Alive 2/3; R, RL/SB
Chapter 2: Love/Suicide

And I'll be your crying shoulder
I'll be love's suicide
I'll be better when I'm older
I'll be the greatest fan of your life

The letter was delivered by a cockatoo, who ruffled her crest in a pleased sort of way when Remus took the slip from her claws and poured out a bowl of water for her. She took sunflower seeds, too, cracking them with her beak and swallowing them, while Remus sat at the table in the tiny rented flat and stared down at the ragged parchment in his hands.

He'd known a letter from Sirius was coming -- well, he'd hoped it was, anyhow. He didn't blame Sirius for not writing sooner. At least, he told himself he didn't. After all, when he was on the run from Azkaban, he hadn't known Remus was at Hogwarts. He hadn't known whether Remus would take any letter he received straight to the authorities.

A small, rebellious voice -- the same one that had told him it was wrong of Sirius and James to torment Snape so, all those years past -- said that Sirius had gone to the trouble of sending Harry a racing broomstick, which must have been distinctly complicated for a fugitive from Wizarding and Muggle justice alike. He couldn't have been bothered to send an anonymous three lines to his --

To the man he'd --

He couldn't have bothered to explain himself? He couldn't have asked if Remus would help him?

Sirius, had their roles been reversed, would have dropped his life, his reputation, everything he had, to help a fugitive mate. Remus never understood the -- infatuation? No, that was the wrong word -- the adulation Sirius placed on him. Why, of all the people Sirius could have had, did he choose Remus Lupin? Remus had never felt so entirely tied up in a single person, the way Sirius had been. He had loved Sirius, of course he had loved Sirius, but his happiness and his life had not been dependent on Sirius loving him. When Sirius had been taken, Remus had survived.

Those years ago, when Sirius had fed him orange slices and served him wine, he'd been trying not just to apologise for his mistrust but even in his apology, he'd been trying to recover Remus. If he knew Remus was the spy his solution was not to interrogate or imprison but to love him, fiercely, violently, to try to pull him back. Foolish, stupid Sirius.

He realised he was clenching the parchment so tightly it threatened to rip, and set it on the table, smoothing it as the cockatoo chirped to herself over the sunflower seeds.

Sirius had done his twelve years' penance. Why hadn't he written for help?

Because those twelve years were not for you, he thought, and was comforted that he understood Sirius at least that well. Those twelve years were bitter self-punishment for failing James. He couldn't serve time for you until he was out. Because he loved you too much, and his punishment was being able to write to you and yet not doing it. Seeing you and being unable to touch you. His punishment was his knowledge of his own unworthiness.

How incredibly Sirius it all was.

He slit the wax seal on the parchment -- cheap, white wax, probably not sealing wax at all, but dripped from a tea-candle. The paper was full from top to bottom with a tight, narrow scrawl that resembled Sirius' handwriting at school as much as a wolfhound resembled a labrador.

A formally informal address. Remus. No "dear", no "Mr." of course, no "Moony". Just a name.

And a greeting. Reassurances that he was fine. Decline to inform where he was, in case the letter went astray. Hoped Remus was well. Had heard a little from Dumbledore. Had sent a letter to Harry. A brief and harrowing account of his flight from Hogwarts with Buckbeak, in case Remus was curious.

All the usual business of two people who had not spoken in some time, catching up on recent events. As a buffer between his name and what was to come. Remus understood.

An apology. An explanation. Guilt, worry, grief. Paragraphs and paragraphs of it. No commas. Remus smiled vaguely at that. He didn't read the words very carefully. He knew what they said.

A plea that Remus write back to him. Repeat of the above apology, condensed.

There was no warmth in the letter, no regard, no love. Not in the words, anyway. They were just words. But in the careful composition, the entire avoidance of affection, Remus could read between the lines and find it. Every gap between letters, every lacking comma, every awkward phrase meant to be precise and unemotional, they all added up to a yearning and a grief so terrible Remus could feel it in his bones.

He wondered if Sirius intended it. Sirius, after all, had been -- was -- a brilliant man. It was not inconcievable that Sirius had meant the letter in precisely that way. He could imagine Sirius bent over it, concentrating smoothly on imbuing every line with a double meaning. A man less well-versed in the art of subtlety than Remus would not have even considered the possibility.

