Pairing: Poly!Wolfstar x Reader
Summary: Your mate drags you to a gig and vanishes, leaving you at the bar with a dry, lemonade-nursing stranger — and his boyfriend, grinning at you from the stage like he already knows how the night ends.
Tags: getting together, meet-cute, fluff, slow burn
Cass drags you to this gig by the wrist, practically, says it'll be a laugh, says you'll thank her later, and then the lights drop and she's gone, off into the crowd like she was never there at all. Typical.
So you end up at the bar on your own, watching a band whose name you didn't catch tune up under a single blue light, and that's where he is too — tall bloke, jumper with a hole in the elbow, nursing what turns out to be a lemonade like it's the last one on earth.
"They're alright," he says, not quite looking at you, nodding at the stage instead, "considering one of them once set a chip pan on fire trying to impress a girl."
You laugh before you mean to. "You know them, then?"
"Unfortunately." Dry as anything. "That one on guitar — the one currently deciding our corner of the room is more interesting than the actual song — that's my boyfriend."
You follow where he's looking, and there's a bloke with dark hair stuck to his forehead, grinning right at you both like he already knows how this evening ends.
"Sirius," the tall one adds, like it explains something, like a warning label. "I'm Remus."
"And you're not bothered? Him doing that from the stage?"
"Should I be?" He says it mildly, sipping his lemonade, eyes back on the band. "He does it to lampposts and dogs as well. It's not personal, it's just how he's built."
You don't ask what he means by that. You don't get the chance to, really — Remus keeps narrating under his breath, dry and unbothered, that one's on his third girlfriend this year, the drummer cries at insurance adverts, don't repeat that last one — and somewhere in there you stop feeling like you gate-crashed something you weren't invited to.
The second the set ends, Sirius doesn't walk off the stage so much as launch himself off it, straight at you, sweat-shining and reckless with it, hip-checking a stranger out of the way without appearing to notice he's done it. He drops onto the stool beside you like it's already his — the one Remus has, without a word about it, kept clear all night, elbow parked on it, never once looking like he was saving anything.
"You," Sirius says, "are new. Who let you in?"
"Cass did. Then she vanished."
"Sensible woman." He steals Remus's lemonade without asking, drains half of it, hands it back. Remus doesn't so much as blink, just watches him do it with an expression that says something you can't quite read yet — you'll learn later that's just them, mostly, whole conversations fought and won in a look. "Are you always this quiet, or is it just us?"
"Is that meant to be charming?"
"Depends." He grins, unrepentant. "Is it working?"
By closing you've got chips balanced on your knee outside, vinegar sharp, and a list of names thrown at you too fast to keep hold of — Cass has resurfaced, unbothered, entirely unrepentant — and when the drizzle starts Remus produces an umbrella from nowhere, holds it up without comment, and somehow you're the one underneath it with him while Sirius refuses to duck in properly, half in half out of the rain like the weather owes him something.
"You'll get soaked, stood like that," you tell him.
"Will I?" He says it like the idea's never once occurred to him and doesn't much interest him now it has.
Someone adds you to a group chat before you've even sobered up, thirty messages deep by the time you check it walking home, people you've never met greeting you like you've been expected for weeks rather than hours.
"Bit odd," you say, half to yourself, "everyone acting like they already know me?"
The chat goes quiet — not normal quiet, the kind with weight behind it. Sirius studies a lamppost like it's personally wronged him. Remus's grip on the umbrella tightens, just slightly.
"Small friend group," he says, after a beat too long. "Word travels."
You let it go. You shouldn't have.
Over the next fortnight it keeps happening. Sirius turns up wherever you are like he's got a homing instinct for it, steers you the wrong way down streets on purpose just to keep walking beside you, says things that land somewhere between a challenge and a confession and never explains which. Remus is quieter about it — a joke that lands at exactly the right moment, a look that holds a beat too long before he glances away and pretends he hasn't, self-deprecating enough about himself that you start to wonder what he's protecting.
"You do know why they're both like that?" Cass says one night, far too pleased with herself.
"That." She waves a hand at nothing and everything. "Sirius, doing whatever he wants and daring you to mind. Remus, pretending he isn't doing anything at all."
You don't say you know. You're not sure yet that you do.
It's a Friday when Sirius walks you to your door, hands shoved in his pockets for once, restless with the effort of keeping them there, and Remus trails a step behind with the umbrella shut and tucked under one arm.
"Right," Sirius says, rocking back on his heels on your step, none of his usual nerve anywhere in his voice, "we wanted to ask you something."
"Both of us," Remus says, careful, watching your face the way you'd watch a kettle about to go. "To dinner. Would you come to dinner with us? Both of us, I mean."
The rain's stopped. The umbrella stays shut under his arm, and it hits you all at once, standing there on your own doorstep — the stool that was somehow always saved, the eyebrow conversations, the group chat that already had your name in it before you did, the whole chat going quiet the night you said everyone seemed to already know you (you'd put it down to a bad signal, at the time).
They had. Of course they had.
"You mean — together?" you say, and it comes out smaller than you meant. "All three of us?"
"That's the general idea, yeah." Sirius's hands finally give up on his pockets, come out with nowhere to land. "Is that — is that alright?"
Remus doesn't fill the silence this time. He just waits, the shut umbrella held between them like something they're both still holding onto, and you think of standing under it in the rain, the two of them either side of you, neither one minding how little room there was.
"Yeah," you say. "Dinner. Both of you. Okay?"
"Okay," Sirius says back, like he's checking the word still means what he thinks it means, and then his whole face does something helpless and bright. Remus just breathes out, slow, like he'd been holding it since the gig.
"Right, then." He opens the umbrella again — pointless, under a clear sky, just to give his hands something to do — and holds it up over the three of you on your doorstep, not a drop of rain anywhere in sight, and none of you move to get out from under it.
