Work Text:
Remus Lupin sighed, leaning back in his chair. His apartment had sunk into silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock and the occasional hum of cars outside. On the table in front of him, a mug was steaming—or rather, what was supposed to be tea. Instead, it held a murky liquid because, of course, he had poured boiling water onto his own hand rather than the teabag.
"Perfect," he muttered, shaking his scalded fingers. "Just brilliant."
Glasses. Where the hell were his glasses? He searched the entire table, checked under a stack of papers (why were they always there?), and only after five minutes realized that the dark frames were resting peacefully on his forehead.
"Genius," Remus said, taking them off, wiping them with a napkin, and immediately putting them back on.
Lily. He should text Lily. She’d appreciate this circus. He reached for his phone, dialed the number from memory.
May 22
Remus (10:45 PM):
Hey, Lils. You won’t believe the day I’ve had. Just poured boiling water on my hand instead of making tea (thanks, absent-mindedness), then spent half an hour looking for my glasses, which were on my forehead. How’s your project going? Hope you’re having fewer epic fails.
The message sent. Remus took a sip from the mug (there was tea after all), grimaced, and suddenly froze.
"Wait a minute…"
He opened the chat. Not Lily.
Not Lily at all.
An unfamiliar number glared back at him from the screen.
"Oh no."
The phone vibrated.
Sirius (10:48 PM):
Lol, not Lils. But now I live for the fact that someone’s glasses were on their forehead. Do you often text the wrong people? (And, more importantly, why don’t I have someone in my contacts who brews tea with their hands? That’s genius.)
Remus closed his eyes. Maybe he could just… disappear. Move away. Change his name. Throw the phone out.
Remus (11:00 PM):
…Oh god. I really did send that to the wrong person. Lils is gonna laugh at me for three hours when she finds out. Sorry for intruding, I’ll… try to erase this message with magic. (Kidding. Alas, I’m just a mortal with wounded pride.)
He hit send and immediately regretted it. Why had he written "magic"? Now this person would definitely think he was an idiot.
But the reply came instantly.
Sirius (11:02 PM):
Appreciate the magic. But you know what else is magical? The fact that you didn’t ask “who is this?” but immediately started justifying yourself. Clearly used to chaos. Is Lils your… girlfriend? Sister? Tea-related crime accomplice?
Remus unexpectedly laughed. At least the stranger wasn’t angry. In fact, they seemed to be enjoying this.
Remus (11:05 PM):
Friend. And “accomplice” is accurate. She’s the only one who understands my nonsense after three sleepless nights. And now, apparently, so do you. What a nightmare.
He set the phone aside, stretched, and suddenly realized he was smiling. Weird. Usually, slip-ups like this sent him spiraling, but the stranger had somehow turned it into a game.
The phone vibrated again.
Sirius (11:07 PM):
“Nightmare” is when your ex calls you at 3 AM because they “forgot what a toaster looks like.” You at least mix up numbers in a cute way.
Remus snorted.
Remus (11:12 PM):
…I have a question. If I say “alright, sorry for bothering you, goodnight,” will you respect my decision or start lecturing me on the social contracts of strangers?
The reply came instantly.
Sirius (11:15 PM):
Depends. If you say “goodnight,” I’ll assume you’re going to sleep. If not—then you, like me, suffer from chronic “gotta check the fridge at midnight.”
He stood up, opened the fridge. Empty. Just a jar of olives with a dusty expiration date.
Remus (11:18 PM):
…Damn it. You guessed. Just checked. There’s nothing but a jar of olives from 2018.
Remus sat down on the floor by the fridge, leaning against the door. A strange night. A strange conversation. But… nice.
Sirius (11:20 PM):
Ah, a classic. I’ve got half a lemon and a bottle of ketchup. Bartender’s dinner.
May 23
Remus (12:03 AM):
Why are you awake? Besides the obvious (ketchup is tragic).
Sirius (12:05 AM):
Working night shifts at a bar. Biological clock is permanently broken. You?
Remus glanced at his laptop. The screen showed thirty open tabs, including “how to survive procrastination” and “DIY toaster repairs.”
Remus (12:08 AM):
Writing. Or, well, supposed to be writing. Instead, I’ve spent the last five hours googling “how to survive procrastination” and watching toaster repair videos.
