haze. He loads the coins into his dryer, then flips his position to lean his elbows back onto it as it roars to life. His gaze is steady out the front windows, and James thinks he may be looking at something specific, so he turns, too, just halfway. His body faces Remus, his head turned to the outside world. But there is nothing out there that James finds at all significant. His eyes drag back to Remus.

No, everything significant is here, inside and within this stasis. The laundromat smells of detergent and burnt dryer lint, and Remus Lupin is tall and lean, body a map of sharp, clean lines. He's got a bump on the bridge of his nose from breaking it in the fourth grade, a sharp cut of a scar from a thrown beer bottle in college right beneath it. James had almost told him that night. It was the first time they'd had one of those moments. He can see it clearly in his mind's eye, as clear as if it were happening now. Remus, hopped up on intravenous pain medication, and James, drunkenly weepy at his ER bedside.

"Moony," he says, having had to physically turn himself to stop peering at him. It's a reminder of the chain of conversation. James doesn't know if he could stand not knowing what he was doing in Remus' subconscious."The dream?"

"Right, right, sorry," he clears his throat. "I don't remember it well. I think you were swimming in the ocean, and the waves were super high, and I started yelling at you to get out. And you wouldn't, so I had to follow you in. Then, I think you, uh…"

If James isn't mistaken, he swears he sees his cheeks ruddy, something shameful in his smile. He's still looking outside, and James checks again—but nothing is out there. The street lamps cast piss-orange across cracked, slush-ridden cement. A black liquor store bag catches on an electrical pole and tangles itself there. The city is filthy and cold, and quiet, and Remus won't look away from it.

"What'd I do this time?" He asks. It's supposed to be a joke—James is always mucking up Remus' life on purpose, wants to throw him a curve ball, make things interesting—but his voice cracks. Because there's something on the precipice of this moment, and James realizes what that approaching thing is just as he tries to joke. It wasn't wistful thinking, that earlier yet. They'd been slowly inching toward that same dance. It's one of those almosts. Two parallel lines on a statistics graph. Two ships passing each other in that night-damp, narrow passage. Two men riding horseback in opposite directions on some dusty thoroughfare. The setting and rising of the sun and moon on either side of the sky.

Almost, almost, almost, almost.

Remus rubs the joint of his left ring finger. It's a subconscious, self-soothing thing he's done for as long as James has known him.

"You kissed me, or something. I think. Weird."

"Yeah," James agrees, mouth dry, "weird."

°. ⋆༺ ☾ ☼ ༻⋆. °

The first time the sun had seen the moon, it was a mere flicker. It wasn't so much that the sun wasn't aware of him; he'd always felt the lingering presence of his opposite in the early hours of the day, heard the clouds and sky sing his praises. But he'd never truly understood it further, really.

Until the day they started sharing the sky, that is. The sun set, the moon rose, and for the briefest of moments, just as the solar being was nodding himself resolutely below the skyline, he saw him.

The moon knows how to smile in a way foreign to the sun. He's quiet in his rise, yet the strongest presence in the sky for his stay. The stars twinkle, the sun beams, and the moon glows in his own self-assured way.

"That's not how you play knucklebones."

What James would like to say is 'who cares?', or maybe 'screw off'—something his mother would be aghast to hear come from his mouth—but he bites his tongue. He's been wrongly identified as a bully these days, and he's not going to bother with the tiny, bony-ankled new kid in front of him. He doesn't even bother mentioning that the game is called jacks, not…knuckles, or whatever nonsense new kid is spewing in his little foreign lilt.

Until he doesn't let up, of course. The other boy scuffs his shoes, trying to catch James' attention. There must be a piece of gravel caught in the grooves of the soles; it leaves one long white mark along the blacktop. Not that James is looking too closely. He's busy stacking the jacks and rolling the rubber ball between his fingers.

"I don't care," James says finally, giving in once he realizes new kid isn't going to move. He could have said it even meaner in a million other ways, anyway, and it's not like anyone would challenge him; he's James Potter. He kicks the furthest in kickball, he always wins red rover, and his mother says he's the most handsome boy in the 4th grade.

Despite this, he doesn't quite have the courage to glance upward any further than the other student's ankles.

His standing over James is casting a long, skinny shadow over his moving hands. He bounces the ball, then uses his other hand to pick up the jacks. New kid scoffs.

"That's not how you play."

James does glance up, now. He can feel heat blooming along his cheeks, hot and humiliated. This shy, no-friends loser can't possibly think he cares. He's even said so! He doesn't care. He doesn't care. He doesn't—

New kid is haloed by the hot afternoon sun, lighting the ends of his hair nearly orange. His hair is curly, but unlike James', softer and less coiled, falling over his eyes. He's a spindly thing; made up of all knees and ankles and elbows, and shorter than James by a mile (he can already tell despite being crouched toward the ground.

Inexplicably, it feels like something has reached out inside of him. It's a friendly hand, a hundred swallowed insults, a reeling excitement at something new, new, new.

It's an Oh, there you are. I've been waiting for you.

New kid doesn't flinch, but it feels like James is just one big flinch. Something is softening in him right as something seems to harden in the other boy. His eyes are narrowed, his arms crossed, and his lilt is stronger as he repeats, "That's not how you play, Potter."

Potter, Potter, Potter.

James may have been incorrectly identified as a bully quite a few times, but everyone acts friendly with him. He can't think of a single person who's ever called him anything but James. Besides the raucous, sweaty boys he calls friends, who almost exclusively call him Jimmy, and the singular boy, now across state lines, that calls him Prongs. James thought, until this moment, that he really preferred that, being Prongs, to anything else.

But this boy—this nameless nobody, someone James hasn't cared about the entire three weeks he's known of him—scowls and calls him Potter, and the world is imploding.

Why is the world imploding?

"How do you know my name?" Falls from his mouth before he can even stop it. It shouldn't be a surprise; if anything, he actually should expect this boy to know his name. He's James Potter. Popular, bright and sunny, and unstoppably charming.

"That's actually your surname, not your name-name."

"I…Obviously, I know that," James says hotly.

The boy narrows his eyes further. When he does this, one cheek crinkles more than the other. There's a mole on that side, and it scrunches into a fold of his skin.

"I'm Remus."

"I knew that," he shoots back immediately.

"No, you didn't."

James hesitates, then gives a toothy grin, confirming, "No, I didn't."

He reaches out his hand; Remus takes it.

°. ⋆༺ ☾ ☼ ༻⋆. °

The moon eventually finds other companionship; it's only normal. The sun cannot be his everything; he isn't in his line of orbit, and that is not enough. It's a devastatingly understandable thing, and the sun spends time hiding behind clouds and peaking himself back out while attempting to settle into peace with this storm. He does it for weeks, or maybe years (time passes rather strangely for him; he never has a secure thing to hold onto to mark the days).

The swirling storms of terror have come in the unsuspecting form of a whisper. The earth gifts murmurings of the moon and faraway planets. Venus has crossed over his back and waved hello, and it's that—that mere singular whisper—that sends the sun into some unstoppable turmoil alongside some clinging, unusual fantasy.

It's possible. He knows they can share the sky. He could share all evening with that moon and run his rays over his back to warm him. It doesn't have to mean anything, either. Even from the other side of the earth, the sun shines his light onto him in some unwavering devotion. It isn't close enough to heat his surface, but it allows him to glow. He can do that with all his might. And this yearning, traitorous thing in the sun's soul wants and wants, so he sees the fantasy of them in everything.

Strung along a coast of the ocean, written in sea foam and cowrie shell. Eclipses spelled in fallen pine trees along a mountainside. The sun's collision with the moon drawn grandly in the dust of deserts. The moon's face is in the middle of a continental canyon, smiling affectionately up at him.

What is stopping them from crossing paths?

This is a torturous existence. Lying in wait, finding things to fill his days. The sun tries to take note of how much of the moon's light shines over the horizon as he dips each day. He uses that as some kind of hope; something to look forward to. It's a hopeless thing. It's a hopeful thing. It's both, it's neither. It's inevitable, it's impossible. It's destiny, it's doomed.

The sun burns in an unprecedented way for millennia after Venus has passed the moon in the dark of night.

"I made out with Dora," Remus rushes out. The door to James' bedroom bounces against the stopper, making this inordinately silly noise that would normally have him snickering. But he's at odds with the words tumbling from his friend's lips.

Girls, plural, throw themselves at James. He can't say no to it either. One, because of his budding libido, and two, because, well, how can you say no to a pretty girl? A pretty girl who wants to kiss you, too. James is a magnet for them these days, so he's obviously been through the thrilling highs of kissing girls. He is the self-proclaimed most popular boy in sophomore year and, despite being benched all of this year, is on the football team.

So, he's had his fair share of them, girls. And he's kissed plenty. Honestly, he's a bit of a whore; that's what geometry-class-Pete says. James doesn't know him well, but he's sure his unbiased view must be true by the way he'd said it. Even if he doesn't know the guy's last name, and he only comes up in conversation as, well, geometry-class-Pete, he seems trustworthy enough.

Yet Remus—soft-spoken, bookish Remus—has always remained a little on the edge of it all. Never dating, never pining, and certainly never kissing.

Until now.

Remus is huffing and puffing, hands on knobby knees, while James gawks at the boy. He's red-faced, sputtering, and altogether an anxious mess as he slumps to the carpeted floor and wails disbelievingly, "What the fuck?"

"Uh, so, how was it?" That's all James can think to ask.

"Fine," Remus says quickly, then hesitates, lip wobbling. "Well, no, it was…I mean. She liked it. A lot, I think."

James doesn't know why, but those words send something shooting up his spine. He tries to shake it off—the idea of some girl enjoying how Remus kisses—but finds he can't. The words spin around and around, and James is a victim of hearing their echo in his head.

"Well, that's good, dude. You're not bad at making out. She liked it. What's the issue?"

"I…James."