Remus thought long and hard about how to reply. He had always met Sirius' cleverness with a sort of obstinate good-sense, coupled with an obscurity that had no direct meaning -- something which always confused Sirius, smart as he was. Sirius didn't like it if you couldn't assign a specific truth to it.

Finally, he smiled, and rose, drawing a sheet of brown wrapping-paper out of his cupboard, and a length of twine. His nimble fingers found what he was searching for, and he wrapped it with surprising deftness, given its shape. He tied the twine into a small handle, and wrote "Sirius" as well as he could on the smooth bits. He lifted the cockatoo onto his hand, and offered her the package. She squawked at the weight, but didn't drop it, as she soared out the window.

Sirius would not be so foolish as to see the orange as a rebuke, nor would he be idiot enough to think Remus was sending him a care-package. He wouldn't understand what the orange meant, but he'd understand the gesture.

Forgiveness, unconditional and complete, a love so deep that betrayal only made it more fierce.

***

Rain falls
Angry on the tin roof
As we lie awake in my bed

The most recent owl post had arrived long before Padfoot did, and Remus understood Dumbledore's ramblings perfectly; I feel it is dangerous to live alone, and would recommend you acquire a dog, or take in a stray, for protection. A large dog for preference, and one familiar with your ways. Hardly subtle.

He waited patiently. He was between jobs, again, and had nothing better to do than sit on the front step of his parents' rambling old house, owned outright and thankfully untaxed (Muggles couldn't tax what they couldn't find, after all). He read the Prophet, wrote letters inquiring about employment, did crosswords, and waited.

It happened on a hot day, early in July, during a summer rainstorm, which turned the dirt of the pathway to soft soil and made Padfoot's coat gleam blue against the cloudy sky. When Padfoot arrived, Remus smiled, and let the dog exhaustedly put his paws on the first step, cold nose lifted inquiringly to his face.

"You're welcome here, Sirius," he said quietly. The dog's tongue lolled out, and lapped his chin affectionately, if somewhat hesitantly.

Sirius didn't change until they were inside the house, in Remus' bright, warm yellow kitchen. He was damp, footsore, and looked haggard; he must have come almost the whole way on his own power. Lupin waved him into a chair, brought him water and a towel, and set about preparing food, quietly.

"You look well," Sirius said, as Remus bent over the plates. He smiled, wryly.

"You lie well," he replied, softly. "I look like a starving fox. Don't talk if you're tired, there'll be time later."

"I want to talk."

"That's fine, I'll listen. How was your journey?"

"Uneventful. It's amazing how few people will pay any attention at all to a dog running loose."

"You're hungry?"

"Yes. You do look all right."

"Thanks." Remus added rice, carrots, chops of meat, slices of bread to the two plates. A welcome-home feast. No potatoes, he thought amusedly. He flicked his wand, warming them instantly, and carried them to the table.

Sirius ate ravenously but neatly, devouring the bread and carrots first, then the rice, and finally regarding the meat with something like reverence. They took their meal in a comfortable silence; Sirius was too tired to be discomfited by anything, and Remus was disposed to be hospitable.

After the first hesitant letter and the peculiar return, they'd written, not frequently, but at least once or twice a month. Sirius knew he had nothing to fear. Remus knew better than to wreak his own internal troubles on a man who had traveled miles and suffered years between an imagined betrayal and a less-than-triumphant return.

And so they sat, two men, eating in silence, each trying not to recall other meals, other years, other lives.

Remus spoke first, clearing his throat gently.

"There's a bed made. Dumbledore told me you were coming. I thought you'd have arrived sooner, but..."

"He sent me to raise the Order first," Sirius murmured. Remus lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "Best way to do it quietly. You heard about Voldemort's rise?"

"I had. Dumbledore told me to stay where I was...in his own fashion. So you've been to see them all?"

"Some. Some are in contact with others," Sirius said, talking slowly, as though it wearied him to form the words. His fork drew across his now-empty plate, idly. Remus set down his own silverware, and stood.

"There's firewhiskey," he continued. "Or if you'd rather sleep..."