Sirius (12:10 AM):
Hey, if you fix a toaster, bring it to my bar. Ours almost burned the place down last week.
Remus laughed.
Remus (12:13 AM):
…Did you just seriously propose a toaster date?
Sirius (12:15 AM):
No. I proposed you save my job. There’s a difference.
Remus smiled. He’d almost forgotten he was supposed to be finishing an article.
Remus (12:20 AM):
Alright, I really should go. Deadline’s tomorrow (well, today), and I haven’t even started. Thanks for the nice chat and… uh, moral support in my tea crisis.
Sirius (12:22 AM):
Goodnight, Specs. If you see a toaster in your dreams, say hi for me.
Remus set the phone aside, rubbed his eyes. On the laptop screen, the cursor blinked mercilessly in an empty document.
"Alright," he muttered. "At least a couple of paragraphs."
But all he could think was: "Wonder what this stranger looks like?"
May 25
The bar exhaled its last patrons, and Sirius finally wiped down the counter for the tenth time that night—more out of boredom than necessity. In the silence of the empty hall, even the creak of the storage room door sounded loud.
"That’s it, you’re free," said the bartender on the next shift, walking past with a trash bag. "You’re extra pensive today."
Sirius just snorted, pulling out his phone. He didn’t know why he’d thought of that guy who’d texted him by mistake the other night. Maybe because, over the past three days, their conversation had popped into his head more often than it should have.
He opened the chat, checked the time. 2:18 AM.
"Alright," he muttered. "If he doesn’t answer, I’ll blame it on post-shift delirium."
Sirius (2:18 AM):
You asleep?
The reply came almost immediately.
Remus (2:22 AM):
*…I should be. But my brain decided 2:22 AM is the perfect time to remember how I face-planted into a cake at a school concert in fifth grade. You?*
Sirius laughed.
Sirius (2:25 AM):
Can’t shut my brain off after a shift. Just spent half an hour staring at the ceiling wondering why it’s "pineapple" and not "applepine." Decided to ask the one person who might also be awake at this ungodly hour.
He tossed his phone onto the couch and stretched, hearing his spine crack. Fragments of customer conversations, the clink of glasses, someone’s laughter—all swirled in his head. But for some reason, this exchange felt… alive.
Remus (2:28 AM):
"Applepine" sounds like bootleg cider sold in a back alley. And yes, now I’ll see that every time I’m at the grocery store. Thanks.
Sirius smirked.
Sirius (2:30 AM):
Oh, so you’ll be thinking about me at the supermarket? Progress.
Remus (2:33 AM):
…I changed my mind. Goodnight.
"Coward," Sirius huffed, but his reply was softer than he’d intended.
Sirius (2:35 AM):
Sweet dreams. May you dream of applepine and gravity-defying cakes.
May 27
Remus sat on the windowsill, wrapped in a sweater, staring at the empty street. He’d reread the same book page three times, but his thoughts kept circling back to the messages.
"Why does he only text at night?" he muttered. "Maybe it’s just a coincidence?"
His phone vibrated.
Sirius (2:18 AM):
You asleep?
Remus rolled his eyes but replied almost instantly.
Remus (2:22 AM):
…You’re starting to predict my insomnia with scary accuracy. I’ve practically memorized your schedule: shift till 2, then three hours of pacing, and only then sleep.
He pictured Sirius wandering around his apartment—probably as nocturnal and restless as he was.
Sirius (2:25 AM):
Oho, I’ve been figured out. Can’t sleep tonight—upstairs neighbor’s been dropping something heavy for the past hour. Either renovating or hiding a body.
Remus snorted.
Remus (2:28 AM):
If it’s a body, I vote we don’t interfere. Got enough skeletons in my own closet.
He hit send—then froze. Why had he written that? Now Sirius would definitely ask—
Sirius (2:30 AM):
Oh, now I have to ask: what’s the dumbest skeleton in there?
Remus buried his face in his hands.
"Shit. Shit, shit, shit."
But his fingers were already typing.
Remus (2:35 AM):
*At fourteen, I wrote a 300-page fantasy novel about a vegan vampire. Mom still keeps a printout "for blackmail purposes."*
He immediately added:
Remus (2:36 AM):
…Why did I admit that. Goodnight.
Sirius (2:38 AM):
Hey, wait! That’s genius. My skeleton: at the same age, I dyed my hair ginger and went to school like that for a week before being forced to change it.
