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Sirius and Remus move into the small cottage by the sea the spring after the war is over. It smells like sea foam and clean sunrises, and the dawn shimmers through the early morning mist. Sirius doesn’t bring anything from Grimmauld Place; Remus brings only the small suitcase of belongings that he’s carried with him since he was nineteen years old.
The cottage feels like a stranger’s, so they do all they can to make it theirs. Remus lines the walls with shelves and organizes their books by subject: a futile effort, as the books end up strewn all over the house anyway, caught underfoot. Sirius puts photographs in all the empty frames and repaints the walls rich deep colors, purple and forest green and gold, and then he and Remus fuck in every room and the cottage doesn’t feel so impersonal anymore after that.
Sirius sniffles his way through the first weeks of May, his nose red and his eyes watering, and he complains until Remus finds a potion that suppresses allergy symptoms. Padfoot gets mud on the floors in the wet mornings after his daily run, and Remus sleeps in until Sirius comes and kisses him awake or slides into bed next to him, freshly showered, and reads the paper or drinks his coffee or goes back to sleep, curled towards Remus like he’s seeking his warmth.
Sirius surprises Remus with a picnic basket and a bottle of champagne one sunny May morning, the sky cyan blue and clear. They spread the blanket on the sand, and Remus lies back with the sun in his eyes and a glass of champagne by his elbow. Sirius’ skin turns pinker as the sun rises higher in the sky, and he counts the freckles darkening on Remus’ shoulders, walking the tips of his fingers over them like they’re tiny stepping stones.
“It’s very nice here, don’t you think,” Sirius says.
Remus squints against the sunlight. “Please don’t tell me you’re already bored.”
“What?” Sirius frowns. “That’s not what I said.”
“That’s the way you are, though.” Remus closes his eyes again. Three large glasses of champagne in and he’s delightfully tipsy, clinging to the edge of the world. “Can’t stay in one place too long.”
“Can’t stay in one place too long by myself,” Sirius corrects. He’s quiet for a long while, his fingertips walking over Remus’ shoulders. “It was different in Grimmauld Place,” he says, finally; “you weren’t always there, it was just me in that damn house—but, look—I mean it, Remus.”
“Mm,” Remus says, not entirely convinced; he knows Sirius, and Sirius has gasoline in his heart, forever waiting for the match to strike and set him ablaze.
Sirius leans in and kisses him. “Promise,” he says. “After everything, this is all I need. You’re all I want.”
“Would you let me nap in peace?” Remus says, but he’s smiling, and he knows that Sirius knows it. Sirius huffs a laugh and puts his head on Remus’ shoulder, and they lie in the warm spring sun until the clouds roll in from the sea.
The champagne bottle is empty and the blanket is covered in crumbs when Sirius finally shakes Remus out of his light doze. “Moony,” he says, but he doesn’t need to say anything else, because at that precise moment the sky opens up above them and it starts to downpour. Sirius yelps and grabs the blanket as Remus gets to his feet, and then Sirius throws the blanket over both their heads, sending sand flying everywhere.
“Sirius, would you—ouch, stop that—” Remus says as sand gets in his eyes. There are quick puddles forming by his feet, and he’s already soaked through.
They run back to the cottage together, their bare feet splashing muddy water up the back of their calves, Sirius’ hair plastered to his wet face and rain streaming into Remus’ eyes. They collapse in the safety of the front porch and curl up together on the hammock, watching the rain make eddies in the grass below as the storm gathers above them.
+
Summer is a muggy haze and cool star-studded nights. They swim naked in the cold sea and lie on the sand at night as the tide goes out. Sirius suggests a tropical vacation; Remus shrugs and Sirius goes back to his book and they both fall asleep on the couch. Sand gets everywhere despite Remus’ best efforts to avoid it, in between the floorboards, inside the washing machine. Sirius picks wild raspberries and the juice stains his fingertips, his red red mouth, and Remus tastes the bitter sweetness on his tongue. They stay up late watching meteor showers and if Remus’ heart quickens when the late moon rises, it slows when Sirius wraps his fingers around Remus’ wrist, above his pulse.
Their bedroom is stifling when the sun goes down, clinging resolutely to the damp heat of the day. Remus tosses and turns beneath the single cotton sheet, and then he tosses and turns beneath nothing at all, listlessly watching the waning moonlight creeping up the walls.
Sirius—who can (and does) fall asleep anywhere, anytime, in any circumstances—mumbles, “Go to sleep, Moony,” and Remus huffs an annoyed breath.
“It’s hot,” he says, fully aware that he is whining and not particularly caring.
“So?”
“So,” Remus says, “I can’t sleep. Feel how warm I am.” He presses his hands to Sirius’ shoulders, which are somehow still cool.