Sirius looked up at him, eyes so empty and tired that he seemed childlike, despite the weary lines in his face. Remus held out a hand.

The exhausted gaze traveled to the outstretched fingers, the smooth, pale palm, the callouses on index finger and thumb where he held a quill.

He didn't seem to understand. Remus waited. Finally Sirius took the hand with his own, let himself be pulled to his feet, guided down the old familiar/strange corridor to a clean, light-filled room.

Remus left him to undress, hearing the damp thumps as robe and shirt were piled on the floor, the slither of a belt being removed. He heard Sirius draw back the covers, and could imagine him tracing a broken-nailed, dry-rough palm over the fresh sheets.

Go to sleep, he willed, as he passed back into the kitchen, washing the dishes by hand. It soothed him. Go to sleep, Sirius.

And don't dream.

It didn't take him long to wash two plates, two glasses, and assorted silverware. He rested his hands on the rim of the sink and stared out the window, across the dark lands, hearing the rain drum on the roof, on the windows.

Sirius was safe, in his home, protected, well-fed. Sirius would not have to worry for many days. He'd keep him here, make sure he had anything he needed.

He walked back down the hallway and found Sirius, indeed asleep, the lines on his face eased by unconsciousness.

Remus sat quietly on the edge of the bed, and studied it. That was Sirius. Sirius Black. Twelve years ago --

But it was not twelve years ago. Sirius had changed. So had he. Sirius was here, and so was he, and he didn't know what to do other than tell those facts to himself. This was the face of Sirius Black, who was here in Remus Lupin's house. This was a man who needed his shelter. Remus was unaccustomed to taking in stray dogs.

This was not a stray dog. This was Sirius.

Sirius made a soft noise of protest, sleepily, as he felt another body curl around him; a hand pressed gently over his heart, and after a few seconds' incoherent mumbling, he slipped back into sleep. Remus, smelling rain and good earth and salt skin on the back of his neck, lay awake, remembering the feeling of Sirius' broad warmth against his, in another year, when things were not so simple as He is here, and I must care for him.

***

You're my survival
You're my living proof
My love is alive, and not dead

"List?"

"Yes."

"Quills -- "

"Oi, forgot to add that."

Sirius, rather than simply letting Remus scratch down "quills" on the shopping list, took it back and did it himself. Remus allowed him; Sirius' habits could be irksome -- worse than irksome -- but Sirius had little enough control over his life or world right now that Remus rather felt he ought to be given some slack, with regards to things like adding to the shopping list himself, or escorting Harry to the train.

It was September third, and the house was echoingly empty after the departure of the children. This was the first time Remus had dared to venture out since then; the words in his mind hadn't faded. He is here, and I must care for him.

He knew Sirius would be lonely, lonely and enraged at being pent up again. But one did have to eat, after all, and they were low on quills, and Tonks had broken their kettle beyond Remus' admittedly limited ability to fix it. Cost was, for once, not an issue for him; Sirius, who after all would benefit the most from the expedition, was financing it.

Sirius followed him to the door like...well, one had to face it, like a dog. And stood there until he closed it. And Remus knew he watched him through the window until he passed out of view.

Remus knew from prisons in the head; he'd spent most of his life in one or another, first lying to his friends and then lying to the professors about what his friends were and then lying to himself about everything, really, and finally lying to the world, now that Sirius was in hiding.

But he'd never been in a physical prison, unless you counted locking himself up for the full moon, and as he didn't really remember most of those nights, it didn't count.

He enjoyed the brisk autumn wind blowing the first golden leaves across his scuffed boots in Diagon Alley, and as usual lifted his head to the breeze, to ignore the stares as he passed, from those who knew what he was.

He bought quills and sealing wax, parchment, and two books Sirius had mentioned wanting to read, in Flourish & Blott's; a kitchenwares shop a few doors down (carefully regulated by the Ministry to make sure they sold strictly uncharmed items) provided a new red kettle -- Sirius liked red -- and three boxes of imported tea.

Then there was the food to attend to, butchers and vegetable stands and a nice bit of cheese and some fresh bread. He searched his rusty memory for what Sirius liked, and bought peanut brittle as well, and some maple-sugar sweets for himself.