Remus (2:45 AM):
(Read)
Remus didn’t reply. But ten minutes later, he picked up his phone and read the message again.
"Ginger," he murmured. "Wonder what that looked like…"
May 28
Sirius propped his feet up on the bar counter, swirling something strong in his glass. The last customers had trickled out, but his fingers still thrummed with the rhythm of the bustling evening—as if even the post-shift silence hummed with leftover energy.
His phone lay in front of him. He swiped the screen open to his chat with Remus.
"Wonder if he’s awake…" he muttered and, without overthinking, sent:
Sirius (1:47 AM):
Admit it. You’re deliberately staying up this late to keep our tradition alive, aren’t you?
He didn’t expect a reply so fast.
Remus (1:52 AM):
Caught me. I even set an alarm. "1:30 AM — time for bizarre confessions from a bartender."
Sirius laughed out loud, the sound echoing through the empty bar.
"Well then, if it’s tradition…" He took a sip and started typing.
Sirius (1:55 AM):
Tradition demands: today I learned our regular is a former circus acrobat. Every time he talks about his act, I’m terrified he’ll handstand on the counter.
He could almost picture Remus smiling in the dark somewhere.
Remus (1:58 AM):
...I once interviewed an ex-lion tamer. He said humans are more dangerous than beasts.
Sirius froze.
"Wow."
Sirius (2:01 AM):
That sounds like the opening line of your next novel. Or… are you trying to tell me something?
He didn’t know why he’d written that. Maybe because in these late-night exchanges, anything seemed possible—even honesty.
Remus (2:05 AM):
I just… sometimes write about the things that scare me. To make them less frightening.
Something twinged in Sirius’s chest.
"Shit," he whispered.
Sirius (2:07 AM):
What scares you?
The typing bubbles appeared, then vanished, then reappeared.
Remus (2:15 AM):
...Sorry. I really should sleep.
Sirius sighed.
"Alright."
He finished his drink but couldn’t shake the feeling he’d startled something fragile.
May 28 (Morning)
Sirius woke with a pounding head and a knot of guilt. He grabbed his phone the second his eyes opened.
"Need to fix this."
Sirius (9:15 AM):
Hey. Sorry about last night. Shouldn’t have pushed like that.
No reply.
He spent the day coiled with nerves, but his phone stayed silent.
Remus’s Kitchen
Remus sat staring into an empty mug. He’d been thinking about that message all day.
"Why did I react like that?" he muttered.
But his phone was already in his hands.
Remus (11:47 PM):
I’m the one who should apologize. You didn’t ask anything wrong—I brought it up, then chickened out. Paradox: it’s easier to write fiction for thousands than to say one real thing to one person.
He squeezed his eyes shut and hit send.
The phone buzzed almost instantly.
Sirius (11:49 PM):
So I’m your "one person"? Careful with the flattery, I might blush.
Remus laughed, tension unraveling.
Remus (11:52 PM):
Shut up. I’m serious. Maybe that’s the point—we’ll never meet. Can say anything without consequences.
He didn’t expect Sirius’s reply to be so… raw.
Sirius (11:55 PM):
Okay, stranger. Then by the rules: today I was scared my bar’s getting shut down. Three years poured into that place, and now the rent’s spiking.
Remus’s throat tightened.
Remus (11:58 PM):
...I dream I’ll never write anything that matters. That all these words are just dust.
He sent it—then immediately regretted it.
But Sirius’s reply came just past midnight.
May 29
Sirius (12:01 AM):
Hey. If it’s dust—why can I taste it on my lips right now?
Remus gasped.
Remus (12:04 AM):
...We agreed on anonymous therapy, not poetry.
Sirius (12:06 AM):
Comes bundled in my service plan.
Remus pressed the phone to his chest, feeling his heartbeat roar.
"Damn it."
May 30
Sirius (00:12):
Your fear for today? Mine’s that I’ll remember every cocktail recipe forever but forget my own name.
Remus (00:18):
That all my writing is just random words strung together. What if I can’t actually write at all?
May 31
Remus (14:35):
Just saw a man eat a banana with the peel. There’s today’s existential crisis.
Sirius (14:40):
That’d be a lifetime ban in my bar.
June 1
Remus (09:02):
Spilled coffee on my keyboard. Now the "E" key only works when it feels like it.