Sirius hums sleepily. “You’re always warm,” he says. “Damn werewolf.”
“Mm,” Remus says, and flops gracelessly onto his back, spread-eagled against the bed. The room is an oven, and sweat stands out on his forehead. He tries to blow his bangs off his face, but they stick there stubbornly.
“Would you stop,” Sirius says. “I am sleeping.”
“How lucky for you,” Remus grouses. “Some of us are going to be up all night sweating.” And he kicks out his legs, trying to catch a breeze from the open window.
“Oh, for the love of—” Sirius moves all at once, rolling over so that he’s suddenly above Remus, his knees caging Remus on either side. His hands press Remus’ shoulders down against the bed. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to give you something to sweat about.”
“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Remus says. “And it’s too hot for sex. Don’t you dare, Sirius Black.”
Sirius lifts an eyebrow. “Oh, is it really?” he says, and shimmies down Remus’ body, plucks at his boxer shorts. “Don’t you think you’d feel a bit cooler if you took these off?” He slides them down Remus’ legs, smiles up at Remus, crooked and wicked, wide awake now as his eyes glint in the dark.
Remus bites down hard on his tongue to keep from crying out when Sirius takes him into his mouth, arching away from the bed as his fingers curl in the crumpled bed sheets.
+
In the fall, Sirius drags Remus to all the local attractions—apple picking, corn mazes, bonfires on the beach. Remus kisses Sirius in a secluded path of the corn maze and he kisses Sirius in the light of the fire and he kisses Sirius when Sirius insists on picking enough apples for at least four apple pies. He kisses Sirius when no one is looking and when they are. Sirius gets flour all over the kitchen when he tries to make the pie crust and Remus kisses him then, too, covered head to foot in white powder like a ghost.
“This is really getting quite ridiculous, you,” Sirius says imperiously, still holding the half-empty flour bag in one raised hand. “You can’t just go kissing someone when they’re trying to make pie. That’s not on.”
“Mm,” Remus says, and puts his hands on either side of Sirius’ face and kisses him. “I didn’t realize you were making pie. I thought you were redecorating the kitchen.”
Sirius scowls at him. “You’re hilarious.”
“Thank you,” Remus says serenely, and then he shows Sirius how to make an apple pie properly. Sirius swipes tastes of the filling when he thinks Remus isn’t looking.
While the pies are baking, Remus drags Sirius outside for a walk to distract him, and the cool October air brings high color out on Sirius’ face, his nose cherry red.
“I’m not actually a dog, you know.” Sirius sounds petulant. “I don’t need to be walked.”
“I like walks,” Remus says. “And you like me, and if you keep opening the oven to check on the pies they’re never going to cook properly, so here we are.”
“Hmmph,” Sirius says, and he sticks his hands deep in his jacket pockets. He’s scarf-less and glove-less; Remus, having had the foresight to bring both, feels warm all the way through, like butterbeer on a chilly autumn night. Mm, butterbeer—he wonders whether Sirius would like to make that as well, and he’s just about to ask what Sirius thinks of apple cider butterbeer when Sirius speaks first.
“It’s bloody cold, you realize that, Moony? It’s cold out here.” He’s shivering slightly and trying not to show it, but his teeth chatter on the hard c’s in his mouth.
“It’s not that cold,” Remus says.
Sirius looks wistfully back at the cottage now fading in the distance. “Just put me out of my misery,” he says. “Not even the pies are worth this.”
“What are you complaining about?” Remus asks. “You can have a nice warm fur coat anytime you want to.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to,” Sirius says evasively, and he continues to shiver and chatter at Remus’ side as they walk, their boots crunching the dry leaves on the pathway before them.
Remus sighs and starts to unwrap his warm woolen scarf, and Sirius watches warily as Remus begins to wind it around Sirius’ neck as well.
“Are you trying to strangle me?” Sirius asks. “Because I didn’t actually mean it when I said you should kill me.”
“You are such a baby,” Remus tells him, and finishes with the scarf. He and Sirius have to walk close together now, side by side, to keep the big grey scarf in place around them both. Remus slips his right hand into Sirius’ right jacket pocket, his arm around Sirius’ waist. “There. Better?”
Sirius grumbles something incoherent. “I s’pose so,” he says finally, with a heavy sigh. Remus kisses him on the tip of his red nose.
+
It snows hard that winter, frigid and icy, sleet slicking the windows. Remus and Sirius barricade themselves in the cottage with enough food to last them for a good while and enough quilts to keep them warm at night, and they sit by the fire as outside the snow gathers like an embrace over the curve of the earth. Sirius makes tea and pours just the right amount of honey into Remus’ mug on the first try. Remus reads aloud from the books on the shelves that line the walls of the living room, his fingers in Sirius’ hair as Sirius dozes with his head on Remus’ lap. They sleep in until the afternoon and patter into the kitchen on cold bare feet to fetch breakfast to bring back to the warm confines of their bed, where they eat and Remus banishes the crumbs that Sirius gets all over and Sirius butters Remus’ toast for a kiss.