Remus sounds so desperate, almost like he wants James to have some innate ability to understand him in the moment. Sometimes, he does have that; he can read Remus like a book. Or maybe it's that he knows him, similar to how someone knows a favorite movie. He's memorized every line of him. But not now, not this Remus, who has kissed a girl and is in an embarrassed, glossy-eyed puddle on his bedroom floor. James scrambles off the bed and toward him on hands and knees, ducking his head to catch his gaze and figure him out, but nothing is adding up. Scattered pieces that don't fit together.

"What? What am I missing?" He asks, feeling some urgency rise within him. This display of emotion is so unlike Remus that he's starting to become fearful that something awful has happened when he finally sputters it out.

"Potter," Remus says, scrubbing one sweaty hand down his face, then again for good measure. "I didn't like it. Me."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Remus laughs wetly, "oh."

"I mean, that doesn't mean anything, Remus. So what? It was your first kiss." James isn't quite pulling the pieces into any discernible shape, yet. There's something there, but it's still an unreadable thing between them.

"Yeah," he agrees softly. "Yeah, you're right."

"Whatever. So you don't like Dora, that's okay. There's a ton of other girls."

"Right."

"Right! It'll be fine, dude. And hey, she liked it, at least." James nudges his shoulder into Remus', giving a bright grin. "My first kiss was fuckin' horrible."

This makes Remus laugh. It sounds a little hollow underneath, but James chooses to ignore it.

After he's been talked down from the ledge (and beaten in Call of Duty three times, for good measure), Remus slumps his shoulders and gives him an embarrassed wave goodbye as he takes his leave.

That night, James thinks about Remus kissing a girl.

He said it was Dora, but the girl in James' mind is faceless. Remus' scuffed hand is cradling her face, and there's a self-assured power behind the grip on the back of her neck as he holds her in place. And still, it's soft. Their lips are slotted together in some absurdly chaste display, but before James can control it, the mental image is shifting.

Remus is clambering on top, one arm braced beside their head. He's hovering, knees on either side of their hips, coasting his tongue lazily into their mouth with controlled fervor. They wind an arm around his neck, dark fingers scrambling for purchase on the hair at the back of his head.

He's groaning into the kiss, shifting his body downward and into them, and they give one gasp in response, scrambling eagerly to hook their ankle around his calf. Remus' breaths come out in soft puffs against their mouth as he shifts again, hips rolling, rolling, rolling, and the pliant body below him writhes and tightens intermittently between each movement. One shift of his hips in particular has them throwing their head back, a column of throat exposed.

Remus chases the expanse of skin, running the flat of his tongue up and along his Adam's apple, then gives one sharp bite just below his jaw for good measure. The body below his jolts; his hips jerk as if on their own accord, unstoppably desperate for whatever comes next. And this desperation, the piteously begging motion, makes Remus smirk.

"You like that?" Remus teases against his throat. His partner nods rapidly, out of breath.

James' mind reels with the invasion of this vision, eyes squeezed shut in response to the heat crawling up his neck.

Because when Remus pulls up to gaze at the person beneath him, lips flushed and shining, their face is, inexplicably, James' own.

°. ⋆༺ ☾ ☼ ༻⋆. °

The stars had been hidden behind clouds and rain for such a time that the sun thought he might never see them again. But the stars shine before the moon rises, and on this clear day, there they are. They knock on the door to the sun's home and teeter in his foyer with pieces of cloud and sky in hand. Their smile flashes Morse code. They're multiple, yet one sure entity of their own, holding the shine of all the sky's light combined.

The stars are still a million light-years away, and yet, here they are, their twinkling visible from even here.

The moon and the stars are something else; the sun and stars are one in the same, just fiery balls of light in the middle of the dark of space. The moon and stars are different. They are not opposites, not the same thing, but rather, they hold the same space every night. Whether under cover of clouds or otherwise, they share their time in the sky. The stars write love letters to the moon, and the moon to the stars.

After the stars' return, the sun rarely sees them without each other. The moon rises, the stars make their expected appearance, and the sun has already set by the time those are together. He feels always just outside of it.

The time of looking forward to the moon and sun sharing mere minutes together in that same sky is over; the moon has the stars, and although the sun had missed them, he grieves.

"—fucking love Pavement!"

James sighs, looking off to one side. Remus is crunched up beside Sirius' milk crate of records, plucking what is essentially every single one out, one at a time, to comment on how phenomenal Sirius' taste in music is. He gets it. Sirius is…different these days. Cool. Cooler than James, definitely. Clad in shredded leather and denim, they are the epitome of teen rebellion. They've got little tattoos on all of their fingers, blown out to shit and bruised-looking. Homemade lines made of hundreds of needle pokes in the shape of stars. They've pierced themselves with thumbtacks and safety pins—even their tongue glints with a tiny silver barbel.

James gets the appeal. He just didn't think Remus would. Remus isn't like that, isn't rebellious (not in that way), isn't pierced or tattooed or loud or boisterous. Remus is Remus; soft and demure, snarky and a bit brooding at most.

Maybe that's why he likes Sirius so much.

They're a teenage runaway; they had shown up at the Potters' doorstep with a swollen lip and a bleeding cut on their right cheek. They'd only had the clothes on their back and the recollection of their childhood friend's address. Sirius had trudged across state lines, hitchhiking and skating their way back to James out of necessity from a tough home life. And although Remus couldn't relate on that exact level, James knows he had his own problems with his father. Perhaps it was solidarity between the two.

James is ecstatic to have Sirius back, of course, regardless of how much things have changed. He's more than ecstatic to share a house with him, to call them something closer, now, to a sibling than a friend.

Just…not right at this moment, while they sort through records and bark laughter and rub shoulders with Remus. Not while Remus fawns over bands that James has mostly never heard of.

Garbage, Fugazi, Mother Mother, The Flaming Lips.

Weezer ("Pinkerton?! Choice. I like it even better than their blue album.").

Talking Heads, David Bowie, Queen, Joy Division.

MGMT ("You have the pressing of their EP?!").

James doesn't have a chance in hell of keeping up; the two spout names back and forth with varying degrees of enthusiasm as Sirius tucks and untucks their hair behind their ears over and over again. This motion catches Remus' attention, and despite the way it sort of annoys James, his friend is smitten with it. It's all over his face. It might as well be drawn in one sweeping gesture on the floor around them; some complicated runic thing spelling it out for everyone to see:

Remus Lupin is falling for Sirius Black.

James supposes it was about time that his stupid, thick-skulled friend came out. The pieces had fallen together quickly in recent times—it's obvious. Remus is gay, and James knows despite not being told, and he wants his friend to trust him enough to tell him. And, with how his two friends are acting, he knows it must be upcoming. He just didn't think it was going to be for someone like Sirius.

He wants to pound the thought from his mind with a hammer. Sirius isn't bad, isn't even just okay. Sirius is everything. It's not something wrong with them that makes James doubt the longevity in Remus' infatuation. It just won't work. James and Sirius are made from the same thing. They're all siblings without the blood to match. Two flames started by the same strike of lightning. James sometimes thinks that he's in love with Sirius, but the feelings are riddled with platonic undertones (not to mention that James isn't gay by any means). And anyway, they've always been much more siblings than anything else.

James throws a rubber ball up in the air and catches it, over and over again while the two of them sort and squabble good naturedly. He hasn't spoken in more than an hour while they have had their little…bonding moment. Or whatever this is. He's bored out of his mind, falling easily into a petulant thought cycle from the lack of attention or stimulation, but soon enough, it must finally be over, because Remus stands. He wobbles on half-asleep legs as he cracks his neck. He's lanky, having shot up since last year. It's a far cry from the tiny boy James had met him as, that's for sure—he's lean and wirey, nearly a whole head taller than Sirius, and even has a height advantage on James, whose eyes are level with Remus' nose these days. He likes this new Remus; that part of him, anyway. There's something right about the way he towers over James, his lean lines, the bumbling, bony bits of him.

He's broken from the thought as his friend stretches his arms above his head. His spine pops, and he lets out a soft groan that has James alert in an instant; it's not only Remus' height that has changed, but the onset of a slew of mysterious aches and pains.

Sirius doesn't seem to jolt for the same reason; he's raking his eyes up and down Remus' body in an obscene way that makes James feel, admittedly, uncomfortable.

Remus is in pain, and he can see it in the way his shoulders tense, the way he rubs idly at his ring finger nervously. James and Sirius are both tensed and looking at him, for these wildly different reasons, but Remus doesn't spare James a passing glance. His eyes are locked onto Sirius.

°. ⋆༺ ☾ ☼ ༻⋆. °

The sun is just one ball of gas and heat and fire. He'll never burn out. He's sure of it; he is one burning thing, impossible to extinguish.

Until the day that he flickers for the first time.

"Potter. You do not need to be screaming and pounding at my door right now, it's—oh my god—two in the morning! For fucks sake—what?"

James has got one fist raised, mid-knock, having only been seconds away from pounding again. He doesn't lower it; he simply tries to crane his head to see Sirius, but his sibling's bed is notably empty.

Remus had wanted Sirius for dorm assignments, and James understood that. Remus and Sirius are as thick as thieves, and the choice for requested room arrangements between the two had made sense. James had Remus for their formative years, whereas Sirius had been terribly alone an entire state away. Equal and opposite, Sirius had gotten to live with James for the last two years of high school, while Remus had been trapped with his shitty dad in a cramped two-bedroom apartment.

He'd even respected it, only having gotten a little weepy when Remus and Sirius had delivered the blow. The three of them were best friends after all, attached at the hip. It hurt to be left out of that, because at the end of it all, they were a trio. This decision left James in the hands of the random room assignment gods. The odds had not been in his favor, now leaving him with a greasy, mean boy with dark hair and a permanent sneer. He alternates between walking on eggshells and doing anything in his power to goad his roommate into a fight.

Hence James' current need to get out of his room.

Remus is still looking at him, slack-jawed and head shaking incredulously while he waits for some kind of explanation, or maybe an apology. James is actually just about to push right past him. (fuck if Sirius isn't home—he'll just crash in their bed, then). But Remus stands against one side of the doorframe, his hand braced against the other, blocking his path. And it's that cagey, secretive way that brings his attention to how he looks:

Remus looks haggard.

