Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rehearsal room smelled like rosin and resentment.

Sirius tightened the ribbons of his ballet shoes, ignoring the pointed glance Regulus shot him across the polished floor. It was always the same. Perfect Regulus, with his perfect technique and perfect scowl, standing there like the rightful prince of a kingdom Sirius had no interest in ruling.

Their mother’s voice still echoed in the back of his mind — Chin up, Sirius. A Black does not falter. A Black commands the stage. He spat the words out of his mind like a bad taste.

Across the room, their instructor tapped her  baton lightly against the stand, calling the dancers to position. Sirius rose, spine straightening, a smooth, mechanical movement he barely thought about anymore. It wasn’t for them. It was for him.

They started their warm-up the same one they did everyday and the same one they will continue to do for the rest of eternity because Sirius can not catch a break.

“Alright,” Ms. Rosier’s voice cuts through the room, sharp and commanding, just as the last note of their warm-up fades. “Pair up and work on dynamic stretches.”

Her tone is as cold and precise as ever. Sirius, halfway through rolling out his ankle, glances up at her and wonders — not for the first time — how she possibly managed to produce two of the calmest, if slightly terrifying, twins in existence. Evan and Pandora pair off immediately, already slipping into mirrored stretches with the eerie ease of people who'd clearly spent their whole lives in sync.

Sirius catches himself wondering — would it have been like that, if he and Regulus had been twins? If they hadn’t grown up clawing at each other’s throats for every scrap of approval?

Across the room, Regulus hooks an arm around Barty — friend, fuck buddy, enabler, Sirius isn't sure — and drags him toward the far corner. Regulus doesn't miss the opportunity to shoot a pointed glare at Sirius as he goes, sharp as a blade.

“Sirius?” Lily’s voice pulls him back to earth.

He turns, grateful for the distraction. “Stretching?”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling like she hasn't spent the last five minutes pretending not to look toward the door every time it creaked. Sirius bites back a grin. James would be arriving late, per usual.

He follows her toward the back of the room, both of them sinking onto the mats.

“Are you going to his thing tonight?” Lily asks in a low voice, as she pulls her arm across her chest in a stretch.

Sirius smirks. “James’ party? Probably. Someone's gotta keep an eye on him before he tries to dive off the roof again.”

Lily snorts, rolling her eyes, though her cheeks pink a little. “I don’t even care. Honestly. I might just go for the drinks.”

“Right," Sirius says, dragging the word out with a teasing lilt. "For the drinks.”

She shoves him lightly with her foot, but the smile lingers at the corners of her mouth.

Before Sirius can press her more — because frankly, her on-again, off-again thing with James is better entertainment than anything on TV — Ms. Rosier claps her hands once, sharp.

“Everyone, attention please.” The room falls quiet in an instant. “I’m pleased to announce that the school has decided on this year’s main production.”

There’s a ripple of anticipation through the dancers, even Regulus glancing up from whatever whispered conversation he’s having with Barty.

Ms. Rosier smiles thinly. “This year, we’ll be performing Swan Lake .”

Excited murmurs break out around the studio.

“With... a slight twist," she continues. "We’ll be focusing on duality. Reversing expectations. Think less pure white swan and more... corrupted innocence ."

Sirius shares a quick, amused look with Lily — everything at this school had to have a twist.

“Now, casting,” Ms. Rosier says briskly. She pulls a sheet from her clipboard. “Lily Evans, you’ll be one of the lead court dancers.”

Lily beams and nudges Sirius with her knee.

“Mary Macdonald and Dorcas Meadowes — pas de trois roles.”

The two girls high-five quietly behind their backs.

“Pandora Rosier, Barty Crouch Jr— secondary pas de deux.”

Sirius watches Barty grin widely at Pandora, bumping her shoulder.

“Dorcas and Emmeline Vance — court dancers, featured.”

Dorcas smirks like she’s already choreographing her solos in her head.

“Evan Rosier — Prince Siegfried.”

Evan gives a satisfied nod, clearly pleased with himself. It’s obviously a case of nepotism, if you ask Sirius—but then again, who is he to talk?

“James Potter—wait, where is James?” She glances around, already irritated. “Well, if he doesn’t smarten up, he may just lose the part. But for now—James Potter as Baron von Rothbart.”

Ms. Rosier pauses, and there’s a tension that settles in the air — everyone waiting.

“And for the dual leads..." Her gaze flicks around the room, cool and knowing. "Regulus Black, you will perform as the Black Swan."

Regulus' posture stiffens so fast Sirius swears he can hear it crack.

“And Sirius Black,” Ms. Rosier says, her voice cutting through the stunned silence like a blade, “you will perform as the White Swan.”

For a full heartbeat, no one moves.

Then Sirius hears it: Regulus' sharp intake of breath. He whips his head toward Ms. Rosier, already half-rising from the floor.

"You can't be serious," Regulus says, low and venomous.

Sirius, to his own horror, almost echoes him. “You want me to be the White Swan?”

His voice pitches higher than intended, and a few people nearby snicker under their breath. Sirius flushes hot with anger. Regulus is glaring at him like this was his idea, like he somehow orchestrated this insult.

Ms. Rosier fixes them both with a stare that could freeze blood. "Is there a problem, gentlemen?"

Regulus presses his mouth into a thin line. Sirius scowls at the floor.

"I said," Ms. Rosier continues crisply, "is there a problem ?"

“No, ma'am,” they mutter, nearly in unison.

"Good," she says, voice like a whip crack. "Then get back to work. I want fluid transitions on stage. Stretch. Rehearse. No more whining."

Sirius meets Regulus' gaze across the room, pure hatred radiating between them like a heatwave.

This was going to be a disaster.

—

The party at James’ place was already in full swing by the time Sirius found him — half-drunk and perched on his own kitchen counter — and shoved a plastic cup of something suspicious into his hands.

"You don't understand," Sirius said, slumping against the counter beside him, "this is going to be an absolute disaster."

James squinted at him over the rim of his cup. "You’re being dramatic."

"I’m being realistic ," Sirius snapped. "White Swan, Prongs. White Swan . Look at me." He gestured vaguely at himself, nearly knocking over a sad-looking plant. "I am the furthest thing from delicate innocence."

James snorted. "You could be innocent if you tried."

Sirius gave him a look so withering it could have stripped paint. "My dancing isn’t built for that. It's sharp. It's rough. It's meant for the Black Swan. Regulus is the one who floats around all angelic and dead-eyed."

He raked a hand through his hair. "Ms. Rosier must want us to actually kill each other onstage. Maybe that's the twist."

