Chapter Text
The dregs of summer are squeezing themselves dry and crisp and cool as Remus hefts the final box onto the counter. Despite the bite of the late-September breeze, his grip on his cane is slippery with exertion, and he winces as he drops the carefully balanced box harder than intended. Inside, the ceramic pots clink into each other indignantly.
“Oh shush,” he murmurs to them, shaking out an aching arm, wincing at the heat around his joints.
It’s been a long day, and there are many more ahead to get the shop into any semblance of order. But he stares around at the way the golden-hour sunlight hits the shelving stacked high with yet more boxes, the dust molecules dancing over the scuffed wooden floor, the leaves of his peace lilies swaying slightly in the wind slipping through the open door, and he feels pride. He did this.
(His body aches in anticipation of the hard work ahead of him, limbs already fatigued, muscles cramping, but his heart swells larger than any pain, pushing out the doubts that had lingered in the corners of his mind on the long journey down from Newcastle, or had plagued him since leaving Stirling the day before. He’s doing this.)
Remus tightens his grip around a non-sweat slicked part of his cane, and walks back outside, swivelling to look up at the shop front – his shop front.
Lupin’s Lupins.
The second ‘L’ curves up into a spray of the eponymous flower – had his father been here, he would have scrunched up his forehead at the name, argued it was too on the nose, especially for a plant shop that didn’t really sell many flowers at all.
He also would have adored the pun, and Remus’ chest throbs again at the thought of his secretly delighted smirk.
He hates that he’s fulfilling this dream without him.
His shop is nestled between a charity shop for the local hospice and a shop selling musical instruments, on one of the town’s quieter streets, which he’s grateful for given that very few people witnessed the almighty struggle of trying to manoeuvre plants of varying degrees of spikiness whilst using a cane.
(This is why you should have accepted that extra help, sounds a small voice in his head, but he waves it off. Growing up with as little as he did, he’s well-used to making do, and he had managed after all, with very few of his precious cargo sacrificed for the Cause.)
The few shoppers still pounding the streets throw him and his shop a cursory glance and it’s not enough – he’s so proud in this moment that he wants to leap up and down and shout for joy, wants everyone to know how hard he’s worked to get here.
But it’s almost time for him to call it a day for now, if he ever wants to be able to move again. His mental to-do list stretches onto a second page as he wonders back inside, noting how scruffy his display table looks in the fading light. And how grubby the insides of the windows are. And-
He rubs a hand over his face, exhaling loudly. One thing at a time.
Right now, he just needs to shower, eat, and sleep – absolutely no thinking about what a plonker he was for putting so many boxes of plants on top of the display tables without positioning them correctly first.
Shrugging on his flannel shirt – which he’d flung off in a hot flush earlier and abandoned in a container of rosemary plants – smells fucking delicious, and he tucks a sprig of the herb in his top pocket with a smile. The scent carries him out into the street and towards his new flat, trailing him as he curses out the lift for being broken (the landlord will be receiving a disability rights-based complaint) and makes his painful way up three flights of stairs.
The flat is as sad and empty as he remembers, and he flops onto the mattress that is currently serving as both bed and sofa with a sigh.
Every penny he’d had saved, plus the little his dad had left him in his will, and a surprisingly forgiving loan, had gone towards Lupin’s Lupins, and if that means he’s sleeping on the floor for the next six months, so be it.
He lies flat on his back for a while, too exhausted to even begin to drag himself into the shower but thoroughly disliking that he can smell himself beneath the rosemary. He especially needs to take his binder off, but again, the thought of moving even that much feels unbearably long.
With a loud sigh, he forces himself through the motions of a shower, enjoying the brief respite of too-hot water on his aching limbs, and makes the saddest beans on toast he’s ever seen. It’s not warm enough, because his hunger had made him impatient, and it sits heavily in his stomach, jostling with the anxiety knot that’s picking up threads of was this a terrible mistake?
He doesn’t know anyone in this town. He is further from home than he has ever been in his life, and he’s spent everything he has on a shop at a time when the world’s financial stability has never looked less certain. It’s the loneliness that the anxiety latches onto most of all – not an uncommon feeling for Remus, after all – and the familiar cold ache of isolation spreads through the pit of his stomach.
He's fine on his own – he is. He’s managed thirty odd years this far, hasn’t he? When you’ve had to fight for your own existence from every angle, it’s hard to do anything else. There aren’t many spaces for a trans, disabled, queer man to be himself, and Remus is well-used to carving his own: first apologetically, then fiercely, now with a kind of weariness borne of so much effort.
A wave of homesickness washes over him, even though home for him was always about his mother’s fish pie and warm embrace, and his father’s hearty laughter and endless botanical lessons, rather than Stirling itself. Either way, both town and people are far, far away right now. He misses them both, with an intensity only soothed by his mother’s arms or in front of his father’s gravestone. Neither is an option now, and he stares down at his half-empty plate, all hunger diverted into nauseous longing.