No, no. Remus looks…something right now. He's rumpled, but not in his usual sleep shirt. He's got a button-up on, and it's undone to his navel. His feet are bare, knee tape missing, boxers slipping down the sharp angle of his hips, and…

"Potter."

"Wh…what? I just—I missed you? I thought maybe we could—"

"Moons?"

It's a chiming, breathless plea that comes from behind his friend—coming from the dark, mood-lit dorm. James can't see Remus' bed, but knows someone is in it. He'd know that voice from anywhere. He could close his eyes and cover his ears and still know the way the air changes when they speak.

Sirius is in Remus' bed.

Sirius is in Remus' bed. Sirius is in Remus' bed. Sirius is in Remus' bed.

Sirius is, Sirius is, Sirius is…

James turns on a heel. He doesn't know if he literally runs back to his block of dorms, but he makes it to the communal bathrooms so quickly that he's sure he must have. He isn't sure what's happening; he's clutching the lifted edges of the dirty sink with trembling fingers, heart aching and pounding so terribly he's fearful he's having a heart attack. Maybe his mom was right; the energy drinks and coffee consumption his freshman year of college are going to kill him.

Remus and Sirius are together in Remus' bed. It's not unprecedented. If anything, it's expected. Remus has been holding a flame for them since the day they'd laid eyes on each other. He's cupped the flickering thing against the wind til it grew. It's fine. It's fine. James isn't, but Remus and Sirius are together, and that's fine.

And it's this idea, the garbled, miserable thought of 'I'm going to die while Remus is fucking Sirius', that makes him keel over and puke in the sink.

It's all bile.

He continues to gag for minutes with the water running, but nothing more comes up. He'd almost prefer something would; he feels like if he could just empty his insides, he wouldn't feel so horrible. His hands shake worse than before, now white-knuckle gripping the laminate counter holding the row of sinks, his breaths coming out in a harsh rhythm.

Out, out, out, in.

In, out. In, in, out.

In, out, in, in, in.

Out.

"What the fuck is happening to me?" He doesn't recognize himself in the mirror, and his croak is heard by no one.

He slinks down to the dirty floor, joggers dampened by overflown water and cheap bulk-bought soap. His hands are clammy as he feels for his pulse. It's racing, and he wracks his brain for someone, anyone, he could contact in his final moments for help. But the vision, bloomed fresh in his own brain with no reference point, of his only two friends tangled in bed keeps appearing no matter how hard he tries to shake it away.

James does not die that night, and that is the only reason he knows he didn't just have a heart attack at the ripe age of eighteen. Much later, he'll realize it was simply a bout of pure, unadulterated panic at the thought of being left behind. Not by both of his friends, but by Remus. But this night, he does not know what's happening to him, so he curls into himself atop his raised twin bed as his roommate harps on him for crying too loudly.

°. ⋆༺ ☾ ☼ ༻⋆. °

The sun finally falls in love with the moon from millions of miles away, from the sight of him at a distance alone. He knows he has devoted much of his life to the moon, including the heat of his fire across his back.

"You're too pretty t'cry, Potter."

James is a snotty, annihilated mess at Remus' bedside; he's so drunk that he swears he's sweating natty light, and Remus is artificially high as a fucking kite, and it's all at the fault of Sirius.

Stupid fucking Sirius.

They could never leave well enough alone. If Sirius wasn't the center of everything, it wasn't a good night in their eyes. If Sirius couldn't bump elbows with someone and become the most hated person in their circle of assholes, then the night wasn't complete. Tonight had been no different. Sirius needed some action, never content to just sit by.

The evening goes something like this:

There's a house show at The Snatch. It's a lesbian punk house not too far from any of their own rundown apartments, and Marlene McKinnon is the one to extend the invitation. It's given to Sirius alongside some mention of them 'not causing any fucking issues'. Sirius calls James and Remus on the home phone of their now-shared two-bedroom to invite them, and James is more than willing to go, whereas Remus has to be dragged there.

The "venue" is between their respective houses. Remus and James' place is two blocks away, while Sirius' is thirteen. Sirius had whined and whined over that fact; they're still disturbed at James' refusal to let Sirius also move into his place post-Remus-and-Sirius-separation.

It's not that he wouldn't like them to, or even that Remus, despite being the one to get dumped, wouldn't be fine with it (their breakup had been complex, yet in its wake left the two's relationship completely uncomplicated). James simply had no more room in his place. Hence, Sirius staying at the place which was once theirs and Remus', now lovingly dubbed 'Pad's bachelor pad', and Remus and James bunking together in what Sirius calls 'the lonely hearts club'.

Remus and James arrive late to the booming house show-turned-party, but before Sirius, toting two thirty racks and a mild buzz. They mingle—or rather, James mingles while a freshly single Remus gets trapped with one of the Prewett twins. The guy doesn't have a high social awareness, or maybe he's just wasted, because he's incessantly flirting with him while he gives James 'help me' eyes.

By the time Sirius has shown up, after throwing back nearly the entire crock of Tully during their thirteen-block walk, they're predictably hammered. Absolutely pissed, off-the-wall drunk. And in this state, it should be unsurprising how the rest of the night pans out.

Within an hour of Sirius' arrival, Marlene gets called a bitch by a guy none of them know. Instead of letting her handle it (which she'd really been in the middle of; kicking him out while Dorcas Meadowes commented idly that his fly was undone and his cock was nearly out), Sirius blows a gasket and hits the guy.

A scuffle ensues that has James attempting to yank the guy off his sibling, while Remus tries to pull Sirius back in tandem. It's to no avail—the two are like magnets; they won't stop surging at each other the moment they've twisted out of James' and Remus' grasps. At some point, Sirius has got the guy pinned to pavement, crushed beer bottle slicing into their hands as they scream and spit. James is very nearly about to call the fucking cops (no one can get a hold on the guy or Sirius), but Remus tries again, giving a placating tone as he's finally able to yank Sirius up and away.

He tries to soothe them the way they might have if they were still together, and that sends the guy on the ground into a spiral that starts with 'he fucking hit me!' and ends with a 40-ounce bottle of Old English smashed into Remus' face.

Remus is beautiful. James knows that. He thinks maybe he's known it for a while, maybe even forever. But tonight, he thinks he's finally realized it actively, front-of-the-brain, and with more keenness than before. Seeing that unusual combination of Remus' features so handsomely set, only to be split by this massive gash, has him on his knees in the wet grass, beer-chilled hands trying to hold the damned skin closed. There's blood everywhere; under James' nails, in the whites of Remus' eyes, pooled in the sockets. Remus is groaning, groaning, groaning, then stops moving altogether, head lolling back under James' arm. Out cold.

Things are blurry from there. The police are called. The guy gets away before he can face any repercussions. While Marlene talks to the deputy, and Remus gets his vitals taken by first responders, James begins getting enough footing, enough wherewithal, to have the sense to look for Sirius. It only takes a few minutes—James knows Sirius like he's his own limb. They're nestled at the back of the house between the back-porch couch and the rickety wooden railing, and they've got their hands trapped in their hair as they rock themselves back and forth, back and forth. It's as James approaches that they cough once, then scramble to stand over the railing and vomit.

"Fuck, I feel like shit," they groan against their hand, the other gripping their stomach. "I could have knocked him out before all that, I could have."

James goes fucking ballistic. So much so that he's nearly about to kill his sibling right then and there, in the backyard of this shitty punk house. He's now actually laid his hands on them, held them against the exterior of the porch with trembling fists in their torn-up jacket, breath hot in their face. He screams nonsense, words that can't even be heard through the ringing that hasn't let up in his ears since he saw Remus hit the ground.

They're lucky that James sees Remus get wheeled into the back of the ambulance, and that, right as that's happening, Marlene is careening him toward it, claiming she'd told them he'd be going with.

He's missing time throughout the night, including the ambulance ride all the way to Memorial Hospital. His mother is a doctor; she once said that the brain protects itself by forgetting. Maybe that's true, or maybe James is just drunk.

He thinks the latter to be more likely, as he puts on a blubbering, distressed show as the doctors take Remus to the back. They nearly don't let James back despite this; he's not family, they say, but Remus, barely cognizant, says 'my boyfriend' as some half-baked lie, and they make some probably-illegal exception that makes James' chest flare unusually.

My boyfriend. My boyfriend. My boyfriend.

Remus needs an inordinate amount of pain medication to stay calm; something cc's of this, some amount of cc's of that. By the time they've loaded him up, his friend has his head lolled back on the pillow, and he won't stop reaching his hand out for something on one of his sides.

James doesn't think he's ever cried for this long. At this point, he has no sobs left, and the tears just run and run, wetting his shirt. Remus' words cling like smoke to him, the ones he'd murmured just minutes prior:

"You're too pretty t'cry, Potter."

It does something to him. One, because he's got a bit of a thing for being referred to as his surname, and two, because…well, because…

A doctor interrupts that train of thought. He speaks to Remus in a gentle tone before using tweezers to clean his wound of debris, dropping shards of glass on a metal tray. Each drop, each ping, feels like a gunshot in this tiny emergency room. Remus doesn't flinch, but James can't help the way his shoulders lurch at every minute sound. He can't distract himself from the open flesh on the curves of Remus' face. He has half a mind to hurry the doctors to close the thing.

The fluorescent light above flickers. The doctor rinses the wound while Remus squeezes his eyes shut.

"What are you reaching for?" James croaks finally, watching as Remus' fingers flex a few times in their extension outward.

Remus doesn't open his eyes, murmuring dopily, "Boyfriend."

James tenses.

"Sirius isn't here. They're also not your boyfriend anymore, Moony." They've technically never really been Remus' boyfriend, but he surely can't be blamed for gendered confusion in a state like this, can he?

Remus smiles, lost and confused, around the doctor's working hands, as he corrects, "Not Sirius. Potter."

Oh.