Sirius (09:05):
Come to my bar—we’ve got a typewriter for ~aesthetic~ emergencies.
June 3
Sirius (23:45):
Customer told me today I’m "too pretty to be a bartender." What does that even mean?
Remus (23:50):
That they have bad taste. You’re clearly "too sarcastic."
June 5
Sirius (19:30):
Ever notice how "loneliness" is too long a word for what it is?
Remus (19:35):
…Are you drunk?
June 6
Remus (16:47):
Bought new glasses. The world’s in HD now.
Sirius (16:50):
Prove it. Send a selfie.
Remus (16:52):
Breaking the rules now?
June 7
Sirius (02:10):
Just pictured you blushing while texting. Am I right?
Remus (02:12):
Shut up.
June 8
Remus (12:15):
Lils asked who I’ve been texting so much.
Sirius (12:17):
Tell her it’s your imaginary friend.
June 9
Sirius (00:05):
Thinking about what I’d say to you if we met.
Remus (00:08):
,,,,
June 10
Remus (22:40):
Full moon tonight. I always… sleep badly these nights.
Sirius (22:42):
I’m here.
June 11
Sirius (15:20):
Do you ever drink? Come to the bar tonight. Anonymously.
Remus (15:25):
…That would break everything.
June 15
Remus sat on the bathroom floor, his forehead pressed to the cold tiles. Whiskey burned his throat, and his mind swirled with fragments of tonight’s "date."
"How much do you even earn from those fairy tales of yours?"
"Fantasy? Seriously? My nephew in fifth grade writes the same crap."
He gripped his phone so hard the screen creaked.
Remus (3:47 AM):
Lily set me up on a date. Well—she said he’d be "perfect for me," and like an idiot, I believed her. Showed up at this godforsaken restaurant, and that… that bastard’s first question was about my income. Then he said fantasy is "juvenile" and that "at your age, you should get a real job." I sat there staring at his polished shoes and thought—Christ, is this really how I look from the outside? A pathetic hack who’s scared of his own shadow?
The message spilled out in a furious stream. By the time he finished, his fingers were shaking.
The reply came almost instantly.
Sirius (3:52 AM):
Hey. First of all, your Lily’s an idiot (lovingly). Second, that prick doesn’t deserve your anger. You know what I see from the outside? Someone who turns fear into words. Who’s writing drunk and furious right now, and still making me ache for a stranger.
Remus’s breath caught. Those words—precise, warm, understanding—scorched him worse than the whiskey.
Remus (3:55 AM):
You’re flattering me.
He didn’t expect what came next.
Sirius (3:56 AM):
No. If I were taking you on a date—we wouldn’t even go inside. I’d grab your hand (yes, immediately, fight me) and drag you to the waterfront. Buy two cups of the cheapest wine from a corner shop—because it all tastes like battery acid anyway, but we wouldn’t care.
As Remus read, he could feel it:
-
The cold concrete under his palms.
-
The tang of shitty wine on his tongue.
-
A warm hand holding his with too much certainty.
Remus (3:59 AM):
…And then?
Sirius (4:02 AM):
Then? We’d sit on that concrete, and I’d make you read me the most embarrassing passage from your vegan vampire novel. Because laughter’s the only thing that really kills fear. And when you got mad ("It’s not funny!"), I’d go dead serious and say: "You write living things. And if someone can’t see that, they’re just blind."
"Damn it," Remus whispered—but it was just the beginning.
Remus (4:05 AM):
…Damn you.
Sirius (4:06 AM):
And yeah, I’d kiss you. Not at the end—too cliché. Somewhere in the middle, when you’d argue that "no one ever gets your metaphors." Just to shut you up (and because I’ve wanted to).
The phone slipped from Remus’s hand. He grabbed the sink, staring at his twisted reflection in the mirror.
"He can’t— We’ve never even—"
But Sirius kept going, dismantling every defense:
Remus (4:09 AM):
You… You crossed every line.
Sirius (4:10 AM):
I know. Sorry. Not taking it back.
Remus (4:15 AM):
I don’t want your pity. Or these—fantasies. You don’t know me. How I look when I’m angry, or mumble in my sleep, or—
Sirius (4:18 AM):
But I know you scrunch your nose when you lie. That you take tea with five sugars. That you’re scared of dogs but won’t admit it. And yes—that you’re blushing furiously right now.