James just laughed, kicking his legs against the cabinet doors. "You’ll survive. You always do."

"But it’s my final year," Sirius said, louder now, almost over the low thrum of music and chatter drifting in from the living room. "My final show, and it’s already turning into a complete shit show."

James opened his mouth, probably to say something unhelpful again, but Sirius caught the shift in the room first — the way the conversation dulled and heads subtly turned toward the front door.

And there they were.

Regulus entered like he owned the bloody place, Barty practically attached to his side, Evan and Pandora flanking them, Dorcas trailing close behind — like a royal court sweeping into a ballroom. All cold stares and effortless superiority.

Sirius felt his whole body tense. He shot James a bitter look.

James held up his hands innocently. "What?" he said quickly. "Evan bumped into me as I was leaving rehearsal today. I invited him for a drink, that's it. Didn’t think he'd bring the whole bloody squad."

Sirius didn’t answer. He just watched as Regulus caught sight of him across the room, his mouth twitching into the faintest smirk before he looked away, all effortless disdain.

The air was heavy with tension, every sideways glance charged. The group spread out a little, laughing too loudly, like they were performing for an audience — which they basically were. Even the people who didn’t know the Blacks well could feel the undercurrent.

It was inevitable that something would happen. It always was.

It started off quietly, almost normal — a snide comment here, an eye-roll there — until someone (Sirius didn’t even catch who) made a joke about ballet dynasties and "living up to the family legacy."

Regulus tilted his head, all venomous politeness. "Well," he said, voice light but cutting, "some of us are actually capable of carrying on the Black name without embarrassing ourselves."

That was it. The final match to the powder keg.

Sirius’ laugh was sharp and humorless. " Carrying on the Black name ," he repeated, loud enough that conversations nearby ground to a halt. "You mean groveling for their approval? You mean twisting yourself into whatever shape they want?"

The room was silent now, everyone watching like it was a show.

"Better than running away and pretending you're better than them," Regulus said, his voice cold. "You're still a Black. No matter how much you try to scrub it off."

Sirius stared at him, chest heaving, a hundred ugly things on the tip of his tongue.

Instead, he laughed again, shorter this time. Bitter. "Fine," he said, forcing his voice into something almost casual. "I'll be the bigger person then."

He dropped his empty cup onto the counter, the clatter loud in the tense quiet, and shoved past James toward the door without another word.

He didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

The studio was too bright for how early it was.

Sirius blinked against the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows as he walked in, sweat already forming under his collar despite the chill outside. The room was quiet except for the faint squeak of shoes on sprung wood and the low hum of conversation between the two choreographers stationed near the mirrors.

One of them — the older, sterner one, Margot — looked up and clapped her hands. “Black. You’re late.”

“Right on time, actually,” Sirius muttered, glancing at the clock. “Depends how you define late.”

She ignored him entirely. “Shoes on, stretch. You and Rosier are working on The Lakeside .”

Sirius froze mid-bend. “Rosier?” His voice pitched slightly higher than he liked. It had not fully clicked until this moment that his romantic counterpart on stage was going to be Evan Rosier.

“Evan,” the younger choreographer, Isaac, offered with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ms. Rosier thought you two had… chemistry .”

“I don’t—” Sirius stopped himself. He caught Evan’s reflection in the mirror as he entered the room, stretching out his arms like he owned the place. Of course he did. Son of Rosier, golden boy of precision, who always looked like he was dancing for the approval of a ghost.

“Don’t start,” Margot said flatly. “This is The Lakeside . It’s about beauty, mystery, and deception. So get over yourselves and dance.”

Sirius bit the inside of his cheek and dropped into a stretch beside Evan, who gave him a brief nod and then went back to loosening his ankles.

Margot stepped forward. “Sirius. You’re playing Odette.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Her eyes were sharp. “Odette is traditionally a princess — a woman cursed, but still radiating kindness, compassion, hope. Graceful and soft. But we’re bending that.”

“Obviously,” Sirius muttered. “Since I’m not exactly ‘princess’ material.”

Margot ignored the sarcasm. “You’re not a princess. You’re a prince . And not a soft, naive one either. You’re playing someone who’s pretending to be delicate. You are putting on an idea of what you think ‘goodness’ looks like. False grace. False softness. You’re trying to force yourself into a mold that was never made for you.”

Sirius straightened, blinking. “So… he’s pretending to be Odette?”

“No,” Isaac cut in, gentler. “He is Odette. But our version. A character who’s been taught that goodness looks a certain way — and he’s trying to perform it, dance it, be it — but it doesn’t quite fit. There’s still sharpness under the surface. He’s afraid it’ll show.”

“Oh,” Sirius said, slower this time. “Okay.”

Margot softened — barely. “Let that tension live in the choreography. You hold yourself too proud. We’ll have to work on making it feel fragile. Not weak — fragile . Like something trying too hard not to crack.”

He nodded once, still digesting.

Evan rolled his shoulders. “So do I just… pretend to fall in love with you, or what?”

Margot clapped again. “Let’s walk through the first thirty counts, no music. Then we’ll talk about touch.”

Sirius inhaled and stepped into position. As Evan approached — the hunter, the outsider — Sirius extended one arm, fingers curved just-so, but there was tension already building in his chest. Every step, every flick of his wrist felt deliberate, controlled, constructed . Like armor painted in pastel.

Pretending to be Odette. Or worse — trying to be her.

They moved through the motions, simply marking where they were going, sketching the shape of the dance rather than breathing life into it yet. Sirius could feel it — the hollowness between him and Evan, like a gaping mouth stretched wide. No chemistry. None. But they were both so stupidly good at pretending that from the outside, it might not even matter.

Hours blurred together. Step, correction, step, correction. Evan’s hand at his waist, guiding him through turns, Margot snapping at him for his arm placement, Isaac coaxing more fragility from his posture.

“Stop dancing like a girl,” Margot snapped at one point, exasperated.

The words cracked through Sirius’ focus like a whip.

He bit down hard on his tongue and said nothing, because what could he say? He was playing a girl. Or — no. Not a girl. A version of a prince trapped inside a version of a princess, molded and hollowed out and painted pretty for other people’s consumption. And hadn’t he spent his entire goddamn life trying to rip himself free from every single mold someone else tried to shove him into?

Sirius forced himself to reset, tried to hold the fragile, poised shape Margot wanted, even though it felt like pressing himself into a shape that didn’t quite fit. His muscles ached with it. His pride did too.

He was in the middle of an arabesque when the door creaked open, and a voice muttered a soft, startled, “Shit” under their breath.

Sirius wobbled — a slip, just enough to break the line of his body. His gaze snapped to the mirror.

