sirius.
1979.
The pendulum of the aging grandfather clock moved from left to right in a hypnotic motion. A pair of grey eyes watched it, entranced by the fluidity. His tongue flickered over his lips. He tapped his fingers on the table impatiently. It was past one in the morning; he ought to have been here by now.
His fumbling fingers picked up the bottle of butterbeer by the neck and raised it to his lips as his left leg began to shake, causing a series of soft pitter-pattering noises to be heard from the hardwood floor. Sirius Black was not one for waiting on a person, unless said person was somebody that ought to have been back at Sirius' flat hours ago.
Sirius had always taunted Remus for his inane vocalizations of his worry for him and James and Peter, but now, he felt as though he had embodied Remus’ concern. He turned his head from the golden pendulum to his hands, which were gripping at the neck of the butterbeer tightly. He loosened his grip and began staring at the fingertips and palms of his hands.
They were rather unsightly, he thought, staring down at them. His fingertips were a bit callused from using his wand and quill; he rubbed the pad of his thumb and his forefinger together, a subtle chafing sound coming from them. He flipped his hands over and stared at the back of them, noting that he had awful hang-nails, he rose one finger up to his mouth, out of nerves, and bit a hang-nail off, then rudely spit it onto the floor. He found they looked worse than before his impromptu grooming, so he gave up.
He placed his hands back on the table and placed his attention on the grain of the wooden table, in attempt to keep his wondering mind from falling back into the state of anxiousness. It was worrying, really, that said person was out after hours in the midst of a Wizard War and the said person was also one that Sirius cared deeply about. To the marrow.
"Why did Dumbledore ask him, of all people, to do this?" Sirius muttered thickly under his breath as he rose the butterbeer to his lips and allowed the beverage to dampen his scratching throat. To whom Sirius was talking to, he did not know. It felt empty, vacant inside the dark flat.
It was logical, from Dumbledore's point of view, to send a werewolf out to speak diplomatically with other werewolves, but Sirius disagreed. Of course, when it came to Sirius’ duties with the Order, he could put his life in danger. Though once said person did, Sirius became apprehensive and felt sick with worry.
The young man stood up from his chair, causing it scrape on the floor and took slow, deliberate steps into the kitchen to turn on the gas stove. It smelled of propane for a few seconds before he placed the bronze teapot over the heat. He would never admit it, but he loved a cup of ‘girly’ tea when he was anxious or nervous or upset. That was Remus’ 'thing', Sirius thought with a small, cautious grin. He pulled a chipped teacup along with a teabag from the cupboard and sat it on the counter top.
The water began heating up, Sirius began pacing.
Abruptly, he heard the lock of the apartment door rattle and a toothy grin spread across his face. He attempted to act nonchalant as he heard a set of keys being thrown down on a wooden table and a low sigh from the other room. Within seconds he heard a pair of soft feet walk into the kitchen, then pause at the doorway.
A sheepish grin spread across the lips of the two men.
"Up late worrying about me, are you?" Remus Lupin asked, shoving his hands in his jean pockets. He looked exhausted and weary, but he heaved himself off the wall to wrap his arms around Sirius' waist, his lips gracing a vein on his neck. Sirius' breathing hitched as he poured the boiling water into the teacup. Remus chuckled on his neck as he ran his fingers through Sirius' dark hair, mussing it up.
"Of course not, Moony, you’re a grown-up. You can take care of yourself.” Sirius shrugged indifferently as he poured the steaming water into the teacup. He sat the teapot back on the stovetop, distracted by Remus placing his chin atop Sirius’ left shoulder. He turned around to face Remus and felt his resolve vanish, a resigned grin threatening to appear. Sirius placed his forehead against the other man's, smiles breaking out on both of their faces.
"You're turning into a right old woman, Sirius."
"Oh, that's rich, coming from you. Swot."
"Wanker," Remus retaliated, laughing when Sirius opened and closed his mouth, looking like an out-of-water fish. Remus closed the twitching mouth with his own and Sirius chuckled within the kiss, the flavor of their mouths mingling with each breath. Remus noted that Sirius tasted of butterbeer and Remus tasted of scones and chocolate and tea, as he always did.
“You know I’ve always kind of had a thing for swots,” Sirius whispered, his fingers tangling themselves up in Remus’ light brown hair.
Remus smiled that mischievous, utterly seductive smile that seemed to silently say, ‘oh, really?’ to which Sirius nodded and pulled away. He signaled Remus to the living room and onto the secondhand sofa which he stretched out across in an attempt to look tempting for his lover.
Sirius saw Remus glance at the tea, then back to him. He watched as Remus’ pink tongue scan his lips, obviously debating on which one was more appealing at the moment.
“What about the tea?”
“Fuck the tea,” Sirius said, making Remus’ decision for him. Remus’ eyes skimmed the whole of Sirius’ body and he nodded slowly as he walked into the living room. He sprawled across Sirius' body lithely, smiled onto his collarbone, and began to kiss his jaw bone. Sirius growled softly, his fingers running over Remus' sweater-covered spine.
"Better than tea?" Sirius murmured as Remus placed his lips on Sirius', still smiling.
"Much better."
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