Remus (4:20 AM):
I hate you.
Sirius (4:21 AM):
Liar.
Remus (4:30 AM):
…Goodnight, Sirius.
Sirius (4:31 AM):
Sleep, Specs. Dream of our almost-date.
June 16
Sirius wiped down glasses behind the bar counter, but his mind was miles away. He sighed, placed a glass on the shelf, and grabbed his phone.
Sirius (1:42 PM):
Did you survive our late-night therapy session? Admit it—you reread my messages and made that grumpy face.
He waited five minutes. Ten.
"Alright," Sirius muttered, shoving the phone into his pocket.
But eventually, the screen lit up.
Remus (2:50 PM):
I deleted the chat history. Without looking.
Sirius froze.
"Liar," he whispered, but a grin was already spreading across his face.
He knew.
June 17
Remus tossed in bed. Sleep eluded him again, as it had for days.
He grabbed his phone, opened the chat with Sirius.
"No," he hissed. "Don’t."
But his fingers typed anyway.
Remus (2:08 AM):
You asleep?
The reply came instantly.
Sirius (2:09 AM):
Not anymore.
Remus bit his lip.
Remus (2:11 AM):
…Never mind. Doesn’t matter.
Sirius (2:12 AM):
Hey!
Remus squeezed his eyes shut.
Remus (2:15 AM):
I dreamed you disappeared.
He threw the phone onto the pillow but lasted less than a minute before checking the reply.
Sirius (2:17 AM):
I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to.
Remus pressed the phone to his chest.
"Damn it."
June 18
Sirius leaned against the bar, watching a new customer fiddle with his phone.
"Something pretty," the guy mumbled, not even looking up.
Sirius smirked.
"One minute."
He poured water, added a drop of blue food coloring, and slid it across the counter.
"Your masterpiece, sir."
The guy finally glanced up, stared at the glass, then at Sirius.
"Seriously?"
"Deadly," Sirius grinned.
He pulled out his phone.
Sirius (8:17 PM):
Guy at the bar just ordered "something pretty." I gave him water with food dye. Reminds me of someone.
Remus (8:23 PM):
I’ve never been that insufferable.
Sirius laughed.
Sirius (8:25 PM):
But you’re the only one I’d make a real drink for.
June 19
Lily sat across from Remus at the café, studying him with narrowed eyes.
"You’ve been smiling at your phone more," she declared.
Remus choked on his coffee.
"What? No."
"Liar," Lily smirked. "Who is she?"
Heat flooded his cheeks.
Remus (3:33 PM):
Lily’s interrogating me about "smiling at my phone too much."
Sirius (3:35 PM):
Tell her you’ve got a secret lover.
Remus rolled his eyes.
Remus (3:36 PM):
Stop.
Sirius (3:37 PM):
You just blushed. Again.
"Well?" Lily tilted her head.
"No one," Remus muttered.
"Liar," she grinned.
June 20
Remus glared at his blank document. The cursor blinked tauntingly.
His phone buzzed.
Sirius (12:01 AM):
If we had a date—where would you take me?
Remus froze.
He knew the answer.
Remus (12:15 AM):
...A library.
Sirius (12:16 AM):
The most boring love story ever. I adore it.
Remus smiled.
June 21
Remus (3:22 AM):
I should stop texting you at night.
Sirius (3:23 AM):
But you won’t.
Remus (3:25 AM):
No.
June 22
Sirius (6:40 PM):
Just pictured you reading something pretentious aloud while I watch you frown at the hard words.
Remus (6:45 PM):
That’s not a date.
Sirius (6:46 PM):
Then what is it?
Remus (6:50 PM):
...I don’t know.
June 24
Sirius (11:50 PM):
Full moon tonight. You okay?
Remus (11:55 PM):
Yeah. Thanks for remembering.
June 25
Remus (2:10 PM):
Started a new story. Main character’s a bartender with a ridiculous name.
Sirius (2:12 PM):
Is he at least pretty?
Remus (2:13 PM):
Unbearably so.
June 26
Sirius (1:00 AM):
Outside your place right now. Kidding. Or am I?
Remus (1:02 AM):
You’re an idiot.
Sirius (1:03 AM):
But yours.
June 27
Remus stood by the window, moonlight washing over him.
He couldn’t do this anymore.