A stranger stood at the threshold, framed by the doorway. Tall, tan skin catching the light, a cane gripped loosely in one hand and an instrument case in the other. His sandy hair fell into his eyes, and he looked equal parts tired and beautiful. Something about him — the way he carried himself despite the weight of the cane, the way his eyes swept the room with a kind of open vulnerability — made Sirius’ chest tighten in a way he couldn’t immediately name.

“Can we help you?” Margot’s voice rang out sharply across the studio, slicing through the stillness.

The man visibly curled in on himself, like a bird tucking in its wings.

“I’m sorry — this is my first day — I think I have the wrong room,” he said, voice quiet, almost shy, like he hated drawing attention to himself.

Sirius swallowed, throat dry. He found himself speaking before he could even think about it. “The orchestra’s further down the hall. Third last door on the left.”

The man’s head lifted, and their eyes caught through the mirror. For a moment — just a heartbeat — Sirius forgot entirely about Margot, about Evan, about the ache in his calves and the burning resentment curled tight in his gut.

The man nodded once, grateful, and then disappeared as quickly as he’d come, leaving Sirius staring stupidly at the empty doorway.

“Alright, let’s pick up from the top of the eight, please,” Isaac said, clapping his hands and dragging Sirius back into the too-bright, too-cold reality of the studio.

Sirius exhaled slowly, sinking back into the steps. But it was harder to focus now, his mind lingering somewhere just down the hall — third last door on the left.

—

"Alright, good start," Margot clapped her hands together, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. "Cool down, get some rest. Group rehearsals are tomorrow morning — don't be late," she added, already halfway out the door. It slammed shut behind her with a snap.

Isaac wasn't far behind, muttering something about needing coffee and Tylenol as he trailed after her.

That left Sirius and Evan alone, the echoes of their rehearsal still humming in the air.

Sirius yanked his bag closer and started stripping off his practice clothes, the sweat cooling uncomfortably against his skin. Evan did the same across the room, shooting Sirius an amused glance through the mirror.

"You know," Evan said, almost lazily, "for someone who claims he doesn't care, you spend an awful lot of energy being pissed about Reg getting Black Swan."

Sirius let out a short, bitter laugh, tossing his shirt into his bag. "It’s not about caring . It's about sense . He's not cut out for it."

Evan arched a brow, smoothing his hair back with a practiced hand. "Right. Because you are? Come on, Sirius. Admit it — you’re jealous."

Sirius' hands stilled. His jaw tightened so sharply it hurt.

He turned slowly, fixing Evan with a look so cold it could’ve cracked the mirror between them.

"Jealous?" Sirius repeated, voice dangerously soft. "God, if anyone knew the things I knew — they’d know that prick has been jealous of me since we were old enough to walk."

For a moment, Evan just stared, caught off guard by the venom in Sirius’ voice.

Sirius didn’t give him a chance to respond. He hauled his bag over his shoulder, grabbed his water bottle off the floor, and stalked out of the studio without another word.

The hallways were mostly empty now, the late afternoon sun slicing through the tall windows and spilling gold across the polished floors. Sirius didn’t know where he was going — he just knew he couldn’t stay in that room another second longer.

His feet carried him without thought, like they knew something his mind hadn’t caught up to yet. Past classrooms and practice rooms, past the trophy cases filled with fading photographs and gleaming medals.

He found himself standing in front of the orchestra rehearsal space. The door was slightly ajar, soft strains of music leaking out into the hall.

Without really thinking, Sirius pushed it open and slipped inside.

The room was crowded with musicians, the sounds of strings and woodwinds threading through the air like fine silk. Sirius scanned the space — and there he was.

The man from earlier.

Sitting near the back of the orchestra, cradling a violin between his shoulder and chin, bow in hand. His posture was relaxed but precise, the kind of ease that only came from being utterly, hopelessly devoted to your craft.

And Sirius, God help him, could swear he could hear him specifically — even among the sea of other instruments.

The music wrapped around him, tugging something deep inside his chest loose, something Sirius hadn't even realized he'd been holding so tightly.

He stood there, utterly still, as the room blurred and the only thing that mattered was the man with the violin and the aching, beautiful sound he was pulling from the strings.

—

Later that night, Sirius padded barefoot across the cool tile of his bathroom, a half-full glass of red wine balanced precariously in one hand and a container of Epsom salt tucked under his arm. His muscles ached in that deep, familiar way — the kind that came after pushing yourself a little too hard, a little too long.

He set the wine down on the wide marble ledge of the bath and dumped a generous handful of salts into the steaming water, watching as they dissolved with a soft hiss. The air filled with the faint smell of lavender and something almost medicinal.

Sirius turned on his speaker, scrolling until he found a bossa nova playlist. Soft, languid guitar filled the room as he tested the water with his toes, then slid in with a groan that was almost obscene. His laptop sat perched on a towel beside the tub, open and glowing invitingly.

He leaned his head back against the cool porcelain, eyes drifting shut for a moment as he tried to shut his brain off.

Why on earth had they picked him for the White Swan?

He wasn't delicate. He wasn't demure. His dancing had always been sharp, almost brutal — all pointed lines and reckless passion. Black Swan, sure. That he could do in his sleep.

But White Swan?

Odette was supposed to be gentle, soft, pure hope bleeding through every movement. Sirius didn’t know how to be that — didn’t know if he even had that somewhere inside him to fake.

The water lapped against the sides of the tub as he shifted, reaching for his laptop. Maybe if he studied — watched enough performances — he could figure it out. Force it, the way he forced everything else.

He pulled up video after video. Famous ballerinas, their bodies impossibly light, their movements like prayers. He watched for a long time, fingers absentmindedly swirling the water.

Still, something gnawed at him. That restlessness he could never quite drown out.

After an hour or so, he found himself wandering away from the videos. Clicking through tabs. Searching.

Without really thinking, he typed in Royal Ballet Orchestra Roster .

A neat list popped up, with headshots and bios. Violinists, cellists, flutists — name after name.

And then, there — tucked near the bottom, almost like he didn’t belong at all.

Remus Lupin.

Sirius stared at the screen, the low thrum of bossa nova pulsing in his ears, the bath water cooling around him.

He leaned in, studying the photo — messy light brown hair, a quiet, serious mouth, tired eyes that somehow still looked... kind.

He whispered the name under his breath without really meaning to, like saying it would make something about this night make sense.

"Remus Lupin."

Chapter Text

Sirius was nearly running as he cut across the courtyard, his dance bag slamming against his hip with every hurried step. The clocktower chimed the quarter hour, mockingly loud, and he swore under his breath.

