Word count: I'll figure that out later and edit this. I wrote this in my drafts rather than a Google Doc.
@lilldrknesss @taylorswiftmicrofic
The first time Sirius calls it “worthwhile,” Remus thinks he’s joking.
They’re in the kitchen of their small, questionably legal flat—paint peeling, kettle screaming, a draft slipping through the windows no matter how many charms Sirius layers over it. Remus is hunched over a stack of parchment, red ink staining his fingers, while Sirius is leaning back in his chair like he hasn’t got a single care in the world.
“You’re doing it again,” Sirius says, tilting his head.
“Doing what?” Remus doesn’t look up.
“That thing where you frown like the fate of the universe depends on your marking.”
“It might,” Remus mutters. “These essays are abysmal.”
Sirius grins, slow and bright. “I’m sure the future of magical Britain will survive a few poorly structured arguments about goblin rebellions.”
Remus huffs, but there’s no real heat in it. He reaches for his tea, finds it empty, and sighs.
Before he can get up, Sirius is already moving—wandless, casual—refilling the cup, pressing it back into Remus’s hand with a quiet sort of certainty. It’s the kind of thing Sirius does without thinking, like it’s as natural as breathing.
“You don’t have to,” he says.
Sirius shrugs, dropping back into his chair. “I know.”
There’s a beat. The kettle quiets. Somewhere outside, a car passes, tires hissing on wet pavement.
Remus studies him, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why do you?”
Sirius considers that, tipping his chair onto two legs. “Because it’s worthwhile.”
Remus snorts. “Making tea is worthwhile?”
“Making your life easier is.”
There’s no flourish to it. No dramatic grin or teasing edge. Just a simple statement, like it’s obvious.
Remus looks down at his tea, at the faint curl of steam rising from the surface. His throat tightens, just a little.
“That’s a bit dramatic,” he says, because he has to say something.
Sirius’s smile comes back then, softer this time. “You love it.”
Remus rolls his eyes and goes back to his essays, but his pen moves slower now, his thoughts caught somewhere else entirely.
The thing about Sirius is that he says things like that and means them.
It would be easier, Remus thinks sometimes, if he didn’t.
If Sirius were all sharp edges and reckless laughter, all careless rebellion and bright, burning defiance—if he were only the boy Remus had first met, sprawled across a Hogwarts bed with ink-stained hands and a grin that promised trouble—then Remus could understand him.
He could keep a safe distance.
But Sirius grew up. Not all at once, not neatly, but undeniably. The edges are still there, but they’ve softened in places, reshaped themselves into something steadier. Something that stays.
And Sirius chooses, over and over again, to stay.
It’s a Tuesday evening when Remus comes home late, shoulders aching, head pounding, the full moon still too close for comfort.
The flat is quiet. Dimly lit.
Sirius is asleep on the sofa, one arm flung over his face, the other hanging off the edge. There’s a book open on his chest, something dense and half-finished. A blanket is tangled around his legs like he didn’t quite commit to using it.
Remus pauses in the doorway.
There’s something about this—about Sirius, unguarded and still—that makes his chest ache in a way he doesn’t quite have words for.
He sets his bag down quietly, moving through the room with careful steps. He could leave Sirius there, let him sleep, but—
Remus sighs softly, grabbing the blanket and pulling it properly over Sirius’s legs, tucking it in just enough to keep the chill off.
“Moony?” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.
“Go back to sleep,” Remus says, keeping his voice low.
Sirius blinks up at him, eyes unfocused for a moment before they sharpen. “You’re late.”
Sirius frowns, pushing himself up slightly. “You look awful.”
“Come here,” Sirius says, like it’s an order and a request all at once.
Remus hesitates. He’s tired, sore, not entirely sure he has the energy for Sirius’s particular brand of affection.
Sirius must see it in his face, because his expression shifts, something gentler settling in.
“Just for a minute,” he adds. “Please.”
And that—please—is what does it.
Remus crosses the room, sinking onto the edge of the sofa. Sirius shifts immediately, making space, pulling the blanket around both of them with practiced ease.
There’s no rush to it. No urgency. Just warmth, steady and grounding.
Remus exhales, tension he hadn’t even noticed loosening slightly.