As if summoned by his anxious spiral, his phone buzzes, and he snatches it up eagerly. Nobody ever messages him except his mother, and the charity to which he once donated and hasn’t had the heart to say ‘STOP’ – even they would be a welcome distraction right now, though Remus feels a twinge of guilt that someone’s suffering is just a distraction for him.
Mum (18:50): How are things south of the border then? How is the shop looking? How are you feeling? Have you eaten? Love Mum.
Remus bites back a smile, picturing her setting down her knitting, putting on her reading glasses, and fighting with the “ridiculously tiny keyboard, honestly Rem, why must they make them so small?”
Remus (18:52): It’s been good, v busy. Not met anyone yet. Lots to do tomorrow, mostly just tired. Missing you
Mum (19:15): I miss you too, sweetheart. Why did you have to go so far away? Love Mum.
Remus (19:18): That feels like a really good question rn
Mum (19:25): I know it might feel very challenging right now and it might take a while to get used to it. But I’m so proud of you and everything you’re achieving. Love Mum.
Mum (19:27): And your Da would be too.
Remus blinks hard, tears he hadn’t even known were on the cusp of falling spilling down his cheeks. Even after almost two years, the grief still hits him like a double decker bus at times, and he presses a hand to the hole in his chest where it aches most of all.
Remus (19:30): I love you
Mum (19:35): I love you so much, Remus. Love Mum.
The hole in his chest flaps ragged and oozing as he presses heat pads to his aching joints and curls up beneath his duvet. As ever, grief is like stickyweed, springing up all over his tired spirit the second he isn’t looking and curling tight. It clings to his loneliness, his self-doubt, his pain, tangling invisible roots around a fragile heart.
It’s a restless night.
Dawn breaks, and with it, Remus – never a morning person – lets out a groan, courtesy of the fact he doesn’t yet have curtains and forgot to put up newspaper last night. The September sun may be weakened, but it’s trickling light right into his eyes in a manner extremely inconducive to sleeping.
“Fucking brilliant idea, Remus,” he grumbles. “Let’s open a shop at 9:00am when you’re barely coherent by 11:00.”
The silence is loud now that he is awake, and he gets ready as quickly as possible despite the haze of exhaustion that has become a near-constant companion these days. He dry-swallows his meds, spreads Aldi’s version of Nutella across a piece of stale-ish bread, and is out of his front door by the time the birds are winding down their morning concert.
(He sort of feels like he’s barrelling straight towards a mental and/or physical breakdown at the rate he’s going – he’s at least vastly raising the likelihood of seizures, focal or otherwise. But he has so much to do in the space of only a week or so that he also doesn’t feel like he has much choice.)
Despite everything – the flares of pain, the bone-deep exhaustion, the doubting voice in his mind – he has a productive morning, repositioning all his furniture and cleaning the inside of the window. His back twinges sharply when he finally rises, and he only registers it because it’s so new compared to the constant aches in his knees and hips.
His stomach grumbles at him, and he sighs. He doesn’t have time to stop –
The front door clicks open and his head swings up so fast, he has to blink hard against the black dots that burst forth. He’s tucked behind the counter, fitting the cash register, and he can’t see the front door, but internally, he rolls his eyes at whatever morons – potentially lovely customers, he hastily self-corrects – apparently can’t read the sign that says, ‘Opening 10th October.’
(He used to be kinder than this, he thinks – he is kinder – when he’s not pushing himself off the cliff of breaking point.)
“Ding-dong!” A sing-song voice calls out, and Remus shakes his head to clear the last of the blurriness.
“I’m not open yet, sorry,” he says, debating whether he has the upper body strength to pull himself up using the counter, or if he really needs his cane.
“Oh – that’s okay, we’re not here to buy just yet!”
Remus sighs, hauling himself up and grabbing the counter for support. It hurts rather more than he bargained for, and the smile he plasters on is somewhat marred with pain.
Which truly is a shame, because he’s sweaty and dishevelled and leaning haphazardly in front of two truly beautiful individuals, one of whom is bearing a Celebrations tin.
“Hi!” The woman steps forward, tossing zinnia-red curls over one shoulder in a way that gives Remus a glimpse at her undercut and neck tattoo – possibly a lion? She’s pregnant, arms cradling her stomach in that way pregnant people seem to just do, and Remus belatedly looks around for the stool. “I’m Lily.”
“… Hi,” Remus says, wincing at how crackly his voice sounds after only mumbling to himself for several days. A completely sane and normal thing to do, Remus, well done. “Sorry – would you like a –“
“Oh, Christ, please don’t offer her a seat,” the other person says with an extravagant eye roll. “She’ll only make you regret offering.”
Lily swipes at them and scowls. “I just don’t need any special treatment, you wanker.” She smiles at Remus, and it’s warm and generous. Remus has the same feeling in his chest as when he’s watches a sunflower peek up at its god, and it’s enough to have him smiling back almost at once. “This is Regulus, my partner,” Lily adds, pulling at Regulus’ arm.
Regulus smiles at Remus like it pains them a little (which, Remus can relate). “You’re queer, right?”
