every july remus and sirius disappear for a week to that rickety old cabin by the lake with no real plans except to be useless and in love. they eat berries straight off the bushes, juice staining their fingers and mouths, sirius always popping the ripest ones between remus’ lips. they cannonball into the water until their skin is pruned and their lungs burn, swimming for hours, splashing and dunking each other before drifting close, all wet hair and slick skin. when they’re all dripping and sun-drunk, sirius climbs on top of remus right there on the wooden planks, and they kiss for hours, tasting like berries and lake water and summer heat. remus keeps whispering “you get sunburned so easily” against sirius’ mouth but neither of them moves to put on more sunscreen for at least another hour. later they lie on threadbare towels sunbathing, remus with his book forgotten on his chest as sirius traces lazy patterns over his scars. at night they catch fireflies, laughing and mocking the way their soda cans crack open, then lie tangled in sleeping bags outside the tent, sticky with sweat and lake water, trading sticky-sweet kisses under a sky full of stars