The days are short, the nights long, and Padfoot curls up by the fire as the cold seeps in beneath the windowpanes and the crack under the front door. Remus bakes because there’s not much else to do, and soon the kitchen counters are covered with cookies: chocolate chip, sugar, pinwheel, gingerbread. Sirius starts to lose the compass-edged look he’s had since Azkaban. They both try to forget how well they know what it’s like to be hungry.
They go ice-skating, and Sirius falls on his arse and pouts as Remus skates circles around him. Sirius shoves a handful of snow down the back of Remus’ jacket and laughs when Remus yelps and retaliates by throwing a snowball at Sirius’ face and misses. They make snow angels in the square of golden light through the windows of their house at dusk and lie in the snow together, kissing, until the cold seeps into their bones.
At night they sleep under so many blankets that Remus feels as if the weight of the world is pressing down on him, holding him in place—anchoring him to Sirius’ specific gravity at his side, the gentle rise and fall of Sirius’ chest as he breathes.
One night Sirius lies awake watching Remus, and Remus watches back, the two of them on their sides looking at each other’s eyes in the dark.
“Let’s play a game,” Sirius says, because of course he does.
“All right,” says Remus.
Sirius pulls the blankets up over both their heads. “The first one to get the other one to moan wins.”
Remus huffs a laugh as he feels Sirius fumbling for him in the dark, their shared breath hot and confining in the enclosed space. “You are so….”
“What?”
“Just so,” Remus says; “I can’t think of anything that’s enough,” and Sirius almost laughs.
They kick off their pajamas beneath the blankets, and Remus hits his head on Sirius’ elbows and knees more than twice. “Your knees,” Remus says, with great dignity, “are very bony, Sirius. You are causing me bodily harm. I didn’t realize that you meant ‘moaning in pain’ when you suggested this.”
“Shut up,” Sirius says, and his fingers find Remus’ chin in the dark; he tilts Remus’ head back and kisses him on the mouth.
Remus slips his hands down Sirius’ sides and smiles when he feels Sirius shudder beneath his touch, goose bumps rising under his fingers. “You are so easy.”
“I believe I told you to shut up,” Sirius says, and Remus can tell without seeing that he’s blushing. The blankets make it difficult to move, but Remus manages to push Sirius back down against the mattress and leans in to kiss him more deeply as he wraps his hand around Sirius’ cock.
“Damn you,” Sirius says into Remus’ mouth, but he’s grinning. His fingers close around Remus’ cock now too, and they stroke each other, gently, still kissing, Sirius’ other hand wound in Remus’ hair.
Remus twists his wrist and thumbs the slit of Sirius’ cock at the same time. Sirius tenses against him, a small sound escaping his mouth, and Remus grins.
“Cheater,” Sirius says, breathlessly. “That doesn’t count, that wasn’t—ohhh.” His grip around Remus’ cock tightens reflexively, and Remus starts to move his hand more quickly.
“You are so fucking wonderful,” Remus says against the side of Sirius’ neck, and he puts his tongue to the dip between Sirius’ collarbones. Sirius whimpers. “You are lovely and I love you and I never want to do anything without you ever again.”
“Cheater,” Sirius insists, but Remus knows all his weaknesses, and he’s going to use every one.
“You love when I talk you through it, don’t you,” Remus says, and Sirius tenses against him. Remus scrapes the fingernails of his free hand up the back of Sirius’ thighs. “I don’t even need to see you to know how to make you feel good. And you’re going to come for me, aren’t you? Like the good boy that you are.”
“Christ, Moony,” Sirius whines.
“Go ahead then,” Remus whispers, and he puts his teeth to the pulse point in Sirius’ throat. “Come for me, lovely.”
Sirius does, his whole body trembling, and Remus feels the moan building in Sirius’ chest before he hears it, the acoustics of it behind his ribs, gathering inside his mouth.
Sirius lies there shaking for a long while afterwards. Remus lets him, tracing his fingertips along Sirius’ hipbones, the line of his ribs, before he stretches up and kisses him. “I win.”
“Damn,” Sirius says, but he doesn’t sound too upset about it. He’s still breathless. He pushes the blankets off their heads and kisses Remus, soundly. “I guess that means it’s time for your prize.”
(During the full moon the next night they run beneath the stars, their breath fogging the midnight air, their paws leaving footprints in the snow. They stumble into bed together in the early morning, snowflakes on their eyelashes, and they sleep until the late afternoon. Fresh snow falls while they sleep, so that when they wake, their paw prints are gone—and just like that, everything is new.)