Remus stiffens ever so slightly, because Regulus is just aloof enough that he can’t quite tell if it’s a fellow queer asserting common ground or if it’s altogether crueller, the what kind of degenerate are you? kind that ends with slurs and fists. All of the signs of comradeship are there – the sleeve of floral tattoos, the colourful half-buzzed hair, the rings, the fact that Regulus is a traditionally masc name and yet they’re wearing an extremely cute yellow skirt. But Remus has been bitten before, and he knows better than most that physical appearance does not – sometimes, cannot – demonstrate identity.
But despite being bitten before, Remus has not once backed down from his truth – not even when it would have been safer and smarter to do so.
“Reg,” Lily admonishes sharply, “you don’t have to answer that,” she adds to Remus.
“What gave me away?” Remus raises an eyebrow, smirks at Regulus.
A smile breaks across Regulus’ face – smaller than Lily’s, but no less real. “I don’t know,” they drawl, “maybe the Pride flag behind your counter is a bit of a giveaway?”
Remus grins, “touché.”
“Also, the fact you just said touché unironically.”
Lily rolls her eyes, “please don’t flirt with every cute boy you meet, Reg, you know James will be jealous you got to flirt, and he didn’t.” Remus is a little stuck on the part where she called him cute, and almost misses her hasty, “…boy?” in his direction.
“Oh – yes. Yes, I’m Remus.”
“That’s a cool name,” Lily says, and Remus is again struck by the fact she seems to mean it.
(He agrees – it is a cool name, even cooler for the fact he got to choose it himself – but this whole interaction is utterly unexpected, and he realises with a start that he doesn’t want to fuck this up.)
Regulus is watching him like he’s a particularly fascinating species of orchid. Lily is looking at him too, and for one horrible moment, Remus worries that he’s had an absence seizure in front of two strangers – he doesn’t remember feeling particularly weird this morning, but –
“I use they/them pronouns,” Regulus says, and Remus’ gaze snaps back to them.
“Oh – cool. I – I’m trans. He/him.”
“Cool,” Regulus echoes, their smile softening into something warm.
Lily claps her hands, “cool, so we’re all here, we’re all queer, etc., etc. – Reg, give Remus what we came here to give him.”
Regulus thrusts out the chocolate tin, and Remus slides his cane over to the other side so that he can take it from them. He catches the moment they both clock the movement, but their expressions don’t change, and then he’s setting the tin down so that he can crack it open with a spare hand, and it passes unremarked upon.
A truly heavenly scent reaches his nose, and his stomach grumbles again. Remus flushes a little, but the emptiness of his stomach feels utterly insignificant to the fullness of his heart as he realises that this tin is jam-packed with iced biscuits. He looks up at Lily and Regulus, opens his mouth to speak, but finds – mortifyingly – he cannot around the lump that’s taken up residence in his throat.
“I run the bakery that’s two streets over,” Regulus supplies. “So I can promise you they’re really fucking good cookies. They’re vegan and gluten-free too.”
“Reg mentioned that they’d seen you moving in, and we wanted to make you feel welcome. It can be really hard moving to a new place and not knowing anyone.”
Remus finally manages to choke out a laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
“Not many people look ready to cry when they’re gifted cookies, so a little yeah,” Regulus says drily.
Remus ducks his head, though this means he’s staring straight at the cookies. “This is… really kind, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Regulus says, matching Remus’ softer tone.
“And also, welcome. I can’t wait to see what Lupin’s Lupins looks like when it’s open.” Lily glances around, at plants of all shapes and sizes, leaves fanning out like umbrellas, or furled tight like wood shavings, or covered with spines like armour. “I fucking love plants.”
“You love to kill plants, more like,” Regulus mutters, and Remus laughs.
“I can help with that,” he says, glancing around and spotting exactly what he’s looking for. He leans heavily on his cane, making his way round to the other side of the shop. Selecting what he’s looking for, he passes it to Lily, who accepts with a beam. “This is a peace lily,” he says, “one of the hardest plants to kill.”
“It’s beautiful,” she says, brushing a finger over the white flowers standing tall and proud amongst leaves so green they match her eyes.
“Put it in a north-facing window if you can – or indirect sunlight otherwise. Water it only when the soil gets dry, and only enough so it’s damp, see – if you pat it now,” he guides her fingers to press lightly against it. “Don’t let it sit in standing water. And if you forget, its leaves will start to droop, so chances are, you’ll remember pretty quickly.”
“I love it,” she says, “how much?”
Remus shakes his head. “It’s on me,” he says, “consider it a thank you for the welcome.”
Lily’s eyes widen, “Remus, I can’t – you’re not even open yet-”
“I want you to have it,” he says firmly. Before she can protest further, he turns to Regulus. “And for you…” He chooses a slightly smaller pot, pressing it into Regulus’ hands. “A Christmas cactus. It should flower in a couple months with the right care.”
“Remus – I…” They look to Lily, who is staring at her peace lily, looking oddly moved. “Thank you.”