With only a few Knuts left jangling in his pockets, he carried the various bags, full of wrapped packages, towards the entrance to Diagon Alley, and the nearby Tube station.

He paused, just outside the Leaky Cauldron on the Muggle side, where a cart-vendor was selling oranges. He had just enough Muggle cash in a forgotten back-pocket to buy one, before running to catch the train.

Sirius heard him coming towards the front door and pulled it wide, shifting eagerly from foot to foot until Remus crossed over the threshold. Then he was underfoot, in the way, trying to be helpful and, once more like a big lumbering dog, only succeeding in making Remus drop things, trip over a discarded pair of shoes (they'd have to send Harry those, he'd miss his trainers on his first Hogsmeade trip), and lose control of the shopping bags.

"Books!" Sirius said joyfully, plunging into the Flourish & Blott's bag. He unpacked the various items, hands caressing and exploring each one of them as if they were precious gemstones. Remus smiled indulgently as he put the food in its proper places. Sirius, having made a mess of everything, picked up the books again and threw himself into a chair. Remus tossed the packet of peanut brittle deftly, and it landed on top of the open book Sirius held in his hands.

"I hope you bought yourself something," Sirius said, around a mouthful.

"Some tea," Remus shrugged. "And a few sweets."

Sirius paused, with another bite halfway to his mouth.

"Were the books for you?" he asked, apologetically. "I just assumed -- "

"No -- no, I thought -- you'd mentioned them -- it's your money -- "

Sirius set the bite down, and moved the paper aside, closing the book. His fingers stroked the cover possessively. Remus had entertained pleasing fantasies of reading them once Sirius was done with them, it was true, but he'd honestly bought them for Sirius.

It was rather sad, he thought, that his fantasy life revolved around the distant opportunity to read other peoples' books.

Sirius had laid the book aside, thoughtfully.

"I stood at the window the whole time," he said finally. Remus turned, startled.

"What?"

"I was afraid if I didn't watch the front door you mightn't come back," Sirius said hoarsely, as he stood. "I thought -- I'm not right in the head, you know," he continued, miserably.

"Sirius -- of course you are -- it's just Azkaban, anyone would be -- even after..." Remus found he was incapable of assembling an entire coherent sentence. He'd never been faced with anything quite like this before.

"I had this horrible thought," Sirius was driving relentlessly on, "That maybe I was dead, since there was nobody around who would talk to me, and if I turned around or left the window the house might -- might eat me -- "

Remus was there in two strides, wrapping his arms around Sirius' shoulders, pulling his head down to cradle it in the corner of his neck, making soothing noises deep in his throat.

"I promise you, Sirius," he said, tangling one hand in the long hair that reached past Sirius' shoulders, "that you are not dead. And the house is just a house. It's just a house, Sirius, it's not going to eat you."

"You can leave, you can go anytime you -- "

"But I'm not going to, Sirius." He paused, gauged the tension in Sirius' shoulders, and added lightly, "Besides, it's rent-controlled."

Sirius seemed to go slack against him for a minute, and then a deep, hoarse laugh rose in his chest. He leaned away, Remus' arms still around his shoulders, and threw his head back and laughed.

"Besides," Sirius said, swiping a hand across his face, "I'm tough and bitter. If it did eat me it'd just spit me back out again."

"Sirius..." Remus only meant to pull his chin down a bit so he could make sure his eyes weren't the wild, feral things they'd been that horrible night in the Shrieking Shack, when they'd agreed to kill Peter together. Instead he found Sirius following his motion, down and forward and then Sirius was kissing him.

It was unutterably familiar, and yet at the same time so entirely alien. Like looking through his old memories for the fact that Sirius liked peanut brittle. He was unsure if he properly recalled what kissing Sirius was like.

He was unsure if he cared.

Sirius' mouth was hot and demanding, a sudden surprise (though in retrospect, it shouldn't have been) and completely, entirely arousing. Sirius' body was pressing against his, firm now instead of trembling, warm and enfolding instead of tense. He was being kissed unconscious, he was sure of it, as he could not think to form a single word other than Sirius' name.