If he was late again, Ms Rosier would absolutely have his head.

He was nearly at the back entrance when he almost collided with someone — a familiar someone.

“Oi, watch it!” Peter yelped, stumbling back a step, clutching his violin case like it was a shield.

“Shit, sorry, Pete,” Sirius said, breathless. He shoved a hand through his messy hair, trying to catch up with his own heartbeat. “Didn’t see you.”

Peter rolled his eyes but grinned, brushing off his coat. “What’s got you in such a rush? Late for once?”

“Don’t even say the word.” Sirius adjusted his bag higher on his shoulder, about to keep running, but paused.

Almost without thinking, he blurted, “Hey — do you know someone named Remus Lupin?”

Peter blinked at him. “Remus? The new guy? Yeah, I know who he is.” He shifted his violin case to his other hand. “He’s quiet but... he seems nice enough. Crazy good with the violin, though. Seriously, it’s kinda insane how good he is. Like — makes the rest of us look bad.”

Sirius found himself smiling for no good reason. “Yeah?”

Peter gave him a look. “Yeah. Why are you asking?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sirius said with a shrug that he hoped looked casual. “Just saw him around. Seemed near our age, that’s all. You should invite him out next time we all go somewhere.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, looking far too knowing for Sirius’ liking, but didn’t push. “Sure. Will do.”

Sirius checked his watch and hissed through his teeth. “Fuck, I really gotta go — if Rosier even sees me walk in late she’ll actually murder me.” He started jogging backwards toward the door, throwing a grin over his shoulder. “Tell Remus he’s got great taste in canes or something!”

“What?” Peter called after him, confused, but Sirius was already halfway inside, his mind racing faster than his feet.

Sirius burst through the studio doors, nearly slipping on the polished floor in his hurry — and collided full-force with someone again.

except this someone shoved him. Hard.

“Watch it, idiot,” Regulus hissed, giving Sirius another sharp shove even though Sirius had already stumbled back.

Sirius blinked, catching himself before he fell. “Alright, Jesus, Reg — it was an accident.”

But Regulus just sneered, adjusting the strap on his warm-up jacket like Sirius had somehow personally offended his soul.

Before Sirius could retort — or maybe even walk away like a decent human being — Barty was suddenly there, stepping into Sirius’ space with that smug little smirk he always wore when he was about to start something.

“Maybe if you watched where you were going for once in your life, Black, you wouldn’t have to pretend to trip over your own ego.”

Sirius laughed humorlessly. “Yeah? Well maybe if you didn’t spend half your life sniffing around Reg like a lost puppy, you'd know what an actual accident looks like.”

That was enough to make Barty bristle and step closer. James, who must have clocked the disaster brewing from across the room, shoved between them, planting a hand on Sirius’ chest.

“Alright, alright, let’s not kill each other before lunch,” James said loudly, throwing Barty a pointed look.

But now everyone was shouting — Barty barking something about "favoritism," Regulus muttering venom under his breath, Sirius laughing too loudly, James trying to referee and only making it worse.

The chaos only stopped when Ms. Rosier’s voice cracked like a whip through the room.

“Enough!”

The studio dropped into stunned silence.

Ms. Rosier stalked into the center of the room, her heels clacking furiously against the floor. She stopped, turning her glare on them like she was debating who to eviscerate first.

“You lot are either over eighteen or just nearing it now,” she snapped, her eyes blazing. “So tell me why it feels like I’m standing in a studio full of six-year-olds?!”

No one answered. No one dared.

“We are here to rehearse,” she said, every word clipped and furious, “or would you all prefer I scrap the production and turn this into a strict conditioning class? Eight hours a day of drills and silence. Your choice.”

Everyone suddenly found the floor very interesting.

“Good.” Ms. Rosier snapped, turning on her heel. “Shoes on, now. I want complete run-throughs by next week.”

Silently — stiffly — Sirius trudged over to his side of the room, kicking off his trainers and pulling his ballet shoes out of his bag. Around him, the others were doing the same, the air thick with tension.

Regulus laced his shoes with tight, aggressive movements across the room.

Sirius didn’t look at him.

He didn’t need to.

He could feel the hatred radiating off his brother like a second sun.

And he had no idea how the hell they were supposed to make it through the next few months alive.

—

The studio was thick with the smell of sweat and floor wax. Everyone was moving sluggishly, peeling off their shoes, their faces flushed and hair damp. Sirius dragged a hand through his own sweat-soaked hair, exhausted down to his bones.

Rehearsal had been brutal.

Regulus barely met his eyes the entire time, sharp and cold in every sequence they were forced to cross paths.

Barty kept throwing in snide little comments under his breath whenever Ms. Rosier wasn’t looking.

Even Evan — usually one of the calmer ones — had seemed sharper around the edges, every movement from him stiff and angry.

It had taken everything Sirius had just to stay focused, to keep his lines clean, to not let the roiling mess of anger and resentment crawling under his skin seep into his dancing.

He just wanted to go home. He wanted a beer. He wanted a bath so hot it boiled the skin off his bones.

"Black," Ms. Rosier’s voice cut through the air as everyone started gathering their things. "Stay after everyone’s gone, please."

Barty snickered loudly as he passed Sirius on his way out, whispering something to Regulus that made both of them smirk. Sirius didn't even look at them. He just pulled his towel off his neck and wiped his face slowly, waiting.

One by one, the others trickled out until it was just him and Ms. Rosier left in the vast studio.

Sirius slung his bag over his shoulder and wandered over, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “What’s up?”

Ms. Rosier, for once, didn’t look furious. If anything, she looked... pleased. A rare, careful sort of pleased, like she was afraid of jinxing something.

"I wanted to speak to you about your future," she said crisply, folding her arms behind her back. "Ballet companies are starting to look at you more seriously now, Sirius. You’re not just some prodigy in a classroom anymore — you’re a dancer they're actually considering investing in."

Sirius blinked, a little thrown.

"Paris Opera Ballet has expressed interest."

He swallowed. Of course. His mind immediately went to his mother — the ever-elusive Mrs. Black, who loved to bring up her glory days at the Paris Opera whenever she wanted to remind him how disappointing he was.

"And American Ballet Theatre," Ms. Rosier continued, lifting an eyebrow. "Which I imagine would horrify certain branches of your family, considering they’d have to come to America to watch you."

Sirius couldn’t help the small, sharp grin that pulled at his mouth. That would almost be worth it just for the rage at Sunday brunch alone.

"And," she said, her voice dropping slightly, "the Bolshoi Ballet."

That made Sirius freeze.