The two of them exchange a glance, a conversation to which Remus is not privy, but before he can feel awkward, they’re looking back at him. “Are you free tonight?” Lily asks.
“… As we’ve established, I have no friends here, so yes, very much so.”
“Not anymore,” Lily grins. “Come to ours for drinks tonight. We’re having some mates over, and you can meet the town’s queers.”
“My brother is going to love you,” Regulus says, and when they smile this time, it’s something light and playful.
“Oh, I don’t – I’m sober,” Remus says, bracing himself for the invasive questions this admission so often brings. It would be enough just to say that it interferes with his medication, which is true, but it’s not his truth. It’s not that he’s ashamed of himself for having once had a problem with alcohol, for needing it to cope with how impossibly painful life had felt, but the pity he sees in others’ eyes is what sparks his own shame response.
“Well. I’m not drinking at the moment either,” Lily says, gesturing to her baby bump. “And our friend Kingsley is tee-total. Are you okay being around other people drinking?”
Remus nods, again taken aback by the way they are folding all of these aspects of himself into such a neat little package of understanding – tucking all of the pieces of him that usually make him ‘too much’ into something that belongs.
“Perfect. Come over whenever you’re done here, and we’ll introduce you to the gang.”
They exchange phone numbers, and before he can quite process what just happened, Remus is seeing them out of the shop – his shop – even as his phone chimes with the sounds of two new texts from unknown (soon-to-be-known) numbers.
Remus hates being in his thirties, he realises, as he discards yet another crumpled shirt that he doesn’t have time to iron. Granted, he never expected to make it to his thirties, and the fact he did is something he gets to be grateful for every day, but that’s not the point. There’s a gross societal expectation that you will have your life together by the time the hourglass tips into its thirty-first year, and that feels laughably far from his current state of being.
His careful labelling of boxes did nothing to keep everything he owns from becoming hopelessly creased, but he’s also fast discovering that he apparently has the fashion sense of a pensioner, now that he’s considering how it might look to Lily, Regulus, and their undoubtedly cool friends and partner(s).
He eyes the mustard-yellow woollen jumper he’s currently paired with some black jeans and battered Docs. The jumper does nothing to disguise how round he’s looking – not that he needs it to, nor would he ordinarily care about that, but the prospect of being invited to a party has him questioning every single part of himself.
Either way, he’s out of time.
He grabs his keys, phone, and the box of chocolates he’d panic-bought on his way home. Regulus had texted him the address a few hours ago, then followed it up with a series of gifs Remus doesn’t fully understand – partly because his phone is cheap and old enough that trying to load more than one gif at a time sends it into meltdown, partly because, as previously established, he’s secretly a pensioner.
Remus rolls his shoulders as he walks, trying to dislodge the chronic pain nestling in his muscles, soothing his mounting anxiety by timing his breaths against the tap of his cane against tarmac. It’s a fifteen-minute walk to Lily and Regulus’ place, and he’s running low on spoons and high on nerves as he approaches the doorway.
It’s a lot nicer than his own apartment building, he realises; there’s a proper garden with a path slicing through the middle, a slightly bedraggled honeysuckle clinging resolutely to the side of the house, and two shiny cars on the driveway – not the street, the driveway.
It’s too late for him to back out now.
The door swings open as he approaches, and Lily steps out, beaming. “Remus, you came!”
“Was I not supposed to?”
She laughs, as if he’s actually funny and not hopelessly insecure, and he returns her smile, despite himself. “Please, please come in, oh – James – here-”
She seizes the waist of a tall, gorgeous man with a glorious Afro and smile crinkles around his eyes. He turns to look at her, and once again, Remus is struck by the power she holds, as James watches her like a sunflower gazing at the sun. “James, this is Remus, the one I was telling you about. Remus, this is my other partner, James.”
James pulls Remus into a hug, squeezing tightly. “So, you’re the one who gifted my partners plants and not me,” he pouts as he pulls back, and Remus flushes.
“Can you blame me?”
James lets out a surprised bark of laughter. “No, you’re right. I’m the luckiest man.” He shoots Lily another besotted glance, and she laughs.
“And you’re a massive fucking lightweight, love,” she presses a kiss to his cheek, and he preens.
“Have you seen Reg?”
“They were fretting about crisps in the kitchen.”
James gasps in horror. “We haven’t run out already?”
“No, I just made the cardinal sin of not using our Nice Bowls for them.”
“We have Nice Bowls?”
“The ones my mother gifted us.”
“Oh,” James wrinkles his nose, but rallies valiantly. “Using our Nice Bowls? On this lot? I think the fuck not.”
“That’s what I said,” Lily winks at Remus, like he’s in on the joke, like it’s some shared affectionate history between them, and for a second, he can imagine he belongs.
The two of them are so fucking domestic it’s like watching a duet – Lily, the steady, warmth of a cello, James, skittering out a trilling violinic melody. And then, their counterpart, the viola slips in between them, an added depth and harmony only enriching their tune, as-
“My ears are burning, what are you two up to?” Regulus appears, wrapping tattooed arms around each of their waists. They turn their attention to Remus, and their eyes light up in something like delight.