And then when Sirius slid his tongue against his lips and into his mouth, when Sirius' arms drew him close, fingers tracing abstract shapes on his back, he managed two more.

"You're real," he whispered, against the corner of Sirius' mouth. "You're real, you're real."

"Remus," Sirius moaned. Three more words.

"Sirius. You're real. I love you."

He was rebuilding himself, slowly, under Sirius' hands and lips and body, which was strange as Sirius had been the one to fear that he was less than a ghost. He wanted to mention this, but unfortunately his mouth was otherwise engaged, re-learning the painfully high arch of Sirius' cheekbone.

So instead he managed to take a step backwards without leaving the circle of Sirius' arms, and slowly lead them, kissing and moaning and touching, through the doorway and into the living room.

He supposed if he'd been really ambitious they could have tried for a bedroom, but Sirius had always been the ambitious one, and Sirius' sole ambition, at this point, seemed to consist of getting his shirt off and --

It had been too long since anyone had touched his bare skin. Especially with such care as Sirius was now taking.

Oh, such care.

He tumbled onto the couch under Sirius' weight, right after Sirius did finally manage the shirt manoeuver. His breath whooshed out of him.

"You're real..." he managed. "And heavy..."

"Shut up," Sirius said, muffled against his collarbone. His silky black hair brushed the bare skin of Remus' chest, as he moved over the smooth contours of his body. Remus had intended, a split second ago, that he probably ought to be the one doing most of the...well, the doing, as it were, since Sirius was the one who'd been having delusions that a house was going to eat him but oh, Sirius, that's good discretion being the better part of valour he ought to let me help -- ummm let Sirius do whatever the hell he please...please...

And then Sirius' mouth slid over his cock and the world and all thoughts of ought or should spun shatteringly away.

Sirius had been gone so long and resurrected so suddenly and he was so fragile that even with his solid, firm weight -- with his hands sliding down Remus' hips to grip his thighs -- Remus was afraid to move too much, afraid to push too far lest Sirius break.

After all, he thought, as Sirius' warm, careful attention drove him blind with pleasure, he'd already fallen...

He protested wordlessly when Sirius moved, the wonderful slick warmth of his mouth withdrawn. Sirius was sitting up, and he propped himself on his elbows on the tattered couch, suddenly concerned.

Sirius' eyes were dark, his mouth slightly open, breath short and fast.

"In the dreams it always ends -- " he said, in a frantic whisper. "In the dreams it always -- "

Remus struggled up, hands pulling Sirius towards him by the collar until he was once again covered with the anxious warmth of his body. He kissed Sirius into silence and held their foreheads together, hands on the back of Sirius' head.

"It isn't a dream," he whispered. Sirius' lips were hungry on his skin, and his hands strayed from the sleek black hair downward, over his shoulders, the small of his back. Their hips slid together and yes -- there it was.

How they fit.

Oh, how they fit.

"This is real, here and now," he moaned, as Sirius thrust against him, growling almost ferally. "Sirius -- "

"Not a dream," Sirius said into his shoulder, and Remus held him as they shivered and gasped together, easing back eventually, stroking Sirius' hair with affectionate hands.

"When you go I wonder if I'm real," Sirius murmured. Remus, grave and worried, despite the pleasurable lassitude in his limbs, kissed his temple.

"Then I won't go," he promised. "Unless I have to."

***

Tell me that we belong together
Dress it up with the trappings of love

The living room was covered, every inch of it.

Sirius was in riotous heaven.

Remus, a tidy man by nature, had given in to the fact that Sirius, if let, would sprawl himself, his belongings, and any items local to the area over the widest possible space. He didn't recall this as a particular habit at school, and certainly he would have remembered Sirius doing this to their flat, so he could only guess it had something to do with twelve years in a small cell without any belongings to speak of.

He had, on Sirius' request, brought home catalogues from all the major shops in Diagon Alley, as well as a Daily Prophet and two Muggle Sunday editions. Sirius had ignored the Prophet -- who wasn't, these days? -- except for the crossword and the colourful advert inserts. He'd taken these and the adverts from the Muggle papers, along with the catalogues, and liberally strewn the room with them. The crosswords from all three papers were stacked neatly near his elbow.