The Bolshoi. The literal top of the mountain. Legendary. Untouchable.

His mouth felt dry. He hadn’t even realized they knew his name, let alone were watching him.

Ms. Rosier stepped closer, her voice lowering into something almost kind. “You have real talent, Sirius. Not just raw skill, but something more important. Presence. Command. That stage needs you as much as you need it. Remember that.”

He didn’t say anything, too stunned to trust his voice.

"This show," she continued, "this is going to be the performance that proves to the world that you’re not just good enough to dance at the highest level. You’re a privilege to have."

For a long moment, Sirius just stood there, gripping the strap of his dance bag so tightly his knuckles went white.

"Thank you," he barely got out, voice tight with disbelief.

The smile on her face was odd — small, almost proud — but not unwelcome.

"Don't thank me, Mr. Black. I am simply the messenger," she said, patting his back with an air of finality. "Go home. Rest. I’ll see you and my son tomorrow for rehearsal at three."

With that, she turned and began gathering her things, not waiting for a reply.

Sirius stood frozen in the middle of the studio, vibrating from the news.

The Bolshoi knows who he is.

The thought echoed through him, over and over, louder than his pulse, louder than the aching in his calves or the stifling tension of the day. He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, eyes unfocused.

The Bolshoi. Knows who he is.

He didn’t even know what to do with that.

Chapter Text

The pub was packed for a Thursday, golden light flickering off the rows of bottles behind the bar and music pulsing low through the chatter. Sirius sat with one leg hooked over the other, nursing a gin and tonic that was mostly melted ice now. James was on his third pint, talking Lily’s ear off about a choreo concept he thought up for their contemporary improv module — something about dancing in complete silence to emphasize internal rhythm. She wasn’t really listening, but she smiled like she was. Mary had her chin resting on her hand, the other fiddling with a lime wedge from her drink.

Sirius couldn’t tell if he should bring it up. The Bolshoi. The fact that Ms. Rosier had said they knew his name. The fact that he might, in a few months, have a choice that could rip him away from all of this — from the school, from the stage that had become a home, from the mess he shared with Regulus every day in the studio.

But how do you say something like that without sounding arrogant? Or worse — scared?

“Earth to Sirius,” Mary said, waving a hand in front of his face. “You’ve been in space for the last five minutes.”

Sirius blinked, opening his mouth to respond when the pub door swung open.

“Sorry we’re late—” Peter called as he stepped in, brushing off rain.

Sirius’ stomach dropped.

Trailing just behind him, shaking water from his hair and tucking a soft wool scarf into the collar of his coat, was him.

Remus.

He looked even better out of rehearsal clothing — worn jeans, rings on his fingers, the kind of oversized coat Sirius swore only musicians could pull off without looking like they were drowning in it. His cane tapped gently on the pub floor as he followed Peter toward the booth, eyes scanning the table — and then landing on Sirius.

Their eyes locked.

Sirius' mouth went dry.

“Everyone, this is Remus,” Peter was saying. “He’s the violinist I told you about. Thought it was about time he joined us.”

Shit.

Sirius managed to sit up straighter, to nod once, coolly — like his heart wasn’t racing and his palms weren’t suddenly sweating.

Remus gave a small smile in return. Quiet. Controlled.

“Hey mate, I’m James.” James reached across the table to shake Remus’ hand with his usual easy charm, then gestured to the rest of the group. “This is Lily, Mary, and Sirius. We’ve got another friend who usually comes out with us — Marlene, she does costume design — but… she’s busy tonight.”

“Nice to meet you all,” Remus said with a polite nod, voice low and calm.

Sirius could hardly breathe.

Up close, Remus was somehow even more beautiful than he’d looked across the studio. His features were sharp but soft at the edges — lived-in, like music had shaped him gently over time. There was a faint scar across the bridge of his nose, barely visible unless you really looked — which, of course, Sirius was doing. Too openly, it seemed, because Remus caught him staring, and his cheeks flushed just a little. Not embarrassed exactly — more like he wasn’t used to being looked at like that.

“You want anything from the bar?” Peter asked, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on a hook.

Remus blinked, turning to him with a slightly surprised expression, like he hadn’t expected anyone to think of him.

“I’ll just have a beer. Thank you.”

Peter nodded and made his way to the bar, and Remus slid into the seat beside Sirius. Directly beside him. Their shoulders weren’t quite touching, but they could be, if either of them moved even slightly.

Sirius took a sip of his drink to distract himself. It didn’t work.

“You were in the studio the other day, right?” Remus asked, turning his head slightly toward Sirius. His voice was softer now, more casual, and Sirius had the fleeting thought that if he ever got the chance to hear this man whisper into a microphone, he might actually melt.

“Um, yeah? I’m in the studio every day,” Sirius muttered, trying for casual and landing squarely on dickish. He winced immediately. “I mean — sorry, I didn’t mean that like I think I’m—”

“No, yeah, of course,” Remus cut in quickly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I just meant — you definitely don’t remember, but I walked in by accident on Saturday. Anyway, it’s not important.”

“Oh! No, I remember. The guy with the violin case, right?” Sirius said, a little too fast, a little too eager, but at least it didn’t sound rude this time.

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Impressive. I didn’t think I made much of an impression.”

“You did,” Sirius said, before he could stop himself. Then, realizing how that sounded, he added, “The cane — and the case — kind of made you stand out.”

Remus hummed softly, amused. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

And Sirius was definitely flirting now. Not intensely — nothing overt — but his voice had taken on that slight purr it always did when someone caught his interest.

And Remus… well. He wasn’t pulling away.

The drinks came in rounds, and the chatter rose with each clink of glasses. James was animatedly telling some story about a disastrous pas de deux rehearsal with a partner who kept trying to improvise. Lily kept interrupting him to correct the facts, and Mary was snorting into her gin and tonic.

Sirius leaned back slightly, letting himself be carried by the rhythm of it all — the laughter, the teasing, the flicker of Remus’ smile when Peter sarcastically called Lily “a terror in pointe shoes.”

Every so often, Sirius found himself glancing sideways — not obviously, he hoped — just to see if Remus was still sitting there, still at ease, still maybe enjoying himself.

He was.

And then the door banged open.

Marlene stormed in, cheeks flushed, hair windswept, scarf half off her shoulder and eyes blazing.

“I never,” she announced, not even fully at the table yet, “want to date women again.”

James choked on his drink.

“They are so complicated,” she went on, dropping into the seat beside Mary and waving a hand dramatically. “I spent the whole evening trying to figure out if we were on a date or if I had somehow been emotionally hijacked into an interview about my vulnerability history. Men! Men were so simple! Men don’t ask you what your rising sign is before the bread comes!”