“Remus! You came! And you brought chocolate? My fucking hero.”
They pull him in for a quick hug, which James immediately piles on to, forcing Lily in too since the three of them are still connected.
“You smell nice,” James tells Remus seriously as they all extract themselves.
“Thank you?” he says, and Regulus snorts.
“What, have you had a glass of wine already, J?” They shake their head, then take Remus’ hand in theirs. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the gang.”
Nerves sweep back up his body and he swallows, leaving behind the safety net of James, Lily and Regulus’ utterly delightful relationship as he follows Regulus through the hall and to their living room.
The lighting is soft, fairy lights scattered across the walls in a way that just about manages to avoid being too Joyce-Byers-having-a-breakthrough, and bunting strung between windows. It’s simpler than the outside of the house had suggested, but no less lovely, and Remus takes a breath, tightening his grip on his cane as he realises how many strangers are in here.
Regulus turns back to him briefly. “Checking in, how do you feel about me objectifying you just a little?”
Remus squints, unsure if he even heard Regulus correctly, but in a moment of reckless anxiety, decides he’s going to go with it. “Does it have to be just a little?”
The look of delight on Regulus’ face is worth the squirm of nerves that have now made it to the very back of his throat. He will not puke. He will not puke. He will not –
There’s one circle of people standing and talking, drinks in hand, then a small group playing a board game on the sofas, and a couple of people pressed together in one armchair, lost in their make out. Regulus leads them right over to the standing group and clears their throat loudly. “Guys. Gals. NB legends. This hot piece of ass is Remus Lupin, of Lupin’s Lupins. Remus, this is Kingsley, Marlene, Dorcas, and Peter.”
Regulus points round the circle as he names each of them, though if Remus is being honest, he’s hopeless with names and is already internally panicking at remembering all these people.
“Hi,” Kingsley steps forward, extends a hand with gorgeous red and gold acrylic nails. “I’m the NB legend.” Remus switches his cane to the other side and shakes hands, praying his sweaty palms don’t completely disgust Kingsley.
“Why don’t we get to be legends too?” Marlene frowns at Regulus, who rolls their eyes.
“Lesbians are already goddesses, Marls, pipe down.”
Dorcas smiles and waves at Remus, slotting a hand into Marlene’s and leaning against her side. Peter grins at him broadly. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Oh – that would be great. Thanks.”
“Cocktail or mocktail?”
“Mocktail, please?”
“Coming right up,” Peter squeezes Remus’ shoulder as he passes by, and Remus marvels at how easy this all feels. His nerves are still present, prickling just beneath his skin, but they aren’t so distracting that he can’t see how warm and real all of these lovely strangers are.
Regulus swings an arm around Remus, pivots him round to he’s facing the other two groups of people. “The two sucking face are Frank and Alice – I’m sure they’ll stop at some point tonight so you can say hi, but they’ve never moved past the honeymoon stage; it’s both endearing and exasperating.” They pause, “Alice is also pregnant, but unlike Lils, please do offer her a seat.”
Remus, in an effort to avoid staring at the pair whilst Regulus talks, lets his gaze slide behind them, where a truly beautiful piano is occupying the corner of the room. That’s not what caught his gaze, though – it’s the fact that his peace lily is resting pride of place on top, basking in indirect sunlight as instructed. Something warm shifts in his chest, and Regulus catches his gaze. They don’t say anything, and the moment remains still and precious, before Regulus clears their throat.
“And those loveable nerds playing Cluedo are Fabian and Gideon – they’re twins – and Mary in the wheelchair, that’s Dorcas and Marlene’s other partner, and Amelia.”
They catch sight of Remus’ expression and hesitate. “Too much?” Remus scrambles to arrange his features into something less overwhelmed and more sociably acceptable.
“Will there be an exam at the end?”
“Don’t joke, Regulus loves an exam,” Marlene says, “any excuse to prove they’re smarter than all of us put together.”
“Fuck off,” Regulus says sweetly, just as Lily, James and Peter enter the room again, bearing drinks. Peter beelines for Remus, slipping a glass of something foxglove-pink into his free hand.
“Thank you,” Remus says, and Peter smiles, blushing a little. He stands there a moment later, looking at Remus with wide eyes, before Dorcas snags his elbow and he turns to her to answer.
Regulus wriggles their eyebrows at Remus. “Peter has such a thing for cute, curvy trans boys. Not in a fetish-y way, just in like a hey me too! kind of way. He’s a sweetheart but extremely awkward.”
Remus feels himself flush, his own awkward nerves resettling – he doesn’t know what to do with this information and it feels like too much right now on top of his frayed nerves, deep exhaustion, chronic pain – everything. “Is this everyone?”
“Almost. Just one more… where’s my idiot brother?”
“Right behind his idiot sibling.”
Remus turns in sync with Regulus, and –
Oh.