James' shoulder relax. But the echo of words—the combination of Remus' confused murmuring of "boyfriend" and "Potter" mere seconds apart—have his shoulders rising right back up to his ears. Remus' drugged up, melting grin, the softness of his features even marred by this terrible accident, burn as bright as a flare in the middle of the night.

Oh, no.

The feelings begin to swell, tidal waves and gale force winds. He can hear the screams of human suffering in the back of his mind as it all comes to a head right in front of him. It's like a fucking car crash, the way the realization hits him. He sees it coming from mere feet away, and it nearly knocks him out cold when he's hit. He's a fucking idiot. He's a goner. He's no good, he's not got a chance in hell, and yet the words bubble like a pot boiled, rising in his throat in desperation. James Potter is many things, and a secret-keeper is not one of them, so the need to voice them is intensely present the moment they're there.

He holds them, clutched aghast like pearls around his neck. He holds, and holds, but it's unbearable.

It only gets worse when Remus is finally done being stitched up and they're alone. He looks terrible—massive bruises beginning to color the edges of his wound, droplets of blood drying in his hairline, but his eyes open and they're big and brown, flecked amber along the edges. And James sputters, tears dried and gone, unable to comprehend how he could have missed it. How is there a single moment in their time together that it hadn't been this obvious?

His eyes slip closed again, and in seconds he is sleeping, James thinks. His breaths are slow and even, plush lips swollen and parted. He can't hold the words anymore. He just can't.

"Remus, I…"

"Potter?" Remus croaks. His eyes are open again, pupils dilated as they try to focus on his face. There's more recognition in his features, now, despite the way the stitches and dirt and blood disrupt the way they move. He's coming back to himself.

"I'm right here, Moony," he assures gently, tentatively placing a hand on the bed. He watches, perplexed, as his pinky twitches on its own accord, toward Remus', which moves slowly toward James' in response, and when they meet in the middle—a mere whisper of a touch—James can only exhale shakily.

Remus falls asleep just minutes later, pinkie intertwined with his own. James doesn't sleep a wink; he gazes with a warmed reverence for hours, memorizing every inch of Remus' face. He continues to breathe softly, deeply, and James needs some reprieve from this ever-rising impulse, so he takes a slow breath and closes his eyes.

"I just realized I'm in love with you, I think," he murmurs.

Remus remains fast asleep and subsequently does not hear him.

Chapter Text

The stars provide insight unlike the clouds and sky, because the stars know what this nighttime gravitational pull is like. They've seen it before, night after night. The moon and they have always had the nighttime in common, and the stars and sun have always been two things made from the same components.

So the sun approaching the stars for help is only logical.

"Uh, dude, I know?"

James has been shocked by his own restraint. He's kept this thing a secret for years, nearly a fucking decade, fighting every single urge to showboat and spoil and fall over himself. He's swallowed his innate need to woo, to flirt, to goad, to tease. He hides his feelings behind grand platonic gestures and (embarrassingly) tries to jerk the urges out of himself. But nothing fully came close to the relief he feels now, admitting it to Sirius as they're bent over plates of a dirty shwarma restaurant.

An all it had taken was Remus mentioning a kiss in his dreams to spur him into finally telling Sirius. Ridiculous. Pathetic, even.

The reaction, though, is unbelievable.

"What do you mean 'I know'?" He hisses, giving a sharp kick to Sirius' ankle. "This is serious—no, don't even say it," James hurries out, laughing despite the situation he finds himself in. The last thing he needs is Sirius to make a predictable pun of their own name. "Shouldn't you be, like, fucked up over this?"

"Over what? My brother wanting to fuck my ex?"

"Yes, Si—wait, no. I don't just want to…do that. Pads, I just told you I'm in love with him."

"Okay? Doesn't mean you're not going to fuck him."

A lone woman eating in front of them turns, eyes steely. James gives a big-toothed smile and a shrug, and she turns around, flustered.

"He's your ex," he continues.

"I'm aware."

"So isn't that, like, messing you up?"

"No? James, I'm aromantic. That's, like, why we broke up, dude. I don't care if you date my ex. Also, it's been fuckin'…eight years since we broke up? Oh, and it's Moony. It's not like I'm going back to him." They pause, picking at their black nail polish, and James swats their hand away while Sirius continues their train of thought. "Although…the sex was really good, so…maybe…"

"Sirius."

His sibling guffaws, nudging his shoulder with their own. "Kidding, kidding. Is that why you've been waiting so long? Because of me? Because…I don't care, Prongs. It's been obvious, since, like…probably right after we broke up. You could have grabbed my sloppy seconds within an hour and I'd have lived."

"Ugh, dude…gross. Don't talk about him like that."

"Already defending his honor and you guys aren't even boinking yet…this may be a new record for your romantic conquests."

James elbows him sharply. "It's not…he's not—not just some conquest, Pads. I'm in fucking deep."

Sirius raises an eyebrow, digging into their falafel. "Lily Evans deep or Frank Longbottom deep?"

"Not even comparable, Pads. I'm in Remus Lupin deep. It's…fuck. Sometimes…sometimes it feels like I've convinced myself he does want me. It's like an almost, this shit he does. I…" James averts his gaze toward the window to the outside world, eyeing the leaves swirling along the splintered pavement. It's almost winter in New England; Remus, despite his pain flaring worse in the cold, loves the weather when it gets blustery like this. James envisions the two of them outside on that stretch of sidewalk, Remus red-cheeked and grinning, weighed down with plastic grocery bags. He finds that he can't stop himself from smiling at the thought.

"He's everything, dude. And sometimes…like I said, it's like…I dunno, maybe he does want me? It's like. An almost thing. It feels like he feels it, and he's not, like, mad about it. He's…into it? Kind of? Or maybe we are soulmates or something. Not that we aren't soulmates, Pads. Just, we're like, siblings. Platonic soulmates. And either way, it's always been different with Moony and me. Have you ever noticed that? That things are different? Sometimes these almosts, those moments with him, they have this palpable fucking build-up. Like, I can feel them coming. And it's tidal wave level thing, dude. It's…massive. And he's just standing there in the middle of it all, and sometimes he's smiling at me like he either knows how I feel or like he maybe is just feeling it on his own side of everything.

"He's so smart. He knows all this shit about classics and poetry. He goes to the art museums and actually reads the little cards by the paintings. He knows probably every country and its capital city in the entire world. He went on that expedition and, fucking, like, found a new plant. Like, what? How do you just find a new plant? He's a real ass biologist. And he isn't even just smart. He's funny as fuck. He makes me laugh, like, genuinely laugh. He's so raunchy with it, too. He swears like a sailor, and it's this insane contrast to how he is as a person, and it's flooring, right? Haven't you ever thought about that?

"…and he remembers all these little things about me. I can mention something in passing, and he'll bring it up six years later like it was some major conversation we had. Remember when he smacked that muffin out of my hand because he remembered I was allergic to cranberries? Like, who fucking remembers that? I'm not even deathly allergic. But that's Remus. His attention to detail is fucking crazy.

"He's so nice. So soft to people, too. Nicer and softer than you or I could ever be. Like, his morals are so tightly in place, like, he's…driven by them in this weird anti-hero ass way…He'd do anything to stand up for anyone, even if it's this quiet, weirdly self-assured way. He's so humble with it, too. Have you noticed that? He's so fucking humble. If I was that nice, that…handsome. That interesting, that smart…I'd have such a big fucking head, you know? I mean…Okay, don't give me that look. I know I'm a little egotistical, but…still. He has all I have and ten times more.

"He's so hot, too. Not that you don't know that. You got to…ugh. I can't even say it, actually. It was bad enough when you two were together, and I can't just think it all over again. It makes my hands feel all…sweaty and tight. But, yeah, he's just…like….fucking hot. Interesting looking and tall—and before you say it, no, dude, I didn't really realize I had a thing for tall people til, well, I realized all that. I actually sort of have you to thank for realizing, too. I'm still mad at you for the fight at The Snatch, but…it was then. That night. He was so drugged up, and he…he lied and told the doctors I was his boyfriend, and it was, just kind of…obvious all of a sudden. He called me his boyfriend as a lie, a joke, almost. And I took that and started sprinting.

"So, yeah, it's its own thing. It's always been different with Remus, Pads," James murmurs, finally settling the words between them. Amongst his raving monologue, he'd been picking his napkin into shreds between his fingers, and the remnants of that are scattered across the table, some of it even sprinkled into his hummus. Despite word vomiting everything up in such a passionate show, he feels vulnerable, like some injured thing in front of Sirius. He's bearing his soul.

Sirius doesn't respond for some time. James can see in his peripheral vision that they're taking a second to tip back the rest of their water.

Finally, they sigh, and James meets their eye immediately.

Sirius nods slowly, as if collecting everything that's been said. "So, you love him."

"Yes, that's how I opened this whole convers—"

They put up a hand. "I know, I know. I'm just summing it all up, jackass. So, you love him. You feel like he might love you ba—"

"It's like, the almost thing—"

"Prongs. I know," Sirius waves a hand at being interrupted a second time. "It's all these almosts. And that's good, that you think…that you feel like it might be mutual. But don't you want more? More than an almost? Or even just an answer."

°. ⋆༺ ☾ ☼ ༻⋆. °

In an unprecedented event, the sun and moon have collided.

"So," James calls, throwing his keys and papers on the counter as he slams the door behind himself, "did you dream about kissing me again last night, Moons?"

He's been thinking about that god-forsaken kiss for days—the not-kiss, that is. Because there's a universe where James Potter has kissed Remus Lupin under a tidal wave, and he is not living in it. He lives vicariously through the self in Remus' dreams.

All this time, all these years, he's fantasized about it himself (whether he'd realized it or not). These fleeting moments haven't let up in all his time on earth, he thinks. He feels unmoored by them—it's almost like he'd be allowed to have Remus in another life. Almost like he'd be allowed to have him here in this one. James alternates between the extremes of it; they're destined to fall into each other, they have been doomed not to from the beginning. Some days, James swears he can see a light in Remus' eyes—a heart-eyed, sweet, mushy thing behind his irises. Other days, he's convinced he's gaslit himself into believing someone he wants could love him.

