Not Something I Can Be Proud Of

~800 words :: Harry Potter :: Sirius/Remus, Sirius/Harry :: 1/29/06
Even with James dead and gone for fourteen years, Sirius still can’t forget him. Remus was foolish to think otherwise. (Note: Commentary for this fic can be found here.)

It’s not something Remus likes to admit, even to himself, but when Sirius came back, there’s no denying Remus was relieved that James was out of the picture.

The first time he held Sirius, still nearly skin and bones from his time in Azkaban, the first time they kissed since Sirius had escaped, Remus remembers thinking at least now he’d have Sirius to himself, at least he wouldn’t have to worry that Sirius was thinking of James while Remus fucked him, not with James dead for fourteen years.

But that was stupid, wasn’t it, because Remus had been thinking of Sirius for just that long. Sirius had maybe, very likely, been a traitor, a murderer, and Remus had still woken up nights with his hand on his dick and his mind fuzzy with half-remembered dreams. He’d drunk himself senseless to stop thinking about Sirius and it hadn’t worked.

So why he’d thought a little thing like James being dead would help matters is beyond him. Especially with Harry around. Sirius’s eyes follow Harry the way they’d always followed James, and Remus knows it’s not Harry Sirius is seeing at all.

Harry doesn’t notice, but Remus does. Remus notices the way Sirius’s hand lingers just a bit too long on Harry’s shoulder, the way he leans in just a bit too close. He notices the look in Sirius’s eyes, and he wants to shake him and say for Christ’s sake, Padfoot, he’s only fifteen! but half the time he wonders whether Sirius doesn’t think he’s still fifteen himself.

And when they were fifteen, did Sirius go down on James the way he did on Remus? Remus doesn’t know, but he knows Sirius wanted to, maybe closed his eyes and imagined he was.

It feels more inevitable than surprising when Remus walks in one night without knocking and has to back out of Sirius’s room quickly, mumbling apologies. He wasn’t quick enough, though, and the image feels imprinted on his retinas of Harry, flushed and gasping, knees drawn up as Sirius’s head bobs up and down between his thighs.

Feeling slightly ill, Remus trudges back to his room, sits down heavily on his bed and berates himself for being jealous. For being jealous of Harry, anyway, because Sirius doesn’t want him any more than he wants Remus. They’re both just substitutes, only Harry is a better one.

And that thought does leave a little spike of jealousy, a twist in his gut. He lies back, laughing mirthlessly. “Pathetic, Moony.” Is that all he’s ever wanted, to be the perfect substitute? Did he realise at some point that there was no hope of anything more and just give up?

Sirius comes to him later, doesn’t speak of Harry. He’s drunk, and Remus knows he was drunk then, too. Then again, Sirius has been drunk most days since Dumbledore made him prisoner in his own house. Prisoner again after such a short-lived freedom. Remus can think of few things more cruel.

When they kiss, Remus imagines he can taste Harry under layers of alcohol. They writhe on the bed, still fully clothed until Remus finally gets frustrated and fumbles for his wand, wordlessly sending their robes flying. Sirius’s hands are all over Remus, splayed flat on his chest and moving down, over belly and hips and curving around to his arse, where one remains as the other wraps around his cock.

Remus is lost in it momentarily, in the rutting, grinding need of it, and then he pushes Sirius away. “Suck me,” he rasps, and something like understanding flashes in Sirius’s eyes. Sirius wriggles down the bed, wordlessly pushing Remus more fully onto his back.

Fingers tangled in Sirius’s hair, Remus guides him down, inhales sharply at the first lick, the push of Sirius’s tongue into his slit. Sirius’s eyelashes flutter and for a moment he doesn’t look as if he’s spent over a decade in the company of Dementors. It makes Remus’s chest hurt and he has to look away, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

Sirius is rough, fingers working into Remus’s arse with only the briefest pause for spit. His thumbnail is ragged, scraping deeper and deeper into Remus’s hip until he’s sure it’ll hit bone. The little flashes of pain only bring him closer. He’s hanging by a thread, muscles taut, and then he feels it, the moment just before orgasm where he’s not quite there, but it’s inevitable, couldn’t hold back if he tried.

It crashes over him, leaves him breathless and shaking. When Sirius kisses him now, he can only taste himself, but the bitter aftertaste is the same and the room feels crowded.