Of The

Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters and universe are property of JKR, Scholastic & other assorted publishers, and the WB.
Notes: Summary is a Winston Churchill quote. This is being written for the BlanketForts challenge at the LiveJournal Community of the same name. While some parts are not R or NC-17, overall the story is rated NC-17. The story will be updated regularly throughout the month, as this is a daily challenge lasting the month of January. The story begins at the end and will end at the beginning. Along the way, we'll be jumping back and forth in time. There are 31 parts in this story. The Roman Numerals at the beginning of each section give you an indication of 'when' in the course of Remus's and Sirius's history together these things happen.

xxi.

"My head," Remus mutters, arm flinging about his eyes to block the sunlight out.

"I told you I'd come round," says Sirius. "So I'm round." Lips curve wickedly. "I've come."

"Disgusting." The word itself is lost, muffled against skin muscle bone of arm, but Sirius is particularly skilled in translating Moony mumbling.

"Ah, but you love me," Sirius puffs his chest, bounces up down up down on the edge of the four-poster, takes in the swelling on Lupin's head. "I spy a Moony lump," he crows. "Pub brawl? I'm fucking sorry I missed that little show. Would've snorted my pint right out my conk had I seen it."

Of course it wouldn't have been a brawl; Remus is too straight-laced, too well-mannered, too 'pardon me ma'am and Bob's your uncle' to cross his peepers at a stranger, let along allow himself to sink to fisticuffs. The mental image is dead amusing, though, and Sirius chortles.

"Door was locked," Mumbles muffles, Sirius rolls his eyes.

"Sodding Unlocking Charm, twit."

"Muggle area, Sirius. Whenever will you learn?" Remus's arm falls on the duvet, and then he rolls to his side, presenting his back to Sirius.

"Fuck you, Moony," Sirius says, eyes hardening, following curve of spine to dip of waist to curve of arse, something in him stirring. "Why d'you stay in this shit-hole?"

"It isn't a shit-hole," Remus says in the tone of a person reciting something for the one-hundred-eleventh time. "It's a perfectly acceptable flat, it allows me to live within my means, it--"

"It's a shit-hole." The edge in his voice surprises even himself. "Shit. Hole. Remus. And don't you dare try to sell me that sickly sweet 'within my means' tripe, either. You know you can live with me. Fuck, but Uncle Alphie's gold got me more room than I can spare and--"

"I don't want your charity." Remus is now a wee little ball on the duvet and Sirius's temperature rises.

"You fucking plonker," he growls, launching sneer and life and limb atop him. "Charity? Is that what you bloody think? Was it charity all this time with me 'n Prongsy 'n Pete hanging about you, not caring that every full moon you turn into a beastie who could rip our sodding heads off and use 'em for Quaffles? Was it charity that I- that we- FUCK YOU, LUPIN," Sirius snarls in his ear, thighs straddling thighs, hands untender on flesh most tender. Whispering now. "Fuck you, daft dick." Beneath him Remus chokes, says something, snuffles his head into the duvet. "What? What was that?"

A thin, spindly hand pushes at his thigh. Sirius slaps it away. "Say it," he breathes against the shell of Remus's ear, the answering shudder going straight to places with which he shouldn't be concerned right now. But he's nineteen, so those places are always something to be concerned about.

Remus lifts his face from the duvet, staring at the far wall. "It wasn't a pub brawl."

Sirius lets up a bit. "Well?"

"It was Them."

Brow furrows. "Them?"

"Them," Remus intones, and Sirius gets the distinct feeling Remus is floating away from himself. "Them. From Daily Prophet. The Exterminators."

"No." Sirius lets out a breath as Remus sucks a raggedy one in. "Fucking bastards."

"Go home, Padfoot."

"I will not." He will not leave Remus. To leave is to abandon, to abandon is to destroy, and there will be no destruction here. Here is Remus, in his shabby shit-hole of a flat, eyes grey gloaming gloom and bones too brittlefragile to withstand transformation after transformation but do. He wouldn't ever tell Remus this because Remus would take it the wrong way, take offence, tuck into himself, and Sirius would be fucked if he did that. It took enough to get him to open trust feel in the first place. "Get under here." Sirius pulls back duvet, blankets, sheets for Remus to crawl under.

That is that, then, and Remus is enfolded in clean-cool sheets, nubby blankets, and thick duvet while Sirius studies him, his back against a solid oak post.

Fucking hell, but if Remus isn't lucky to be alive.

Remus is lucky to be alive and Sirius believes in luck as surely as he believes in love. Love with her fickle fortune, love with her gentleness and warmth, love with her razor-sharp teeth and ravenous appetite. This sort of thing, if he could call it that, is - Is? What is 'is'? - pain and edges and salient and longing. Oh, how it is longing, and how Sirius longs, in his heart, in his mind, in his spirit, in his flesh, the greedy bastard. Sirius believes in love, oh yes, and he craves her warm torture just as surely as he craves

This

This mouth these lips these teeth this tongue this desire. Sirius craves and satiates himself, taking taking taking while Remus, groggy and giving, provides what he needs because he needs it himself. The taking and the providing is rough-ready and Sirius's cheeks are wet.

If you weren't lucky, Sirius thinks, pulling back to brush at a sign of something he doesn't want seen. If you weren't lucky.

He sits up, trembling, focussing on the shining shaggy brown hair feathered out on the pillow, seeing right through it.

Luck.

"Fuck."