Remus has always loved books.
The weight of them in his hands, the whisper of pages turning, the way ink dances across parchment like spells woven in silence. Words are safe. Stories are predictable. A sentence may surprise him, but it will never leave him. A plot may twist, but it will never betray him.
Then comes Sirius, and suddenly, Remus is reading a story with no ending, no roadmap—just wild, ink-smudged margins and breathless anticipation.
Sirius is a novel he was never prepared to read.
His laughter is the crackle of a well-loved spine, unfolding in ways Remus cannot control. His hands are smudged ink, careless and bold, pressing against Remus’ skin, leaving marks he will never scrub away. His voice is poetry without rhyme, a song that never settles, never softens, always rushing forward, always pulling Remus with him.
And Remus—God help him—Remus is turning the pages too fast.
He knows how stories like this end. He knows the cost of falling too deep, of loving too much. He is a boy who has built himself out of careful prose and cautious footnotes. He is a boy who underlines his favorite passages but never dares to live them.
But Sirius—Sirius makes him reckless.
"Moons," Sirius whispers one night, breath warm against his throat. The dormitory is quiet, the firelight flickering shadows onto the canopy of Remus’ bed. "What are you thinking about?"
Remus swallows. His fingers, tangled in Sirius’ hair, tighten just slightly. "Nothing."
Sirius huffs, shifting closer, pressing his body into the hollow spaces Remus never knew he had. "Liar. Tell me."
How can he? How can he explain that Sirius makes him feel everything at once? That loving him is like reading the most beautiful story only to realize the last page is missing. That he's terrified because, for the first time, he doesn't care how it ends—he just wants more.
Sirius presses a kiss to his collarbone, and Remus exhales.
"I was thinking," he murmurs, "that if you were a book, I’d never stop reading."
Sirius grins, lazy and bright, and Remus can feel it against his skin. "Good," he says, lips brushing over the pulse in Remus’ neck. "Because I was thinking—if you were a book, I’d dog-ear every single page."
Remus laughs, the sound catching somewhere between disbelief and something softer. Something like love.
And when Sirius kisses him, Remus decides—perhaps for the first time—that this is a story worth getting lost in.
vaporwave
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