He's tried to date. He's tried to fuck it out of his system, both into a writhing body below his and into his own fist, but Remus' face, his hands, his shoulders, are all his body can get off to these days. It's embarrassing. It's perverted. It's love, it's lust, it's been doomed since the start. It's written in the stars; he has to have it, and he will.

His whole life has boiled down to Remus, Remus, Remus, some sordid sugar cooked down on the stove too long and reduced to a thick, sticky thing. God, James is pathetic.

And now, spurred on by Sirius' words just days before, he's trying to guide this situation into something discernible. Something tangible. Something that has answers in it, even. And maybe it's working; Remus looks up from the coffee table, half-rolled spliff in hand, and James' words have made his cheeks color.

It's perplexing, the way Remus looks down and away, then back up, shoulders shifted backward to square off as he says, "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Prongs?"

It's James' turn to be embarrassed, but he turns swiftly toward the kitchen to hide what he knows is his own shock shifting his features.

He's still covered in a sheen of sweat from his early morning run in which he'd had to stop at the office for some missing paperwork for his weekend research he has to cover. The life of a paralegal never ends, he supposes.

James is a bit too caught up in Remus' teasing to even realize what he's doing until he's actually doing it; shakily pouring himself coffee from a pot that's already gone a bit lukewarm. James ignores the feeling of eyes on his back as he takes his time, puffing long breaths as he stirs in a splash of cream.

He's just fucking with you, he tells himself. He's not serious.

James flops down in the cat-scratched high-back armchair diagonal from Remus, coffee sloshing onto his basketball shorts. He feels up in space, unmoored, listless. Doesn't know what to do with his hands, doesn't know what to do with his face. He shifts around, looking for a distraction. Thankfully, it comes in the form of a small, brown creature between his legs.

"Hello Cricket," he murmurs to the tiny thing, stroking along her back. She needs to be brushed; she's shedding handfuls into his palms. Her spine is knobby in her old age as she wraps herself around his legs. It always chokes him up a little bit, to see her age and age. She's just such a rickety old thing these days.

"Not going to answer?"

"Answer what?"

Remus has to know that James is playing dumb, but he just smiles, shaking his head.

James does have half a mind to answer, actually. A big part of him was hoping Remus would goad him into admitting that, yes, he'd like that. He'd like that a lot, actually. The almosts have gotten more frequent, and he wonders if Remus feels it too. Sirius' words echo around in his skull, asking to be let out. He's got to push it. He has to goad Remus into saying something, or maybe he'll just need to do the 'saying something' himself.

It sucks; the kiss in Remus' subconscious does something to James. Something embarrassing.

It gives him hope, and it makes him brave.

So when Remus pads to his room, spliff in hand, James leaves his coffee to go cold and wanders after him.

"Lemme have a hit," James mumbles once he's flung himself onto Remus' mattress. "Stopping by work fucking sucked."

Remus heaves open the door to the tiny balcony (if you can even call it that—it's really just a door leading to a heavy metal grate preventing your access to the slanted roof below). He snorts at James' words. "What was so bad about it?"

"That girl, what's her name…the one that I told you just started front desk?" James swallows, trying to lean things into the direction he needs to end at. "She keeps flirting with me."

"Oh, so hard to be you, Potter. A girl is flirting with you? Boohoo."

James' face heats, and he's glad that Remus is taking this moment to light his spliff—he'd rather not let him see the embarrassment written all over his face. "She's weird with it," he explains away, tipping his head back. He leans sideways into the pillows and headboard. Remus' bedding smells like laundry detergent, cedar, and musk. It makes James feel woozy.

"You're also a notorious flirt—sure you didn't lead her on?" The smoke from the spliff spills from Remus' mouth when he talks. James swallows hard, trying not to watch the way his lips curl around the spliff as he raises it back to his mouth.

"She's not my type."

"Isn't everyone your type?" Remus shoots back, taking a couple of strides to hand James the joint. When their hands brush, James nearly drops it onto Remus' duvet.

Remus reaches over, scooping up his dog-eared book and tossing it to the side. It falls off the bed with a small thwack, and he takes the spot it was once taking up beside James.

"Not everyone is my type…" He mumbles, side-eyeing Remus with a pout. He takes a long drag, releasing it with watering eyes as he tries not to cough. He's never understood how Remus is able to hold back from coughing when they smoke.

"You've damn-near kissed everyone we know," Remus nudges him. The jostling causes James to sputter out a cough. "Seems like everyone under the sun is at least a little your type."

"I kiss all my friends," James snorts after composing himself, handing the spliff back to Remus' eager fingers.. "Doesn't mean they're my type. I've kissed Sirius, for Christ's sake. They're essentially my sibling. And sure, obviously I've kissed Frank…oh, and Mary. Huh."

Remus hums, as if to lead him into more. James scoffs.

"Fine, yeah. Everyone is pretty, and I like kissing my friends."

"Remember Lils? You were pretty taken with her, eh?"

"Hmm, yeah. We used to hang out with Lily all the time before she shipped herself to Scotland for that residency thing. I did kiss her, too, I guess. Like, a fuck ton. More than anyone else, probably."

"You did always have a thing for people who were a little mean to you," Remus agrees, smiling. Something is playing there, he thinks. A trick of light or a dancing of mirth. James knows him like the back of his own hand, so he's already waving one hand to dispel the embarrassment at that look.

"Oh, don't even start about Reg. Unless you're about to tell me you tattled on me to Pads?" James' eyes narrow, and Remus laughs, head tipped back onto his pillow. His eyes trace invisible lines on the ceiling.

"No. You probably should, though. Tell Sirius you made out with his brother at his birthday, I mean."

"Reg's my friend," he points out petulantly, turning his head slightly to catch Remus' gaze. He hesitates before repeating, "I kiss all my friends."

Remus doesn't look down at him, though. He's still got his head back, eyes scoping out the ceiling with such scrutiny that James thinks something must be up there. He checks—nothing. Yet Remus' devotion to the drywall continues. His eyes move back and forth like he's reading a book. They flit right, then left. Right, then left.

"You've never kissed me," Remus says, deciding then to loll his head to one side and look at James.

James looks away so quickly that it causes a twinge in his neck. "No," he concedes, mouth dry. "I haven't.

I've wanted to, he doesn't say. I've wanted to for longer than I even knew I wanted you. I'd do anything. I'd do fucking anything to just kiss you.

"Why not?"

"Didn't think you'd want to," James blurts out. It's without a thought, and he very nearly ups and exits the room in his embarrassed, bumbling despair. Does the way he worded that make it obvious how much he's thought about it? Does it give away the years-long secret? Is it a secret at all? Maybe James' love is contained, not in a black metal box, but in a clear glass case beside a hammer. Maybe he's—

"Why not?" Remus asks again, not breaking the look he's giving James. James looks anywhere but at Remus, flitting his gaze around the room in desperation to find something to settle on and distract his racing heart. He hears Remus put out the joint.

"Uh…" James mumbles, pressing his cheek against the pillows, facing away from his friend altogether. Remus' shelf is right in front of him, showcasing dozens of books, knick-knacks, and photos. One of them—an instant photo of the two of them, post Sirius and Remus, pre-James' lovesick realization—catches his eye more than the others ever could. In it, Remus' arm is draped across James' shoulders, and he's a bit bent over to press their cheeks together. He warms at the sight, feeling incredibly fond. He can manage this, can't he? It'll be better for their friendship, won't it? Having it all out in the open?

"Just didn't think…you would…I don't know. We've always been friends…and…"

"But you kiss all of your friends," Remus teases.

But the tone is all wrong—thick and breathy—and he sounds much closer than James had thought Remus was. His fingertips stroke lightly along the back of James' neck, making the hair there prickle and stand straight on end. He turns his head to make sure, and, yes, Remus is hovering over the top of him, shoulders hunched. His bedroom light, flickering and dimmed above him, haloes his head, lighting the ends of his hair nearly orange.

"You're my best friend," James croaks. He can hear the emotion bubbling in him. A pot to boil, finally ready to spill over. "And, and…that would ruin that, wouldn't it? Because I uh…"

"Because you what, Potter?" Remus smiles.

Potter, Potter, Potter.

James feels inexplicably tearful, something fiercely loving and tender curling in his chest like a tiny lost animal. He feels like he's living perpetually as a cat pawing at its owner for attention, or maybe a canine with begging puppydog eyes. This vision of Remus, grown and world-weary yet so lovely and soft, scarred and amber-eyed and scruffy, backlit by that flickering light, calling him Potter, hovering over top of him with a little smile, is forcing his thoughts into a million pitiful directions.

Remus' reddened cheeks, murmuring that James has kissed him in his dreams. Remus making coffee in nothing but his boxers, smiling over his shoulder to ask if James would like a cup. Remus stretching his arms over his head as he stands to do post-dinner dishes. Remus grinning happily around a buttered croissant, mouth full as he asks, 'want a bite?'. Remus murmuring 'boyfriend', and 'James', drugged up and smiling, his face a mess of dried blood. Remus heaving the final moving box into James' shoebox apartment, collapsing onto it and giving one long, happy sigh upward at him. Remus nodding resolutely, looking off to one side, murmuring 'me and Pads will still be friends, though.' Remus ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck, bashful and flushed as he's serenaded at karaoke. Remus at high school prom, tall and pretty and shifting foot to foot under cerulean lights as James dances with his date. Remus accidentally brushing bandaged fingers against James' own during art class and snickering.

Remus as a knobby-kneed child, crouched onto searing hot blacktop and teaching him how to play knucklebones.

"Because I'm in love with you," James groans out with eyes clamped shut, sounding pained even to his own ears, "I want you so fucking bad, Remus. I'm sorry. I couldn't hold it in anymore, I'm sorry."

It's a risk, and he knows he shouldn't have just taken it. His heart is thudding in his ears. But it was about time. He needs, he needs…

Remus hums, and, ever the controlled one of the two, simply evens out his breathing while James risks opening one eye just in time to see him tilt his head to one side. He murmurs, "I know, James."

