Sirius’ neck is arched, the pale, white column of skin exposed to the night air. His head is completely out the window, the wind throwing his hair in wild disarray, untamed hair wisps flying everywhere. The lamplights along the streets light his features in gold and then coat them in shadow in a dizzying kaleidoscope of light. And he’s laughing; a soft, vivacious thing.
And Remus wants to reach out, his fingers itch at the thought but they stay on the steering wheel; white-knuckled, gripping tight. Because this is not how this works. The sempiternal truth of it is this: Sirius is fire, burning, burning, burning. And Remus is weathered leaves on the forest floor; dried out kindling. Sirius would ruin him and Remus is more than willing. Because the sempiternal truth of it is this: Remus is making him tea after Sirius wakes to another man. He’s the flatmate. He’s the best friend— and isn’t that all just terribly unfair.
Sirius’ head pops back up. Eyes catching Remus’ and holding. The black kohl along his water line is smudged, black flecks of it dusting his cheekbone. His hair is still flying everywhere, whipping across his face. He’s a mess. He’s the blurred edges of a photograph. He’s a heartbeat and stinging lungs. He’s the rattling behind Remus’ ribcage. And Sirius grins at him, tongue between teeth —illecebrous and tantalising and all things beautiful and dangerous— and all the air rushes out of Remus’ lungs in one fell swoop. He’s lightheaded and dizzy and burning.
“Eyes on the road, Moony.”
Remus turns back around.
Right, eyes on the road.
losing my mind, thinking about you by drowsyanddazed