"I leave the room for ten minutes..." Remus sighed, carrying two cups of tea and a plate of buttered bread into the middle of the mess and shoving a pile of torn catalogue pages off the couch before seating himself. Sirius, on the floor, accepted the tea and ignored the criticism.

"Do you think he wants a new broomstick?" he asked instead.

"Harry? I shouldn't think so. I imagine he practically sleeps with the one he's got now," Remus replied. "His first gift from you, plus it's a Firebolt."

"What about playing gloves? Those old Hogwarts gloves used to creak something awful."

"Christmas shopping, are we?" Remus asked, amused. Sirius scowled briefly.

"Not as though I can walk down the street and buy it myself," he grumbled.

"Yes, I've been meaning to ask you how you managed to get the money from your Gringott's account and place the Firebolt order in the first place, without having your name attached to it."

Sirius shrugged. "If there's one thing you learn, as a Black, it's how to put aside money. I had some under another name. Gave the company my account number when I made the order, using Crookshanks. They weren't best pleased to be taking purchase orders from a cat, but my money's as good as the next man's."

"Good old Crookshanks." Remus nodded thoughtfully, and picked up one of the torn-out pages.

"Denon's Demessifying Oil," he mused.

"For hair," Sirius answered.

"Harry'd look like a plucked hedgehog with this," Remus observed.

"I'll thank you not to talk about my godson like that," Sirius grinned.

Remus shook his head and said, gravely, "It is my duty, Sirius, to be truthful with you at all times. Helps improve your parenting ability."

"My parenting skills do not need improving! I don't remember you ever changing his diaper."

"No, I only taught him the Patronus spell that saved your sorry hide."

Sirius leaned back against the couch, resting his head against Remus' knee. "All right. Put it on the discard pile."

Remus regarded the paper-strewn room thoughtfully. Sirius sighed.

"On the chair," he said. Remus let the page drift down onto a small stack of creased and crumpled ads.

"Do you suppose he wants one of those Muggle things? A..." Sirius frowned at the picture in his hands. "A video game?"

"I shouldn't think so. He's never been much interested in them. What about one of these...snitch...bags?" he added, passing another torn sheet over. Sirius studied it.

"I don't think he wants a book-bag with wings on it," he said finally. "Would you have been caught dead with little gold dancing snitches on your bag when you were fifteen?"

"Reckon not," Remus said with a shudder, throwing it quickly on the discard pile. He knew that he should leave Sirius to puzzle this out on his own, but his innate cleanliness suggested the living room would get cleaner, faster, if he could help Sirius decide.

They quickly worked their way through new Quidditch things -- he'd probably get Quidditch stuff from his friends -- and most Muggle items. Sirius was taken with the idea of a Muggle camera that took only still photos, but Remus pointed out he'd have to pay developing fees and whatnot. A motorbike was quickly vetoed by Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was passing through on his way out the door, though the twins put in their votes for it as they followed him.

Potions supplies were smelly and not at all what one wanted for Christmas.

Ditto clothing (well, perhaps not the smelly part). Besides, Harry always got a Weasley jumper from Molly. Who also sent him sweets, thus ruling that out. And he was really growing too old for toys.

"Maybe..." Sirius said hesitantly. "Maybe it's just that I...don't really know what he wants. You know him. You spent all year with him."

"He writes to you," Remus reminded him. "He tells you things. I'm still his teacher, sort of. And...you know..."

Sirius glanced up at him. Remus worried his lower lip.

"I've always thought that caring for children was not so much about giving them what they wanted, but giving them what they needed."

"Well, what're you getting him?"

Remus leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I...thought I'd...offer him some tutoring," he said lamely. "And send a nice card. Something he can hang with his pictures over his bed."

Sirius paused.

"Listen, you know...my money's your money," he offered.

"No, Sirius, it's not."

"But it's Harry," Sirius pointed out. "It's not as though it's for you."

"It doesn't matter."

"Is it heavy?"

"What?"

"All that pride."

Remus swatted Sirius in the back of the head. "Smartarse."

"Well, all right then, help me. What does Harry need?"

Remus pondered.

"Dark Arts," he said finally. "He liked Defence against the Dark Arts. I think. And now he's teaching it and all."