Lily blinked. “I mean. That’s… oddly specific.”

“She literally told me I had a closed throat chakra, Lily!”

“You do have a tendency to talk like you're at war,” Mary added with a smirk.

Marlene huffed, grabbing Mary’s drink and taking a sip like it belonged to her.

Then her eyes caught on the one unfamiliar face at the table. “Oh,” she said, straightening slightly, voice immediately shifting from manic rage to curious charm. “Someone new.”

Remus gave a polite smile, clearly a little caught off guard.

“I’m Marlene,” she said, holding out a hand. “Costume designer. Lesbian menace. Serial dater of women I shouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.”

“Remus,” he replied, shaking her hand carefully. “Violinist. And… I’m sorry about your throat chakra.”

Sirius snorted his drink, and Marlene beamed.

“Ouu, I like him.”

“Of course you do,” Peter said dryly. “He’s a Pisces.”

Marlene gasped like he’d slapped her. “Take that back.”

“Not unless you take your drama back.”

Their bickering filled the table, light and chaotic and familiar, and Sirius let himself sink into it — but he didn’t miss the way Remus laughed under his breath, eyes crinkling at the corners. Or the way he kept glancing at Sirius when the conversation got loud, like maybe he found it all a little overwhelming but kind of… liked it anyway.

The pub was too loud all of a sudden.

Sirius laughed at something James shouted across the table — or at least pretended to — then excused himself with a quick pat to Lily’s shoulder and a muttered, “Be right back.”

He slipped out the side door into the alley, the air immediately cooler, the quiet welcome. With slightly trembling fingers, he pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his coat pocket and lit it, inhaling like it was the first deep breath he'd had all night. His head tipped back against the wall, smoke curling from his lips.

The door creaked open behind him.

Sirius didn’t have to look to know who it was — something in his chest went tight before the steps even stopped.

“Star ballet dancer smoking a fag?” Remus' voice was amused, curious, low. “Didn’t think I’d see that.”

Sirius huffed a laugh, eyes flicking toward him. “I only smoke when I’m about seven drinks deep and sitting next to someone who makes my face hot and heart race.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, his eyes went wide. “Shit—” he added, almost under his breath.

But Remus was just smiling.

Not mocking. Not cruel. Just amused — and a little bit intrigued.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. The smoke drifted between them, warm and faintly sweet, and Sirius suddenly felt far too aware of how close Remus’ hand was to his.

“Can I have a pull?” Remus asked, voice quieter now.

Sirius swallowed. Nodded. Held the cigarette out, but instead of taking it, Remus leaned in, one hand brushing Sirius’ fingers gently — deliberately — as he took the cigarette straight from between them and brought it to his lips.

He inhaled.

Exhaled.

Sirius couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe, either.

The glow of the ember lit the sharp edge of Remus’ cheekbone for a second before he leaned back just a little, meeting Sirius’ eyes.

“Not bad,” Remus murmured, smoke curling between them like a secret.

Sirius had never been colder in the night air — or felt warmer inside.

They stood in silence for a minute, passing the cigarette between them. The alley was quiet but alive — the distant thrum of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from inside, the soft scratch of Remus’ heel against the pavement.

“So,” Remus said eventually, glancing sideways at Sirius. “Are you excited? About the show, I mean. Playing the White Swan and all that?”

Sirius exhaled smoke and rolled his eyes, leaning back harder against the wall like the question physically weighed him down.

“Excited’s a strong word,” he muttered.

Remus arched an eyebrow. “You don’t want the part?”

Sirius shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s just—” He paused, then sighed. “Look, first of all, it’s a female role. I know ballet’s full of traditions and gender-bending and whatever, but that doesn’t make it any less weird and people will still whisper about it. Second, I’m not… I’m not delicate. Not really. No matter how badly people want me to be. I’ve spent my whole life with people trying to soften my edges — but they don’t soften, they just… crack.”

He flicked the ash off the cigarette and looked down at the ground.

“If I had to play a female part, it should’ve been the Black Swan. That role’s about power. Control. Rage. That part?” He snorted. “That part was made for me.”

The quiet settled again, thicker this time, like the night was listening.

Sirius didn’t expect Remus to say anything.

But he did.

“Well,” Remus said slowly, “maybe they gave you the female lead because of how pretty you are.”

Sirius blinked, looking over. Remus’ mouth twitched.

“And from what I saw of you dancing in the studio,” Remus went on, voice lower now, “I’d say you were pretty delicate. Maybe not all the time. But in the right ways. And yeah, maybe you were made for the Black Swan. But that doesn’t mean you can’t make the White Swan for you.”

Sirius stared.

His brain completely short-circuited.

Pretty. Delicate. Make it for you.

His mind screamed: kiss him kiss him kiss him kiss him—

“We should go inside,” Sirius muttered, voice suddenly very hoarse.

Remus gave a little smile, the kind that made Sirius feel like the air between them was on fire.

“Yeah,” Remus said, flicking the cigarette to the ground and stepping on it. “Alright.”

Remus leaned on his cane, the soft click of it grounding him as he turned back toward the bar. He held the door open behind him, glancing over his shoulder.

“Coming?” he asked casually, like Sirius hadn’t just had the air knocked out of his lungs.

But Sirius couldn’t move.

He stood there, rooted to the pavement, staring at this complete stranger who — somehow — understood him better than people who had known him for years. Remus didn’t flinch at Sirius’ frustration. He didn’t offer the usual tired line: Be grateful, Sirius. It’s the lead. Suck it up and dance.

No. Instead, Remus had looked at him — really looked at him — and said he could make the part his own. That he didn’t have to shrink to fit into it. That it could bend for him.

No one had ever said that.

Sirius had spent years forcing himself into shapes that didn’t fit. Stretching, breaking, trying to make himself smaller, prettier, quieter, easier. He’d danced until his toes bled and smiled when he wanted to scream. And now… now someone had given him permission to stop apologizing for it.

Remus tilted his head slightly, one brow lifting in a silent question: You alright?

And all Sirius could do was nod.

He dropped the cigarette to the ground, grinding it beneath the heel of his boot, and finally — finally — stepped forward, slipping past Remus and into the warmth of the bar.

The door swung shut behind them, the sound sealing something unspoken between them.

Sirius didn’t look back.

But he could feel the shift inside him, small and slow — like the first breath after being underwater too long.

Something was changing.

And it started with a man named Remus Lupin.

Chapter Text

The posters had gone up that morning.