James has to close his eyes at the sense of embarrassment that this brings him; the impossibly composed response of Remus confirming his worst fear.

This admission doesn't result in the mood altering in any discernible way. To James' horror (and slinking pleasure behind that horror), Remus closes the space between them, placing one soft kiss against James' lips.

If James Potter is one thing, it's earnest, and if he's two things, he's also pathetic; he wraps his arms up and around his neck and tugs Remus in with a shaky breath.

It's both everything he expected and nothing he'd ever thought he'd be allowed to have. Remus' mouth is soft and insistent, not at all shy, not bothering to hold back a brush of his tongue within seconds of their lips connecting.

He knows it shouldn't mean anything, or rather, that it shouldn't mean anything to Remus, but that stroke of his tongue at the seam of his lips has something hopeful rising in him.

James breathes himself into Remus' mouth, sighing and gasping every time their lips slide in the way he likes; firm and slow, teasing. And when Remus pulls away, the immediate (embarrassing) reaction of James is to whine, all breath into the air between them. For one terrifying moment, he worries that he's turned him off this whole thing—whatever it is, exactly—and is already formatting an apology when Remus moves again.

But he's not moving away. No, if anything, he's doubled down, burying his scruffed face into the crook of James' neck and kissing up and down the length of it. James shudders, trying to hold back the keen in his throat at the feeling. He'd imagined it for years, now (almost nine, to be exact), and he's being given it with enthusiasm. Remus' hand is slithering down his body, hot and insistent across the muscles of his arms, his chest, down his stomach…

"That's—no, let me…let me touch you." James tries to shove Remus away, scramble down his lean body to get his fucking hands on him.

"No," Remus responds simply, grabbing James' hand to intertwine his fingers with his own. "Let me take care of you."

He feels groggy, almost drunk, as Remus hovers over him, hand held within his grasp. His opposite hand braces itself on the side of James' head, and he's raised on his knees. There's a deep, selfish part of him that wants Remus regardless, even though it could ruin him. Ruin their friendship, even. Within that part of him, so deep and unsatiated, is a carnal need for him so desperate that he's nearly willing to throw nearly twenty years of friendship away. Almost.

He has to know for sure that this is more, or that it could be, if given enough care. He hesitates. The choice bounces back and forth. Having Remus wholly just this once, or having him forever, albeit out of reach.

"I can't do this if you don't want to have me. Moons, I can't. I…it'll ruin me. You've already ruined me. I can't do this if you don't…want me, too."

Remus stares down at James' prone form, soft brown lashes fluttering against his cheeks, eyes dark as they flit around his face. James doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Remus shakes his head. That motion, all denial, sends a wave of humiliation rising in James, but his words contrast—all fondness.

"So stupid, Potter," he says affectionately, settling his hips down to press against James'. He's hard and straining against James' thigh. "You've always been mine."

"Fuck," he moans shakily, his free hand reaching to card through his curls. "Fuck."

"Fuck," Remus agrees, rutting his hips idly upward against James' thigh. "Don't ask more stupid questions. You have to know what you do to me."

"Oh, I feel it alright," he tries to joke, but his voice trembles and cracks. He's half-sure he's misreading all this, that it's some purely sexual urge that Remus is speaking out into the breaths between them. And pathetic as it is, James' cock gives a valiant kick at the idea. Remus ruts again, deeper, with one punched-out breath.

"Not like that," Remus laughs. "I…I'm quite fond of you, obviously."

"Quite fond," he murmurs. dazed. "You sound like a fucking…old poet, or something."

Remus laughs again, but it's shorter, more of a low chuckle. He reaches a hand between them, clasping James' chin between his thumb and forefinger. This forces James to look at him directly (something he's been trying to avoid while grinding shamelessly against Remus' hip).

"I've had feelings for you for…I don't know, forever, maybe. I'm not sure when it started, or when I realized it, but I…need you to be serious—"

"I'm not Siri—"

"Don't," Remus says flatly. "Not now. Be real with me."

"I love you," he repeats instantly, obediently, real and open and beating heart beared. The admission has forced his eyes closed again; he's far too afraid to see what the words have done to Remus a second time. Again, he repeats, "I'm in love with you. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" Remus shakes his head, releasing one long breath. "I'm not. I'm kind of…fucking ecstatic actually."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"So, uh, what's, um…"

Remus raises a patient eyebrow as he makes a slow wave of his movement. A 'go on'. James swallows.

"What do we do now?" He asks, more breathy than he'd intended it to come out. It nearly sounds like a whine.

"I have an idea, I think."

It's obscene, seeing Remus sink down to his knees for him. He's always been this tall, lean, looming presence, and watching him get down to the wooden floor to work James' shorts off of him…it's fucking pornographic. He leaves wet kisses up and down the muscle of James' thighs, unafraid to bite and suck once he's reached the soft expanse of his inner thighs.

James has one hand fisted in the duvet, the other covering his mouth as he tries to hold himself together. If, for whatever reason, this really is all some miscommunication, if it really is the only time he'll get this, he has to make the most of it. He's got to last somehow.

No, it is real. Because if Remus can fake this devotional look up through his eyelashes, the growing darkness of his pupils, or if James, even as clueless as he is, can misinterpret it, then the world is sure to burn once this is over. James will do it himself; he'll light every forest ablaze in passionate indignation.

He watches, entranced, palm hot and damp against his own mouth as Remus frees him from his boxers and groans at the sight of him; the head of his cock is achingly red and damp with precum from a few mere minutes of frottage, and it should be embarrassing, but Remus' eyes are dark, so, so dark as he takes it all in. He wets his lips.

"You've been waiting a long time for this, I'd bet." It's not a question. It's a cocksure statement that sends a shock through James' system. Awkward, soft-spoken Remus stares at the cock encased in his freckled hand and murmurs how desperate James has been for this. It's almost pitiful how much James likes it, mostly because it sends another kick down south. Remus notices; he murmurs with a chuckle, "Oh, you like it when I talk to you like that?"

"Ohhh my god, Moony," James groans, tipping his head back. "Don't mock me right now."

"I'm not mocking you," he replies evenly, and—that bastard—leans over to spit on the head of James' cock. He spreads it around, tightening his fist until it's one hot, slick hold for James to writhe beneath. "I think it's cute."

"Cute," James breathes, hips canting into Remus' fist. "Not exactly the—fuck—the word I'd use…maybe, uh…"

"Hot, then?"

"Sure—oh fuck, Moony…" James bites on the side of his hand, gnawing the meat of his thumb as Remus lowers his mouth onto him. He can't look down despite how fucking badly he'd like to; he's pretty sure he'd come if he could see his innermost fantasies come alive in front of him. He tips his head back again, teeth dug into his flesh, holding back the slew of curses and noises he'd like to let loose. Remus' mouth moves like velvet down, down, down, until his lips brush the base, then back up in an instant. He tightens a ring of his fingers around the base, and James feels the way the head of his cock balances on Remus' tongue, but he can't look down. He can't, he can't.

"You're so hard," he says around him, garbled and slick. "So wet..." James writhes, nearly wanting to drop fully back against the bed, and lie himself flat against the mattress so he can cover his face with a corner of Remus' duvet. It's a bit mortifying, he realizes, how easy it is for Remus to make him fall apart into a pile of pliant limbs under his mouth.

"Didn't take you for a dirty talk kind of guy," he mumbles, almost more to himself than to Remus.

"You like that?"

"Oh my god, dude, stop…" James scrubs a hand over his face, attempting to collect himself.

Remus lets go in an instant, both eyebrows raised. "Oh? Stop?"

James scrambles, hands cupping the sides of Remus' head. At least he can look, now. Remus' mouth is too busy running in suggestive circles. "No, you know exactly what the fuck I'm asking you to stop. Not that. The..the…"

Remus runs one finger down the underside of his cock, humming thoughtfully. "But I think you like being made fun of a bit. You do kind of have a thing for people who're a little mean to you."

"No, I—"

"Shut up, Potter."

James shuts up.

Remus' smirk is something to write home about. It crinkles his cheek, flexes the mole under his left eye. He dips his mouth onto him again, immediately leading James' eyes up, up, up to the ceiling. It's void of any distraction, making him give into the pleasure below him. It's all he can think about—one spiraling dance of thoughts screaming 'FUCK' and 'REMUS' and 'PLEASE'. He can't help himself, really. He had dreamed of this for longer than he knew he wanted it. Was once a hormonal teenage boy half-asleep, red-faced, and grinding against his sheets at the thought of this exact thing. He's fucking gone for it.

It's not that he exactly doubted that Remus was sexually competent, but it's this version of him—foul-mouthed, goading, soft assurances and all—that is making his mind reel, and reel, and reel.

Remus pops off of him with a sound that should be funny—some sort of obscene slurp—but James groans at the dirty noise, risking one swift glance just as Remus swirls his tongue around his slit again. More soft kitten licks that have him holding the urge to buck into his mouth at bay. It's a repetitive pattern, James realizes as he quickly moves his gaze back to the ceiling. Remus swallows him to the hilt, pulls back to suck hard with smooth strokes of his fist, swallows him back down again before lifting to swirl his tongue at the tip.

"I can see how bad you wanna move," he grins around his cock, lips delightfully swollen. "You want it bad?" This tiny tease finally does cause James to rut upward, sending his cock to hit the roof of Remus' mouth. He gags.

James scrambles to sit up, waving his hands. "Shit, dude. Sorry, I…It's just…the…"

Remus coughs before smiling slyly, "The teasing?"

"The teasing," he affirms, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You just want me to make fun of how desperate you are, huh?"

James whimpers, throwing his head back again. He's unable to look at him—he can feel his cock throb, feel a distinct pull of pressure behind his navel. To make matters worse, Remus closes his fist around him again, giving a few wet strokes that have James inadvertently canting his hips up, up, up.

"Aw, Potter, you going to come already?" James can hear that the teasing, needling way he asks is surrounded by a thick sense of arousal.