"What does a Defence professor need?" Sirius asked.

"His head examined," Remus answered reservedly.

"No argument here." Sirius picked up the shredded remains of the Flourish & Blott's catalogue. "Maybe one of those spinny-top things that tells you when someone's being treacherous."

"Ron gave him one two years ago, I think," Remus said absently. "Here, you've missed one..."

"Nah, that's the rare-books section of this one," Sirius said, waving the Flourish & Blott's dissected remains. Remus paged through it, idly.

"What about this?" he asked quietly, offering it to Sirius, who read the page dubiously, before smiling.

"Perfect," he said. "Well done, Moony. We'll send it from both of us."

"Sirius -- "

"Well, either we can send it from both of us or I'll send it from both of us anyway and Harry will be confused as to why you also sent him a card," Sirius said. He hauled himself up onto the couch, crushing some papers as he did so.

Remus felt Sirius' shoulder against his shoulder, thigh against his thigh, hip against hip. Once it would have sent a sharp, aroused tingle down his spine. Now it made him feel safe, something infinitely more satisfying.

"All right," he agreed. "From us."

***

I'll be captivated
I'll hang from your lips
Instead of the gallows of heartache
That hang from above

It wasn't until a month after Sirius fell through the arch that Remus started hallucinating.

At first he thought it was just the natural result of looking for Sirius and not finding him. The same thing had happened after James and Lily were killed; he would find himself sometimes halfway to their home in Godric's Hollow before he remembered they weren't there, and once he'd got all the way there before the shock of seeing an empty plot where the Potter house used to exist reminded him what had happened.

He'd call out for Sirius in the mornings, sometimes. Once he'd spent ten minutes waiting for the shower before realising Sirius wasn't in it.

Sirius wasn't ever going to be in it again.

Or in the kitchen.

Or in his bed.

So this time, though it was fourteen years later, he remembered last time and prepared himself. It was a different sort of grief, of course, a cleaner, purer sorrow, but it was still similar enough as made no difference.

He didn't remember actually having seen Sirius before, though.

The first time, he woke up in the wide bed of his room, under the old, eternally dusty-smelling sheets, and reached out instinctively for Sirius' solid weight.

His arm closed briefly around a thin waist, covered in flannel.

He leaned into what he was sure was the reassuring warmth of a sleeping Sirius, and found himself rolling facedown onto the other half of the bed, so suddenly that it woke him fully and made his heart pound.

He brushed the hair out of his eyes, propped himself up to look around, and then sighed, dropping his head.

Just a dream.

Two weeks later he was making tea -- automatically making two cups, since English Breakfast was Sirius' favourite -- and he saw Sirius out of the corner of his eye, walking into the kitchen and settling into a seat at the table. He turned to offer the tea to Sirius --

And faced an empty dinner chair.

Odd that it was pulled out -- he must have seen that and thought it was Sirius.

Later the same day he was climbing the stairs, and Sirius passed him going down, hand brushing his hip to guide them past each other with a familiarity that made him smile --

Until he turned to empty air, meaning to ask a question, and found himself alone on the stair.

He swallowed.

He had felt Sirius' hand on his hip. He had seen him the way one sees a familiar form out of the corner of the eye -- vague, but still in enough detail to easily identify it.

The next morning he woke with Sirius in bed with him. He lay still, breathing lightly, staring at Sirius' sleeping face.

It's not real, he thought. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, then opened them again.

Sunlight on black hair.

Sirius is dead.

He tried again, closed his eyes and opened them, and this time he found the bed as it ought to (no, it oughtn't, but life wasn't fair) look -- rumpled blankets, untouched pillow, dust on the headboard.

He rolled over on his back and covered his face in his hands. This hadn't happened last time.

And the more he fought it, the more it happened, anywhere, at any time -- like Banquo's ghost, Sirius would appear at dinner to take a seat meant for Ron. He dropped two dishes trying to hand them to Sirius while doing the washing-up one night.

The night he saw Sirius, leaning over the chair Harry was studying in and smiling at his godson -- the night Sirius looked up from his contemplation of Harry to smile warmly at Remus, his eyes dancing with pleasure -- Remus decided he might possibly be going insane.