Big white lettering across rich velvet red:
“The Swan / Le Cygne”
Opening Night: March 10th
Royal Academy of Dance, Main Stage

Five months exactly. One hundred and fifty-two days. And suddenly everything felt real.

Sirius stood in front of one of the posters on his way in, tugging the collar of his hoodie up against the October chill. His name was second on the billing, just beneath Regulus Black — of course. The brothers were dancing the dual leads, and the announcement had the entire academy buzzing. Some students had started a betting pool on who would outshine who by opening night. Sirius wasn’t sure whether to laugh or throw up.

Rehearsals were tense from the start. Everyone moved sharper, tighter — like they could feel the pressure settling on their spines. 

Ms. Rosier stood near the front with Margot and Isaac flanking her, all three of them dressed more formally than usual. That was Sirius’ first clue something was up.

“Before we begin today,” Ms. Rosier called, clapping her hands once for attention, “we have a special guest.”

A ripple moved through the room. The dancers all stilled. Sirius pulled his hair into a loose bun, already dreading whatever donor or critic they’d dragged in for a mid-season ego boost.

But then the door opened.

And she walked in.

Tall. Composed. Spine like a ruler.

Walburga Black.

Her heels clicked against the studio floor like a metronome, and everything about her screamed precision — from the gloss on her lips to the pearl clasp on her bag. She didn’t look around. She didn’t need to. The room bent around her naturally.

Sirius didn’t bother hiding his groan. He tipped his head back and muttered under his breath, “Of course.”

Across the room, Regulus straightened instantly. Chin lifted. Shoulders locked. Like he was born to perform for her — and maybe he was.

Margot gave Sirius a pointed glance, and he rolled his eyes again, softer this time, slipping his phone into his bag and stepping into line with the others.

Five months to go.

And now she was watching.

Walburga didn’t sit. She took her place at the front of the class beside Ms. Rosier — tall, statuesque, unmoving. The Black family resemblance was unnerving. Sirius felt it more than saw it. The way she stood, chin tilted half a degree higher than necessary. Like the entire room owed her something.

Ms. Rosier faced the class, arms crossed. “As most of you know,” she began, “Walburga Black performed the Black Swan in her production of Swan Lake with the Paris Opera Ballet. Her portrayal is still studied in elite companies to this day.”

It was like a switch flipped in the room.

Dozens of heads turned — all toward the two Black brothers.

Sirius held the gaze of one dancer before quirking a brow and looking away. Regulus didn’t even blink. He stared straight ahead, jaw tight, expression blank. But Sirius could see it happening already. The tension in his little brother’s shoulders. The slight hitch in his breath.

Not just Swan Lake . Not just the Paris Opera Ballet. But her .

The legend. Their mother.

“Positions!” Ms. Rosier barked, and the class sprang into motion.

Rehearsal began with the ensemble, Sirius and Regulus falling into opposite lines. Sirius could feel Walburga’s eyes moving across the room like a laser — but it was Regulus who bore the full weight of her scrutiny. And it showed.

Regulus’ lines, normally elegant and precise, faltered. His turnout wasn’t as clean, and he missed a cue by less than a beat — but it was enough. Enough for her to strike her walking stick against the floor with a crack that echoed through the studio.

“No,” she said flatly. “Again.”

Regulus blinked. Reset.

The music began once more, and again, his steps lost their usual surety. His shoulders were stiff. His core too locked. It was small, barely noticeable to anyone who didn’t know him — but Sirius noticed.

Crack.

The cane hit the floor again, and this time Regulus flinched.

“Your weight is too far forward. You look clumsy,” Walburga said, her voice sharp and cutting. “You are overcorrecting. You know better than that.”

Another reset. Another sequence. Another crack.

Sirius’ jaw tensed. Watching it was worse than being on the receiving end of it. Walburga didn’t raise her voice, didn’t break composure — she didn’t need to. Every word sliced through the air like a blade.

He looked at Regulus — pale, perfect Regulus — and for the first time in a long while, Sirius didn’t feel anger or resentment.

He felt sorry.

“Enough of this,” Walburga’s voice cuts through the studio like a blade. Regulus pauses mid-movement, forcing his face into a mask of composure. But Sirius sees it—just for a second—the shimmer of tears clinging to his brother’s lower lashes. Regulus keeps his chin high, but it’s clear the scrutiny is carving into him.

“Sirius Black and Evan Rosier,” Walburga calls, already turning away to take a sip of water. “Let’s rehearse the pas de deux during The Lakeside .” Her words are not suggestions. They’re demands, sharp and final.

Evan steps forward reluctantly, glancing at Sirius with the kind of nervousness that doesn’t belong to him. Usually, Evan is cocky, sure-footed. Now, his hands shake ever so slightly as he adjusts his posture. Sirius notices, and grabs Evan’s wrists—not harshly, but firmly enough to make him pause.

“You’re good,” Sirius says, voice low and steady, just for Evan to hear. Walburga’s back is turned, and the rest of the dancers are still filing out of the space. It’s just enough time for a breath. “You know you are.”

Evan gives the smallest nod, and Sirius releases him, stepping forward into the center of the studio to face the mirrors—and his mother.

He won’t be afraid of her. Not anymore. She doesn’t own him, not his body and certainly not his dancing. Not since he left. And she’s too smart to do anything to him here, not with a room full of witnesses who hang on her every word.

Sirius doesn’t look at her as the music starts. He focuses on the melody—the soft swell of strings, the precise rhythm of the piano. The tension in his shoulders melts slightly. He doesn’t think of her gaze burning into the back of his skull, doesn’t think of her sharp tongue, just lets the music carry him.

When her voice slices across the room with a correction—“Higher, softer on the landing!”—he doesn’t flinch. He absorbs it without reacting, body moving as though he hadn’t even heard her. When she stomps the floor with the end of her stick near his feet, he only flicks his gaze her way, offering her a glare colder than any winter lake. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps going.

They run the dance three times.

Three full times under her heavy, critical eyes.

Then, finally—“Stop.”

Silence settles in the room like a held breath. Walburga walks forward slowly, eyes locked on Sirius.

“You will embarrass yourself if you dance like that,” she says, tone flat and merciless. “Be softer. Be smaller. Your role is not one of someone who is big and brash. Your role is kind. Be kind—or quit. Stop trying to be the drama queen you are and just. fit. the. role… even if it means breaking yourself.”

Her words fall like stones in the silence.

Sirius doesn’t flinch.

He meets her eyes. Holds them. His throat burns, his jaw clenches, but he says nothing. If he opens his mouth now, he’s not sure if it’ll be words or fire that spills out.

So he stands there.

Still. Silent.

Unbroken.

