Our Eyes Barely Even Meet
The first time Remus sees Sirius, it's only a flicker of motion at the edge of his vision. A sharp laugh, black hair that moves like ink in water, a presence too large for the room they are in. Hogwarts is a castle of ghosts and echoes, and Sirius Black is both.
They do not speak. Not then.
Remus is careful. He moves through the world as though his limbs are borrowed, as though any wrong step might betray the secret stitched beneath his ribs. He keeps his hands tucked into his robes and his head bowed, not in fear, but in deference to the fact that some things are meant to be unseen.
Sirius, though—Sirius is a constellation made flesh, burning at a reckless speed through the sky, and he does not care who sees. He moves like he owns the space he walks in, like the walls bend to his will. Like he has never, even once, doubted that he belongs.
Their eyes barely even meet that first week at Hogwarts.
But fate has already decided.
James and Sirius become a force of nature, and Peter clings to them like a shadow desperate for warmth. Remus—Remus resists.
He does not belong in a world of golden boys and effortless laughter. He is too careful, too quiet, too afraid. But fate is patient, and Sirius Black is not.
Sirius drags him in like gravity.
"You read too much," Sirius says one afternoon, dropping into the seat beside him in the common room.
"You don't read enough," Remus murmurs, not looking up from his book.
A huff of laughter, something like curiosity. Sirius does not move. He sits close, too close, like he does not know what it means to give people space. His presence is a tangible thing, pressing at the edges of Remus's carefully built solitude.
Their eyes barely even meet. But Remus feels the weight of Sirius' gaze like a touch.
Winter comes, and with it, the full moon.
Remus is good at hiding things. He is practiced at slipping away unnoticed, at swallowing his pain so no one ever sees it. But Sirius Black is not one to be ignored. He watches. He notices. He asks the questions no one else is bold enough to ask.
"Where do you go?" he asks one night, after Remus returns to the dormitory looking pale and bruised.
Nowhere. Away. Don't ask.
"Out," Remus says instead, because there is no lie in that.
Sirius studies him for a long moment, grey eyes sharp and thoughtful. He does not press. Not yet. But Remus knows, in his bones, that he will.
Their eyes barely even meet. But Sirius is already seeing too much.
The truth comes out in pieces, but when it does, it changes everything.
Sirius does not run. He does not flinch. He does not look at Remus like he is something monstrous.
"You’re still you," he says, voice low and certain, like it is the simplest truth in the world. "You’ll always be you."
Something inside Remus—something he has spent years keeping locked away—breaks open.
Their eyes meet, truly meet, and Remus cannot breathe.
Sirius holds his gaze like a promise.
They become something unspoken.
Sirius sits too close. He touches without thinking—fingers brushing against Remus’ wrist, a knee pressing against his beneath the table. And Remus, careful, quiet Remus, lets him.
The others do not notice the way their orbits shift, the way gravity pulls them closer with each passing day.
And Sirius—Sirius has always known.
One night, in the dying glow of the common room fire, Sirius whispers, "Do you think—" He hesitates, but only for a breath. "Do you think some people are just meant to find each other?"
Remus exhales slowly. He looks at Sirius, at the boy who has been unraveling him since the day they met. At the boy who is more reckless, more brilliant, more terrifyingly alive than anyone he has ever known.
He thinks of fate, of gravity, of the way the stars pull each other into endless collision.
Their eyes meet, and this time, Remus does not look away.
"Yes," he says. "I think so."
And Sirius smiles, like he has just heard the answer he was waiting for all along.
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