"Trying not to," he grits out, panting, continuing to messily fuck his cock into Remus' fist. He's not going to last if Remus keeps talking to him, he realizes. But that pressure builds and builds, rises in him like a tide. If he can keep his eyes off of Remus, then maybe he'll find a way through to the actual…

Don't think about that, he scolds. That's going to make you come for sure.

James lets out a long, shaky breath, lower lip trembling as Remus says, "Stop trying to hold back. I want to see how fast I can make you fall apart."

James grits his teeth, hears the sharp squeak of his molars grinding together. His hips stutter. "Moony, c'mon, not fair…please…"

Remus ignores his begging, instead lamenting, "I liked it better when I could see you. So pretty when you're whining just from a little head. Although…I do kind of like what a mess you are when you're just getting a handjob, too."

"Holy…holy fuck." He doesn't look. He slows his hips to a slow, stilted roll, refusing to allow the building pressure to sweep him under. But that filthy mocking tone from his friend—his best friend, who is currently spitting onto his dick again—is sure to send him plummeting any second. Remus is humming under his breath, a tiny thing that shouldn't be sexy, of all things, but is. It's the tune of a familiar song, but he can't pinpoint it. And this, he finds, keeps his budding orgasm at bay. Maybe it's The Stooges, or even Black Sabbath. James can't be sure…

"Stop looking away from me," Remus coos, "I know you want to keep looking, baby."

Baby, Baby, Baby.

James snorts (or does his best to), nose raised upward and away from the surely-filthy scene unfolding below him. "You're not the boss of me."

"Oh?" Remus asks, tightening his fist. James shudders at the feeling. He adds, murmured low, "Look at me," and it's a bit garbled from the way his tongue curls around the underside of his length.

"What? N-No, I…" James bucks involuntarily, but Remus is stronger than he looks—he uses his free hand to hold his hips back down onto the bed.

"C'mon, look down," Remus says gently, thumb stroking circles into James' hipbone.

"I—Dude, I'm going to fucking come if…" He struggles between accepting the request—he'd do nearly anything for Remus—and saving his pride—he really doesn't want to come in under a minute.

"Potter."

James looks down.

Remus is a dream. He's a vision. He's a sex dream straight out of James' own consciousness. He's debauched after a few intermittent minutes of giving head, spit-slick mouth and pupils blown. His hair hangs over his forehead in this charmingly boyish way, his clothes rumpled. Remus has his tongue lapping at him; kitten-licking his slit with his mouth slack. James fists his hand into the duvet again, holding his breath as he watches the devilish way Remus handles him. Precum collects in a divet in his tongue, and it's all James can do not to scream or moan or cry at the sight.

"See?" Remus smiles. "You didn't come. Good boy."

James doesn't mean to whimper. He doesn't mean to do anything but look and stay still, but his body has a mind of its own, so he whimpers. He averts his eyes immediately, thinking of anything he can that will take him out of this moment. His hips jolt, roll against Remus' tongue, wanting nothing more than to sink into the wet heat of his mouth again. He doesn't warrant Remus' teasing with a response. This is a whole new ballgame. It's Remus. That fact alone is filling him with butterflies and bundles of nerves gathering in his body.

He pushes on James' hips again, then murmurs, "Eyes on me, lover boy," before enveloping him into his mouth again.

James is nothing but an obedient, prone form beneath his working hands and mouth. He watches him with burning, damp eyes. Watches Remus' mouth move down the length of him, then back upward, unflinching as he swallows around the head of his cock. James tries his best not to think too heavily into it; he stays in this floaty, lost space in his head, built to follow instructions from Remus. Built to hold his hips to the bed as he's blown within an inch of his fucking life around that sinful mouth. His hips roll upward once, then again, and Remus moans filthily around him, moving his hands to his hips and urging him to force his dick deeper. James whines, regrettably tearful as he tries to hold back.

But Remus, seeming to sense his urgency, pulls off, stroking his fist hard and tight down his length. He doesn't break eye contact. His amber irises are swallowed by black holes. He licks his swollen lips, his own hips twitching with nothing to satiate the straining bulge between his legs, then says quietly, "I want you to come like this. Fucking your cock into my fist. Come on…So desperate for it, Potter—"

James comes with a shout. His orgasm is ripped from him in an instant, the fizzling white sensations seeming to fill up his entire body as he jerks his hips upward against Remus' palm. He doesn't know what he says in these moments—he's practically out of body (or more accurately, trapped inside of it, riding the waves of pleasure). When he comes to, he's chanting some mix of "Holy shit, holy fuck, Remus, Remus, Remus…" while Remus is—Jesus Christ—licking his hand clean of James' release.

"Shit," he groans, rubbing a hand down his face. "I wanted to…I wanted…"

Remus gets the idea. He's already rising from his knees, which creak uncomfortably. In a second, he's got James' head in his hands, licking into his mouth and crowding over him, murmuring between each kiss, "So good…was so fucking hot…Jesus, man, oh my god…we…We can still…."

Remus' eyes are a swirl of flame and amber and black, a little damp and glossy as he takes in James' boneless form beneath him. There's no tilt of his head, not a single word of a request leaving his swollen mouth, yet James knows he's asking a question.

"I can take it," he assures rapidly, rising onto the heels of his hands. "I want—no I need you. Like, right now. Now, now—"

"The bed!" Remus bursts, and must be a little embarrassed in his own feverish outburst by the way his cheeks redden. "The—the bed. Lay back. Let me…"

"Oh, now who's desperate?" James scoffs.

Remus pauses, raising an eyebrow. James scurries backward, knocking his head against the headboard hard enough in his hurry that both of them wince.

"Still you, I'd reckon," he shakes his head.

James doesn't warrant that with a response, instead rubbing the back of his head that will surely have a knot on it by tonight. Remus crawls up after him, a tiny smile quirking one side of his mouth. He's always had that lovely little smile; worked up more on one side than the other, causing his left canine to flash. Seeing it in this instant, while he's working up his body, chasing him up the bed, makes James shudder.

He can't help it. "You really have…feelings for me? Like, romantic feelings for me? Like, you want me? Like this? Like…more than this?"

The implication that dating is more than sex must come as no surprise to Remus. Probably because James has always been more of a casual hookups and distant infatuation type of man than someone committing long-term (or even short-term, if he's honest). Any dating history he has is muddled and blurry in his memories, because flaring in the background of them has always just been Remus, Remus, Remus. Smiling, laughing, looking thoughtful, whispering late at night, walking, limping, napping on the couch beside him. Any partners he's had have fallen to the wayside.

And now, like this, James sees the possibility of having Remus fully, having Remus be his, to be something more than just sex. It's destiny, it's doomed. It's all he's ever wanted, and he still worries, despite Remus' words, that he's misinterpreted somehow.

"Yes," Remus murmurs, kissing the side of his mouth, then his jaw, then down, laying his tongue flat against his Adam's apple. "Like this, and like more than this. There's no way you didn't see this coming from a mile away."

James is about to express a form of indignation, shocked by the reveal that Remus had thought he'd been obvious all this time (he's a bit aloof in nature). He's stopped in his tracks when Remus reaches up, hands under his shirt, to push the tattered thing off of him. James raises his arms, and it's thrown somewhere off to the left. He thunks his head back to the headboard as Remus sprinkles kisses down his chest, stopping to nip and suck when he sees fit. It's not quite enough—not yet—to interest his cock into participating, but it's causing him to writhe regardless.

Remus fumbles into his nightstand, coating his fingers liberally while James stares at the way his furrowed eyebrows make this little wrinkle appear between them. God, Remus Lupin is beautiful. He's bony and awkward, jaw set stoic and firm even now, yet with eyes too soft to be intimidating. He's all contrasting features; balancing soft and sharp. He's beautiful. James has always known this, but his heart thumps so hard that he considers if it really is the first time he's realized it with such intensity.

The brush of the first finger has James tensed and squirming. It's not that he's never done this—he has, two entire times—but it's nothing that's ever been typically expected of him. James is a muscular man, dark-haired and sporty, loud and exuberant, and it's something to be said that Remus—this low-pitched, scholarly, lanky—takes the reins away from him without a question. James isn't sure that he'd ever thought about his own preferences before—he'll take it however he can have it—but like this, Remus bent over him, slick fingers stroking against his hole, he thinks he might have some.

"Relax," Remus whispers, and James releases one long breath, sinking himself into Remus' pillows.

"You're wearing too many clothes," he complains, then shivers as Remus pushes inside of him. It's not necessarily uncomfortable, just…

Remus presses in deeper, deeper, slowly working into him, and James still finds himself not quite able to focus."You want to see me naked, Potter?"

James groans at the thought. There's finally one single embarrassing twitch of interest from his limp cock that's settled in the crease of his thigh. "Do you even have to ask?"

And as James sits up, one scrambling hand going for his shirt, Remus crooks his finger in such a way that has him falling right back, mindlessly giving a little moan, a little twitch of his hips.

Remus continues, pushing and pulling, crooking into James while he tries to relax and tense when it feels right for the rhythm of the thrusts.

"Can you take another?"

"I, uh, I think so?" James squirms as he feels Remus stroke a second finger beside the first, and has to be reminded to relax again as he tenses around the intrusion. "Sorry, just…feels…"

"Weird?"

"A little," he admits. "I don't usually…"

Remus nods, brows furrowing as he works his fingers deeper, crooking and stroking at the inside of him until he's found that spot again. James groans, shifting into the pleasure, which only has Remus doubling down, relentlessly prodding at his prostate until James' breathing has become hot and labored against his own hand. It should feel embarrassing, having Remus inside of him like this, fully clothed and servicing his body, which is lying entirely nude and splayed out for him to see.

Maybe it is embarrassing—maybe that's what's gotten his libido back to functioning. James is a bit pathetic under Remus, writhing and jerking his hips back against his fingers, just breathing heavily in and out as he's worked open.

"You know," Remus says idly, scissoring his slick fingers inside of him, "I heard you and Frank when you guys…"

"Ugh," James grunts, "don't talk about Frank right now."