Remus (10:37 PM):
I don’t want to pretend we’re strangers anymore.
He threw the phone onto the bed, not waiting for a reply.
Two minutes later, the screen lit up.
Sirius (10:39 PM):
...
Remus clenched his fists.
Remus (10:45 PM):
Forget it.
Sirius (10:46 PM):
Can’t.
June 28
Remus gripped his phone so hard his knuckles turned white. Lily sat across from him, sipping her latte with infuriating calm, as if she hadn’t just announced five minutes ago: "Double date tomorrow—you’ll love him."
Remus (7:08 PM):
Lily’s meddling again. Set up a double date—me and her, plus some ‘amazing friend’ of hers. Didn’t even ask if I wanted to.
He hit send and immediately regretted it—too sharp, too personal. But Sirius replied almost instantly, with that audacious tone that never failed to make Remus either blush or laugh.
Sirius (7:12 PM):
"Amazing friend," huh? Wonder how he stacks up on a scale from 1 to one anonymous bartender.
Remus snorted—then caught Lily’s raised eyebrow.
"Who’s that?" she asked.
"No one," he scowled, though the traitorous twitch at his lips betrayed him.
Remus (7:15 PM):
Are you jealous?
He didn’t expect a direct answer. But Sirius, as always, obliterated boundaries.
Sirius (7:16 PM):
Absolutely. Picturing you squinting in those ridiculous glasses, listening to his ‘organic soap empire’ pitch.
Remus (7:20 PM):
...That’s scarily accurate to my last date.
Then—the plot twist.
Sirius (7:22 PM):
Now I’m properly jealous. Though, since we’re confessing… My idiot mate James is dragging me to a double date tomorrow too. Claims it’s ‘the perfect match.’
"What?" Remus muttered aloud.
Remus (7:25 PM):
...What?
Sirius (7:26 PM):
What ‘what’?
Something hot and prickly clawed up Remus’s throat.
Remus (7:28 PM):
You. On a date. With someone.
Sirius (7:30 PM):
Yep. And now you’re jealous.
Remus (7:32 PM):
Don’t flatter yourself.........
He gritted his teeth.
Sirius (7:33 PM):
You just used nine dots instead of three. You’re furious.
"Damn it," Remus dragged a hand down his face.
He was furious. At himself.
Remus (7:35 PM):
I’m not furious. I just… wonder who gets to sit across from you and endure your terrible jokes.
Sirius (7:37 PM):
Oh, so this is what it looks like? ‘Who’s this dazzling stranger watching the bartender faceplant?’
Remus (7:40 PM):
You’re insufferable.
Sirius (7:41 PM):
But yours to suffer.
Remus (7:45 PM):
...When’s your date?
Sirius (7:46 PM):
Tomorrow at seven. Yours?
Remus (7:48 PM):
Tomorrow. At seven.
Sirius (7:50 PM):
...Hey. What if—
Remus (7:51 PM):
Don’t say it.
Sirius (7:52 PM):
But you’re thinking it too.
Remus (7:55 PM):
Maybe.
June 29
Remus tapped his fingers nervously against the table in the corner of the veranda. Lily sat across from him, casually scanning the menu as if she didn’t notice him checking his phone every thirty seconds.
Remus (6:55 PM):
Lily’s here, but the other two are late. What a surprise.
He sent it and immediately shoved his phone into his pocket—only to pull it back out a minute later.
"You look like you’re about to bolt," Lily remarked, raising an eyebrow.
"I’m considering it," he muttered.
Remus (7:02 PM):
I changed my mind. This is a terrible idea. Maybe I should just run?
And then—he saw him.
There, in the corner of the sunlit veranda, stood a man who carried himself like an aristocrat slumming it in a bar—tall, lean, with an effortless arrogance that suggested he owned every room he walked into. His black hair, thick and slightly wavy, fell to his shoulders in messy strands, as if he’d just stepped out of the wind. Pale skin contrasted sharply with the dark arches of his brows and the long lashes framing gray eyes—cold as winter sea, but with a spark of mischief.
He wore a black shirt with the top buttons undone, revealing collarbones and a silver chain with some antique crest resting against his throat. Narrow trousers emphasized long legs, and his fingers—short nails, restless energy—tapped against his thigh.
Remus forgot how to breathe.
Remus (7:15 PM):
Hey, don’t get jealous… but I’m currently looking at the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
He couldn’t look away.