Sirius presses his face into Remus’s shoulder, breathing him in like it’s something essential.
“You didn’t have to wait up,” Remus murmurs.
“Because it’s worthwhile.”
“Pads,” he says quietly, “that doesn’t—”
“It does,” Sirius interrupts, lifting his head just enough to meet Remus’s gaze. “You are.”
There’s that same certainty again. That same unshakable conviction, like Sirius has decided something and the world itself would have to bend to change his mind.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says, but it comes out softer than he intended.
Sirius grins, but there’s no teasing in it this time. Just warmth. Just truth.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “But you love me.”
Remus huffs a quiet laugh, leaning back into the sofa.
“Yes,” he admits, because there’s no point denying it.
Sirius settles again, content, like that’s all he needed to hear.
They sit like that for a while—quiet, close, the world narrowing down to something small and manageable.
Remus doesn’t say it back.
It’s not that he doesn’t feel it. He does, fiercely, overwhelmingly at times. But Sirius says it so easily, so openly, like it costs him nothing.
For Remus, it feels heavier.
Like something that could break if he doesn’t handle it carefully.
It’s a few weeks later when Sirius gets sick.
Not seriously—just enough to make him miserable about it.
Remus comes home to find him sprawled dramatically across the sofa, one arm flung over his eyes, looking like the picture of suffering.
“You’re insufferable,” Remus says by way of greeting.
Sirius groans. “I’m dying.”
“It’s worse than that,” Sirius insists. “I can feel it.”
Remus sets his bag down, unimpressed. “Can you feel the part where you’re being dramatic?”
Sirius shifts just enough to peer at him. “You don’t care about me at all.”
Remus rolls his eyes, but he’s already moving closer, pressing the back of his hand to Sirius’s forehead.
“You’re warm,” he admits.
“See?” Sirius says, smug even through the congestion. “Tragic.”
“Mm,” Remus hums. “Devastating.”
He moves away before Sirius can grab him, heading for the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” Sirius calls after him.
“…For me?” Sirius asks, like it’s a genuinely surprising concept.
Remus snorts. “No, I just thought I’d make some and drink it in front of you.”
“Cruel,” Sirius mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile in his voice.
Remus fills the kettle, setting it on the stove. He moves through the motions automatically—finding the mugs, measuring out the tea—things Sirius usually does without a second thought.
It feels… different, doing it himself.
When he returns to the living room, Sirius is watching him in a way that makes Remus hesitate.
“What?” Remus asks, setting the mug down carefully on the table.
Sirius shakes his head slightly. “Nothing.”
“Right,” Remus says, unconvinced.
He sits on the edge of the sofa, close enough that their knees brush.
Sirius reaches for the tea, wrapping both hands around it like he’s absorbing the heat.
“You didn’t have to,” he says after a moment.
Remus huffs softly. “I know.”
Sirius glances up at him, something curious in his expression. “Then why did you?”
The question lingers between them, heavier than it should be.
He could deflect. Make a joke. Brush it off the way he usually does.
But Sirius is watching him—really watching him—and for once, Remus doesn’t look away.
“Because it’s worthwhile,” he says quietly.
For a second, he looks almost startled, like he hadn’t expected that answer.
“Yeah?” he asks, softer now.
Remus nods, his fingers curling slightly against his knee.
Sirius studies him for another moment, then something in his expression shifts—softens, warms, settles into something steady and sure.
“Good,” he says, just as quietly.
Remus lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Sirius nudges their knees together again, more deliberately this time.
Remus hesitates for half a second before giving in, shifting closer.
Sirius leans into him immediately, resting his head against Remus’s shoulder with a content sort of sigh.
“You’re still dramatic,” Remus says, but his voice has lost its edge.
“Only when it counts,” Sirius replies.
Remus shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue.
Instead, he lets himself settle into the weight of Sirius against him, into the quiet warmth of the moment.
It’s not loud. Not flashy.
Just this—simple, steady, real.
Sirius’s hand finds his, fingers threading together easily, like they’ve done it a thousand times before.
Remus squeezes back, just once.
And this time, when he thinks it—when he feels it—he doesn’t keep it to himself.