"Hm, why not? Sounds like you were enjoying yourself in there. To be honest, all the time leading up to that, I'd thought, no way is ever James taking it, but…"

"I don't," he pouts. But Remus sneaks another finger beside the two, knuckles stroking his inside as he's breached, and, fuck, if he's not going to grind back against them. The intrusion is still decidedly weird, but the fullness is a welcome sensation, especially because of the way Remus' eyes track the stretch of James around his fingers.

"No?" Remus asks, looking down at the prone, yielding form beneath him. James shrugs sheepishly.

"Well—"

"And you sounded like you liked it then, too. Although…"

"A-Although?" James prods, trying to press back into the pressure of Remus' fingers again. But Remus is barely teasing them, refusing to push into him deeper.

"I think I could make you enjoy it more than that. I think you're probably really loud, aren't you, Potter?" He takes that opportunity to twist his fingers, pressing deep, deep, deep, and James is only a puddle beneath it all, jerking his body in ways that probably make him look a bit like a fish on land. He chews his lower lip, trying to hold the whining noise building in the back of his throat. "I think you like having control taken away, right? You want me to make you feel good?"

"Yes," he breathes, eyes shut against the embarrassment. "Yes, Moony."

"That's not my name," Remus tuts, removing his fingers. James groans, hand scrambling downward to catch the fingers and bring them back. Despite the feeling being a bit off, he can't deny that the emptiness is worse than that strange fullness could ever be. Remus snickers. "Calm down. Don't you want me inside of you? I think you're ready for it. You tell me."

James watches, entranced, as Remus' trembling, slick fingers undo the button to his jeans. He flops onto his back, lifting his hips to shuck them off, and James is fucked. Remus' boxer briefs, red and tented with his arousal, have a large damp spot. And besides that, Remus is…well—

He cups himself through his boxers, letting out a panted breath as his thumb strokes across the soaked fabric. James is so fucked.

"Dude, get your clothes off. Now. I want, I need…I am ready. Just—"

Remus lies back to rid himself of those, too, and James' head swims at the sight. It's not like he hasn't seen him before, like this. They're best friends. They share an apartment, and have shared that apartment for years. They went to high school together. They did track for two years in middle school, meaning they've showered together, albeit in a communal school shower. But he's never seen him like this, thighs tensed, leaning back on his bed, cock achingly hard between his legs, knobby-knuckled hand spreading lube up and down it in tight, languid strokes. He's certainly bigger than James, more so in length than anything else, and James can feel the blood rush south as Remus moans softly at the feeling.

"C'mon,Moony," James whines, leaning back on his elbows, spreading his legs despite knowing it must be pretty unappealing to see James—muscular, thick-thighed James—in this position.

"That's not my name," Remus repeats, and, to James' relief, yanks off his shirt on his crawl back over the top of him. "Turn around."

James flips himself immediately, settling on his stomach. Remus presses his fingers into the soft flesh around his hips, tugging him upward. "Like this. Ass in the air."

"Jesus," he groans. "Alright, Moony. Fuck."

"That's not my name," he murmurs, and—fuck, yes—teases his hole with the head of his cock.

"C'mon, just—" James rocks his hips back, trying to help Remus in thrusting into him, but he merely tuts again.

"Say my name."

"Mooooony," James whines, squirming. "Dude, c'mon—"

"Jesus, Potter, don't be a brat—"

"Remus, c'mo—oh fuck. Shit, I—Remus, Re…" Remus is pushing in without another request, slowly rocking back and forth, obviously trying to ease James into it, but fuck, it's been a while since he's done this—he's out of practice, out of the motion of it. Although he supposes he was never fully in the motion to begin with, he's only taken it up the ass twice, after all.

Remus is releasing soft, shaky breaths, kneading his ass with firm fingers as he works into him. "Relax, relax. Just let go," he urges, curling over the top of him. He can feel the little gold chain he'd been gifted by James years ago brush between his shoulder blades.

It's maddening, the slow motion of his cock sliding deeper. James tries to relax, but the idea of Remus being inside of him is making all of his muscles tight and tense. It's an unpleasant burn, and James can feel his erection wilt no matter how he tries to keep his head on straight.

"Relax," Remus repeats, closer to his ear. "Does it hurt?"

"A little," James whines, feeling mildly emotional that it isn't perfect and painless in an instant. "I'm sorry, I…"

Remus pulls out in an instant, heaving a breath. "Here, let me…" He fumbles again, and with only a small brush of them as warning, Remus has returned his fingers, stroking into him in long, scissoring movements. James can feel the stretch of an additional finger and writhes underneath the feeling of it, no matter how uncomfortable it may be at first. It's the thought—Remus' fingers are fucking inside him right now—that forces him to relax. He lies down and takes it, breathing deep and hard against the way he's breached.

James cranes his neck to look at him; Remus isn't doing anything strenuous, but his hairline is damp. He has a tiny stripe of gray there, premature from what he claims is a reaction to how stressed out James makes him. Remus sees he's looking, and their eyes meet in a manner so romantic—at least, it is to James—that he has to look away, shuddering under the attention.

When Remus begins pushing back into him, rocking slowly back and forth on his heels, James, although the burn of the stretch is still the most prevalent sensation, releases a long, shaking moan as he pushes back against him. And, stretched further in preparation this time, it's nearly got his knees buckling. It isn't even the feeling, right away, that's turning him into a pile of mush below Remus. It's the idea, again. Remus is inside of him, pulsing, stretching him open. They're the closest they've ever been.

And James could potentially have this forever.

"I love you," he says shakily into the pillow. His head is turned, allowing him short glimpses of Remus curled behind him. He rocks his hips backward, allowing him to be filled fully, and the thought juxtaposed by the feeling makes him groan."Fuck, Remus—"

It's emotional, it's messy, what comes next. Remus grabs James' hips, his grip so hard that James wonders if he'll be bruised when this is all over with, and he starts a languid rhythm of thrusts, punctuated by the softest, sweetest words James has maybe ever heard.

"Love you, too," are the first three. "James, I love you," are the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh, respectively. And the eighth, ninth, and tenth, landing like hot water over James' back, are: "I always have."

They don't cry, but they might as well be with how they begin whimpering and divulging, words all a mess of love and lust and wishes. Remus alternates between soft admissions and teasing, but the reactions that the teasing pull from James begin to, seemingly, rile him up so much that he can't help but snap his hips harder, harder, harder, murmuring close to James' ear.

"You want it deeper, Potter?"

At this point, James can't even help it. He's a mess, whimpering and nodding at every little thing Remus asks him. He can't deny it now, can he? He's a sweating mess, all loose-limbed and aching between his legs. Remus, seeming suddenly urgent, reaches around and grasps his weeping cock hard in his fist. "Fuck, Jesus, dude. Holy fuck, yes. Yes, yes, yes."

"Fuck, Potter, Potts—James, I'm going to, fuck, are you…?"

"I can be, I….Yes, please, I want you to…I need—" He's a babbling mess of nonsense, canting his hips back and forth, struggling to know what he might want more—Remus' cock deeper, or his own fucked into Remus' fist. It's hard to decide, so he's just one squirming mess underneath him.

They don't come together, but when Remus does so, across his back, James is so close he's trembling.

"Come again," Remus croaks, cock softening against the crease of James' ass. His hand works up and down his length, the sound slick under both of their panting breaths. "C'mon, Potter. Come again for me."

Much like it was earlier, James' orgasm is a shock. It's as if it's been torn from him viciously this time, catching him completely by surprise. His knees finally buckle, sending him down to moan and rut idly against Remus' mattress as he rides the waves of pleasure.

Remus helps him through it, murmuring and stroking the back of his neck until James is limp and breathless. And it's then—once he's completely spent and he and Remus are silent as his shirt is used to clean the two of them up—that James begins to worry.

It isn't that he doesn't believe Remus—that Remus loves him, or that he's, apparently, always sort of loved James. But what if this is it? What if this is some impossible twist that their relationship has taken that they won't come back from? What if this leads to what James knows would be the worst heartbreak he's ever felt? Then what? Can they recover from that? Can they?

But as James turns, he sees that Remus has stood and tucked himself into a new pair of boxers. He balances an elbow on the black metal railing and lights the spliff.

He's looking out onto the sights of New England—it's blustery. The first real snow of the season. He shudders—he's still got a bit of sweat dampening his hairline, and god, is he beautiful. He's the most beautiful thing that James has ever laid eyes on. His soul has been aching for Remus for all of time, it seems.

James grabs his athletic shorts that lay discarded on the floor, and, now without a clean shirt of his own, puts on Remus'. It's an oversized T-shirt for some band that he has never heard of. He steps carefully toward Remus, ending his journey beside him, their elbows brushing.

For the first time in what feels like forever, James doesn't know what to say. And not only does he not know what to say, but nothing automatically spills from his mouth as it might usually, either. Instead of speaking, he watches Remus look with reverence outside. It's snowy, and that's lovely, but it's only just begun—it's not the pretty, nighttime type of snow, either. It's that blinding morning kind that shows off all the ugliness of the city below. This area of Boston is fucking hideous. It's slewn with trash, the leaves never get picked up by the city, and a couple is screaming at one another in the apartment courtyard. A car alarm blares.

And yet, Remus is entranced. Without looking away, he hands over his spliff, but James doesn't hit it. He holds it between trembling fingers and swallows before he asks, "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing, really," he responds softly, not taking his eyes off the outside world. "I'm in my own head. I'm thinking about you."

James swallows. It causes an audible click.

"What about me?" He asks, nudging up to Remus lightly. It's supposed to sound funny, but instead, it sounds thick with emotion.

"Well, about us," he clarifies. "I'm thinking about us."

"Us," James echoes. And when he does, Remus circles an arm around his shoulders.

And in this moment, James thinks he'd rather have this and lose it in some devastating manner over and over again than never have it at all. He's pressed into Remus' side, and the cold bites his bare knees, and the spliff has gone out, but both of them stare at the ugly city and think about each other. And that is enough.