All thought, sense, and reason flees from his brain, as if this man in front of him blew it all away like a dandelion clock in a single breath. Remus briefly wonders if he’s possibly having a seizure, and that’s why he can’t remember his own name?
“Hi,” the man says. “You must be Remus.”
“H-hi.”
“This is my brother, Sirius,” Regulus is saying, but they’re far, far away, and it barely registers.
Sirius is beautiful, but that cannot possibly encompass all that he is. He is the first creeping snowdrop poking through frozen winter ground, the way sunlight dapples through the boughs of a tree against the forest floor, the snap-crackle of a beech nut underfoot. He’s a tulip field streaked in brilliant crimson and gold, the first blossom of spring.
Remus blinks, and the moment, stretched so perfectly and delicately like a spider’s web, snaps and springs back into focus.
“Hi,” Sirius says again. He holds out a hand, and Remus takes it in a daze.
“Hey.”
Regulus is looking between them expectantly, and it’s only then that Remus registers that Sirius is staring at him too. His eyes, a beautiful silvery-grey, are unlike anything Remus has ever seen before, and they’re looking him up and down with something Remus doesn’t know how to name. Sirius has the same honey-gold complexion as Regulus, but where Regulus’ make-up is bright and shimmering, Sirius’ is subtle and smoky, and where Regulus’ hair is buzzed and turquoise, Sirius has dark ringlets of curls pulled back into a messy bun. The family resemblance is still there in the line of their noses, the long and slender fingers, the sureness with which they carry themselves.
Remus tries to swallow, but his throat is so dry, he half-chokes on air, blushing furiously.
Regulus snorts, then quickly coughs. “I’m gonna leave you two to it. Play nicely.”
And they’re gone.
There’s a tiny moment where Remus feels anxiety rise in his chest at the thought of having nothing to say to this gorgeous, lovely man, and then Sirius smiles, and suddenly, the world solidifies beneath his feet.
“Hi,” Sirius says for a third time, and Remus can’t help but chuckle.
“Do you say anything else?”
Sirius lets out a bark of surprised laughter – much like James’ – and grins. “I can see why Reg likes you so much. Sorry. I’m just… nervous.”
“Nervous?”
Sirius’ smile widens, and it’s lovely, lovely, lovely. “See, there’s this cute guy,” Sirius says, “and I’m sort of desperate to know how he manages to be this adorable in a sweater that ugly.”
Remus’ mouth falls open in a mixture of confused, outraged, anxiety, lust-filled fun. He’s having fun.
(He doesn’t remember the last time he had fun like this. Flirting has never been fun for him, it has been an anxiety-inducing, calculating game of battleships, in which he never seems to strike a hit. But this… This is fun.)
“Rude.” Sirius laughs again, and Remus can’t help but laugh too. “Did someone not grow out of the year-one boy stage of bullying the people he fancies?”
“Did someone not grow out of having his mum buy his clothes?”
Remus bites his lip. “To be fair. My mum did buy this for me.”
Sirius cackles, and it’s so free and joyful and utterly, completely, devastatingly lovely, that Remus forgets to breathe for a second. “Do you want to sit?”
“Hm?”
“Oh, I just – I thought you might be more comfortable sitting… your cane and all.”
It’s not much, the noticing, and perhaps Remus’ bar is a little too low, but it’s already so much more than almost any date he’s ever had has done. And without any of the awkwardness or fear around disability he has grown accustomed to. Though perhaps this group are better adjusted than most considering Mary is in their midst.
He doesn’t voice any of this – he wouldn’t begin to know how to explain the intricacies of accessibility to an able-bodied person, and it’s also not his job to – but he flashes Sirius a grateful smile as he lowers himself into one of the sofas near the fireplace.
Sirius plops down next to him, and Remus’ stomach flips at the fact they’re close enough that he can smell Sirius’ heady mix of lavender, musk and bergamot. “So,” Sirius says. “You’re new to town?”
Remus nods. “I arrived yesterday. From Scotland.”
“Jesus,” Sirius murmurs. “What the fuck are you doing down here, then?”
“What a charming welcome. I’ve opened a plant shop – it’s the closest place to London I could afford, and it’s what my da and I always dreamed of, having a shop of our own in London. It was the only place in England he could stand, though I think that’s just because it’s where he met my mum.”
Understanding darkens Sirius’ eyes slightly. “He’s not here with you.”
It’s not a question, but Remus shakes his head even so. “He died a couple years back. Cancer.”
Sirius reaches out, squeezes Remus’ hand gently. “I’m sorry, Remus. It must be really hard doing this without him.”
It is. There’s an unexpected lump in his throat; Remus doesn’t often get choked-up talking about his dad these days, not when he’d had so many days where he blazed brighter than the sun – it’s the empathy that catches him, rather than the memory. “Thank you,” he says softly, and Sirius squeezes again before pulling back.
“So, is a plant shop like… a florist?”
“God, no. That’s way too much work.”