Remus (7:16 PM):
Black hair to his shoulders, gray eyes, unbuttoned black shirt… and he’s smiling like he knows something the rest of us don’t.
Lily said something, but Remus didn’t hear. He grabbed his wineglass and drained it in one go.
Remus (7:20 PM):
I drank wine. A lot. Now I think if I stand up, I’ll either collapse or do something stupid.
Just then, a lanky, disheveled guy with messy chestnut hair and round glasses sliding down his nose bounded up to the beautiful stranger, waving his arms and laughing loudly. The dark-haired man smirked, indulgent.
Remus (7:22 PM):
Oh, I think that’s his friend—some scruffy idiot in glasses who’s currently cackling at something… You’d like him.
Remus (7:25 PM):
God, who am I kidding? A guy like that wouldn’t even glance my way.
Remus (7:28 PM):
Hey, Sirius, why aren’t you answering? Guess your date’s going better than mine…
And then—
The beautiful stranger pulled out his phone. Unlocked it. His lips curved into a smirk as he read something on the screen. Then his gaze lifted—straight at Remus. A sharp, assessing look, edged with amusement. His fingers flew over the screen—
A notification lit up Remus’s phone:
Sirius (7:30 PM):
You’re even prettier than I imagined.
Remus froze. Slowly, he looked up.
The stranger—no, Sirius—stared back across the veranda. A dazzling grin, a predator’s gleam in his eyes. A finger pressed to his lips—wait—
Lily suddenly clapped Remus on the shoulder:
"Oh, there they are!"
James was already laughing, waving a wine bottle:
"Finally! I give them five minutes before they start making out."
Remus didn’t hear any of it. Just the ringing in his ears. Just Sirius, now walking toward him, victory written in every step.
Epilogue
One week later
Remus (2:17 AM):
You awake?
Sirius (2:18 AM):
No. Lying here remembering how you blushed on that veranda.
Remus (2:20 AM):
I hated you in that moment.
Sirius (2:21 AM):
Liar. You wanted me.
Remus (2:23 AM):
…Maybe.
Sirius (2:25 AM):
Know what I thought when I first saw you?
Remus (2:27 AM):
“Christ, he’s twitchy”?
Sirius (2:30 AM):
“Finally.”
Sirius’s POV:
The sun was setting, painting the veranda in gold, when I spotted him.
He sat hunched over a corner table like he was trying to fold himself into nothingness. His light brown hair—pulled into a haphazard ponytail—glowed in the fading light, a few rebellious strands escaping to frame his forehead. Those ridiculous glasses of his had slid down his nose, and behind them hid the most astonishing eyes I’d ever seen: warm, honey-brown, flecked with gold that sparked when he was nervous.
His fingers—long, elegant, with slightly bitten nails—tapped restlessly against his wineglass. He wore an awful, oversized sweater with rolled-up sleeves that revealed thin wrists and pale skin dotted with faint scars.
I pulled out my phone, read his messages one by one, and felt something warm and impossibly tender bloom in my chest. "You’re even prettier than I imagined," I typed, my fingers trembling as I hit send.
When he looked up, his eyes were a storm—first confusion, then panic, then—oh, Christ—that heat that flushed his cheeks rose-pink. His lips—chapped, slightly parted—fell open in silent shock, his grip on the phone turning his knuckles white.
And that’s when I knew the most important thing: he was terrified, he was mortified, he wanted to vanish… but he wouldn’t run. Not from me.
Because somewhere between our late-night texts, between the jokes and fears, between "you’re insufferable" and "but yours to suffer"—we’d already belonged to each other.
Now all that was left was to walk over and prove it.
Remus’s POV:
I knew.
Before he even pulled out his phone. Before his fingers began typing a reply.
Because no one else had ever looked at me like that—like I was a puzzle he’d already solved.
And then the message came.
And the world tilted.
The Last Lines:
"You knew?" Remus whispered as Sirius leaned across the table.
"Knew what?"
"That it was me."
Sirius grinned.
"Obviously."
"You’re an ass."
"Your ass."
James groaned:
"Oh, for fuck’s sake—just kiss already and let me drink in peace!"
Lily smacked his shoulder.
And Sirius kissed Remus—finally—to the sound of laughter and clinking glasses.
The End.
(For real this time.)