(Not that a plant shop is any less work necessarily, but he’s done his time in floristry, and he could not begin to cope with the pressures of bride-zillas and groom-kongs, of grieving families, and corporate monsters, all demanding perfection without appreciating that nature moves to its own rules. He and his plants come as they are, and that suits him far more.)
“Think like… succulents and aloes, palms, things like that.”
“Oh, I just assumed, with the name and all –”
Remus hastily shuts the door on his mother’s voice saying I told you so! “That was mostly just because it’s our surname. And I love lupins – they’re so fucking extra.”
Sirius laughs. “They’re hella gay, I love them. How did you get into plants?”
“I don’t know, I’ve just always loved them.” Remus’ voice has gone soft, and he stares off into the near distance. “My dad really encouraged it because they were his thing too, and it was just something we did together – spending any money we had on seeds and bulbs, weeding and dead-heading together; it was just ours.” He shoots a sideways glance at Sirius, so sure he’s going to see his eyes have glazed over, but he only nods encouragingly, his smile just as warm. Remus continues. “I think that was the hardest thing for my dad to get his head around when I came out as trans – because, you know, girls are supposed to like flowers and plants and things, and it felt like he suddenly had a son who would be beaten up if he liked such soft, pretty shit.”
Sirius makes a soft, wounded noise, and rests his hand on Remus’ forearm. It’s the lightest of touches – Remus should barely be able to feel it beneath such a thick woolly jumper – and yet, every cell of his body springs to life at the touch.
(He doesn’t remove his hand, Remus realises, when he later thinks back on this moment. He doesn’t know what to make of that.)
“It was plants that reconnected us, really – it was the familiar point for us both, and we relearned how to be with each other wholly as ourselves because of them.” Remus wrinkles his nose. “I feel like that doesn’t make much sense. But anyway, I just feel like people never look at plants and flowers, and think ‘oh, that doesn’t belong here, that needs to be changed, that’s deformed.’ Even when a flower has wonky petals or if a plant looks a bit weird and isn’t that pretty. People just look at them and see their beauty and they accept them as they are. And even when we feel like we can control nature, in reality, we’re just pawns in its game – and that’s fucking exciting, and liberating, and I sound like an asshole, don’t I?”
It’s the most he’s spoken in several days – certainly the most he’s ever poured his heart out to a stranger, only Sirius doesn’t exactly feel like a stranger. It’s like he’s met him in another life, like he belongs to a long-forgotten dream.
Sirius laughs and the warmth of it cools Remus’ own embarrassment. “Actually, I think you sound really fucking deep and I’m into it. Please carry on.”
“Oh no. No, no, I’m done embarrassing myself for now. What about you, what do you do?”
For a second, Sirius looks ready to argue. Remus shifts, trying to find a position where he doesn’t have to choose between his back aching or his knees throbbing. He doesn’t succeed (he never does, these days).
Then Sirius starts talking, and the pain… it doesn’t lessen, because his arthritis isn’t some magical affliction that goes away when he falls for a pretty, boy. But it falls out of centre-stage for a minute, and that’s enough.
“James is my best friend. And we’ve always talked about having some crazy project together, especially one about animals because we love animals. And so, our crazy project has been our rescue centre. It’s mostly cats and dogs, but we’ve had rabbits and birds and a tortoise one time.”
“So, James works there too?”
“Yep, James does all our marketing and vetting potential homes. And Peter is our numbers guy, because he’s an absolute whizz at all of that shit and I’m dyslexic as fuck with numbers. And then we have a bunch of volunteers from all over.”
“That’s amazing,” Remus says, and he means it with his whole heart, because he can hear just how much Sirius means it – how much this is his passion project.
“Thank you!” Sirius is beaming now, and Remus may as well stare straight into the sun – it can only be half as dazzling as looking at Sirius smiling this broadly. “It’s our pride and joy… I just – I love that we can find a home or make a home for something that someone else couldn’t or wouldn’t look after, and I –” Sirius breaks off, looking awkward for the first time. “Well, I know what that’s like,” is what he settles on, and Remus’ heart clenches hot and tight around the protective anger that swells in him. “So, it means the world that I can change that, even in the smallest way, for these animals.”
Remus tips his arm over, so that Sirius’ hand falls into his own, and he squeezes gently. “That’s fucking beautiful, Sirius.”
Sirius squeezes right back, and it’s shockingly, entirely, wonderfully intimate considering they met not an hour ago. He clears his throat. “It’s called the Marauders Project – you should come visit some time. Maybe leave with a furry pal?
Remus laughs, “oh God, please don’t tempt me. I fucking love dogs – and cats to be honest. I’ve never really understood whole dogs or cats thing.”
“Ugh, that’s weird. No, I’m definitely a dog person. Do you want to see my dog?”
Remus’ brain substitutes the word ‘dog’ for something else that sends entirely the wrong message to his brain. But it’s fleeting as he catches sight of the enthusiasm on Sirius’ face as he gets out his phone – already flicking through photos, because of course, the person who says ‘no’ to dog pictures is a walking red flag in most people’s books.
“I’d love nothing more.”
Beaming once more, Sirius thrusts his phone into Remus’ face, where there’s an excitable dog bounding all over the screen, a blur of black fur and slobber. “This is Snuffles.”
Remus shoots him a look, and Sirius laughs, holding his hands up.
“I didn’t name him! He already responded to it though, and it sort of fits. He’s just the best, most loving, playful, chaotic nightmare of a dog in the world.” He leans over, swiping right so that Remus is looking at Snuffles dressed as an elf, Snuffles coated in mud so thick he’s a dubious shade of brown all over, Snuffles dragging a stick approximately five times his length.
(He focuses very hard on the screen so he’s not stuck thinking about how Sirius is pressed against his side, the warm weight of his body against Remus’.)
“I’d love to meet him,” Remus says, and Sirius’ smile widens.
“I’d love that too. Maybe I can bring him by your shop?”
“Please. I feel like I’m going to need all the stress relief I can get over the next few days.”
Sirius’ smile shifts into something closer to a smirk. “Well. You know there’s an easy way to resolve that issue.”
Remus’ mouth drops open. “You filthy fucker,” he says, laughing despite himself. Sirius laughs too, and it’s not even that funny, but this is the lightest Remus has felt in such a long time – maybe even since losing his dad. Despite how nervous he was earlier today, and how much his body hurts, and how much he still has to do on this blasted shop, he feels like himself.
He doesn’t want this evening to end, but his body feels differently. He shifts again, unable to suppress the groan this time around.
Sirius stops laughing, concern darkening his lovely face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m really sorry… I. I need to be going home,” Remus says. He hates this part of his disabilities – the part that sees him heading home before the parties have even really started. “I just have a lot to do tomorrow, and I’m just not good if I don’t sleep – it’s a whole health thing.” He waves vaguely at himself, unsure why he feels he has to explain himself so much to Sirius – all he knows is that he doesn’t want Sirius to doubt for a second that he would spend hours and hours listening to him if he could.
Sirius’ face falls. “Can I… can I walk you home?”
“Oh,” Remus says, “oh, you don’t have to do that. It’s not that far.”
Sirius pauses, blows out a breath. “Well, no, but I’d like to.” There’s another pause, and perhaps they’re both holding their breath. Then Sirius says in a rush: “I really like talking to you. And to be honest, I’m not ready to stop.”
“Give me your number and it doesn’t have to stop,” Remus says, with a confidence he didn’t know he possessed. Sirius looks utterly delighted, takes the proffered phone, and taps his number in, then presses dial. He passes it back with a smile.
“I’m greedy. Please let me walk you home.”
The corners of Remus’ mouth twitch. “Be my guest.”
Lily and James are similarly disappointed as he thanks them profusely for having invited him. He finds that he actually means it when he says how much he’s enjoyed himself, something he was never able to say about a single party he attended in his 20s.
He completely misses the meaningful looks James is shooting Sirius, but he does catch the way Regulus glances between the two of them. He wishes he knew them better so he could judge what that expression meant on them.
“We’ll come and see you soon!” Lily calls after him, and James nods enthusiastically. “Oh god, you’ll have to meet Harry!”
Remus nods faintly, no idea what she’s talking about, of course. Now, his aches have gone from background to very much demanding his full attention, and he just wants to be back at home with his hot water bottles and his bed (mattress).
As he and Sirius make their way down the road, at first there’s nothing but the quiet tip-tap of his cane against the tarmac. It’s a familiar enough motion that he finds himself looking up at the stars, pricks of silver on the cool navy sky – he can’t help feeling their shade of silver has nothing on Sirius’ eyes.
Before long, Sirius is asking about Scotland, and to Remus, who will take any opportunity to wax lyrical about his homeland, the fifteen minutes home has never felt so short in spite of his aches. He longs to stay standing outside his apartment building all night long, but the chill of the late-September night is nestling into his bones, and he makes his excuses with a sorry weight on his chest.
“So, if Lily gets a lily, and my sibling gets a cactus,” Sirius says, just as they’re parting. “Then what plant do I get?”
Remus grins. “I haven’t decided yet.”
It’s the truth, because how can he honestly be expected to know what plant might represent this man – how can there possibly be something that encompasses all that he is? Remus feels utterly helpless with the energy he’s receiving, and he doesn’t know what to make of the fact he can’t identify a plant for Sirius in the same way he has been able to for anyone else his entire life.
“I guess you’ll have to wait and see,” he says, and for some reason, Sirius blushes.
“I can’t wait.” It’s low and belongs to the night, and Remus shivers in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.
Sirius waits until Remus has shut the door behind him, and some reason, this feels entirely too caring. He turns, watching Sirius slip away in the descending dark, then catches himself and rolls his eyes.
This isn’t some great romance. He’s not watching his lover go away to war. And yet, the tug of captivation in his chest says differently.
All he knows is that he’s had a truly wonderful night, despite every reservation he’d had in this very room only hours ago.