And furious.

—

“God, she is infuriating ,” Sirius groans, sprawled on his back in the middle of the studio. The room is quiet now—everyone else has left, except him and James, both drenched in sweat and utterly spent.

James lets out a grunt from where he’s slumped against the wall, rubbing his foot. “She hit me during my second run-through. I think she was aiming for the floor, but when I flinched, she gave me that look like I’d offended the choreography personally.”

“I’d say she assaulted you with intent,” Sirius mutters. “I might sue.”

James snorts. “I was excited to play Baron Von Rothbart. Now I just want to retire early and open a flower shop.”

“How are you feeling about the Baron role, though?” Sirius asks as he finally sits up and starts untying his shoes. “I mean, Ms. Rosier assigning Evan as Siegfried is... interesting. You were made for Siegfried, honestly.”

James glances over, lifting an eyebrow. “You just wanted an excuse to fall in love with me onstage.”

Sirius grins. “What can I say? I’d have made a brilliant princess.”

“Mate, you are the princess.”

Sirius throws his sweaty towel at him, laughing. “Shut up.”

“Seriously though,” Sirius stretches with a groan, “Evan’s good, but you’d have crushed it. All that yearning and twirling and eye contact. That’s your whole vibe.”

“I don’t yearn.”

“You literally performed an entire solo last week like you were mourning a lost lover.”

“I was,” James says, deadpan. “My last cup of coffee.”

James then snickers at his own joke. “You coming out tonight? Everyone’s going—Lily, Marlene, Remus…”

Sirius freezes for half a second. Remus. He hasn’t seen him since that night out at the pub. Between rehearsals and fittings and being emotionally battered by his mother, he’d shoved the memory into the back of his mind. Now it floods back: the cane, the voice, the way Remus looked at him like he understood .

“What? Why are you bringing up Remus?” Sirius asks, a little too quickly.

James stares. “Mate. You’re about as subtle as a kick drum. You like him.”

“Shove off.” Sirius stands, grabbing his bag. “Yeah, I’ll come.”

James smiles, triumphant. “Good. After today, you deserve a pint or five.”

“I feel like I should call my therapist first.”

“She’s got her work cut out for her.” James heads toward the hallway. “See you tonight, drama queen!”

“See you, villain understudy!”

—

The pub is warm and noisy, golden light flickering off beer glasses and sticky tables. Sirius steps in, already halfway to buzzing with anticipation. He shrugs out of his coat and immediately makes a beeline for the bar, determined to drink away any lingering traces of Walburga’s voice in his head.

“Black!” James shouts over the music, waving him over. The whole group is there—Lily sitting in a booth deep in conversation with Peter, her hands gesturing animatedly as he laughs along. Mary and Marlene are perched on stools near the bar, sharing a drink and talking over each other like they’ve got six conversations happening at once.

And then there’s—

Remus.

Sirius slows as he catches sight of him, leaning against the bar, one hand curled around a glass, the other tucked loosely into the pocket of his coat. He’s wearing a band tee under a plaid overshirt and his hair curls slightly from the humidity of the pub. His cane rests against the stool beside him.

“Hey,” Sirius says, sliding up next to him.

Remus turns, eyebrows raised and expression unreadable. “So,” he starts, “we have one flirty alleyway moment and then nothing? No text, no message, not even a dramatic dance solo in my honor? I thought I’d been ghosted.”

Sirius winces with a guilty smile. “Oof. I deserve that.”

Remus arches a brow. “Yeah. You kind of do.”

“I’ve been…” Sirius sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Busy. Rehearsals. Fittings. Constant maternal emotional warfare.”

Remus softens. “That bad?”

Sirius huffs out a breath. “Worse. But you—” He nudges Remus lightly with his elbow. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Remus smiles. “You’re just saying that because I’m not holding a critique stick.”

Sirius laughs. “That’s part of it, yeah. The other part is—” He catches Remus’ gaze, slower this time. “—you actually make me feel like I’m not completely shit at what I do.”

“Well,” Remus says, his voice low and teasing, “you’re not.”

Sirius’ skin warms beneath the compliment, and then warmer still as Remus’ fingers graze his forearm when reaching for his drink. The touch lingers, just a second too long, just intentional enough to make Sirius’ heart skip.

Yes, he thinks. This is a great way to forget about his mother. The noise, the drink, and most of all—Remus, whose glances burn hotter than whiskey, whose hands keep finding Sirius’ arm, the small of his back, his wrist.

Sirius smiles lazily and leans closer. “So, if I un-ghosted you… think I still have a chance?”

Remus grins. “Hmm. You might have to dance for it.”

“God, I was hoping you'd say that.”

Chapter Text

"Again."

The music rewinds. The air is thick with sweat and frustration, and Sirius' limbs are trembling—not with effort, but with rage. He starts from the top of the solo, throwing himself into the movement. His legs extend, arms sweeping, but he already knows—it's not enough.

"Stop!" Margot barks, heels clicking as she storms onto the floor. "Stop, stop, stop—Lord, where are the straight lines, Sirius?"

She’s circling him like a vulture, eyes narrowed and merciless. "Your arabesque looks like you’re reaching for a sandwich. Your transitions are lazy, your center is off, and your expression—do you think this is a joke? Are you acting like the White Swan, or are you just flailing about for fun?"

“I’m trying,” Sirius grits out.

"Try harder."

He tries again. The piano starts. He launches into the sequence, biting back the ache in his legs. He lands a jump half a beat too soon.

"Again."

He repeats the turn.

"Again."

His chest is heaving now, sweat sticking his shirt to his back, feet burning. He misses a beat, the slightest falter.

Margot groans. “ Enough! ”

She throws up her hands and turns to Ms. Rosier, who only watches silently from the corner with her arms folded.

“I can’t.” she mutters to herself. “I can’t watch him butcher my choreography any longer. Do it again? What’s the point—he won’t fix it. He doesn’t listen. ” Her voice sharpens as she turns on Sirius. “You can stay here, alone, until your feet are bleeding for all I care. Maybe then you’ll understand what this role costs. ”

She storms out. The door slams shut behind her.

Silence.

Sirius stands there, frozen in the middle of the studio, chest heaving, fists clenched. The piano hums its final dying notes before the silence swallows everything whole.

He stays like that for a beat.

Then, with a furious scream muffled by his teeth, he storms to the side of the room and throws a chair across the studio. It crashes hard against the mirrored wall with a sharp metallic clang, skidding to a stop.

His hands grip his hair, knuckles white, body shaking with the weight of everything—his mother, Margot, the pressure, the stares. The idea that maybe they’re right. That he isn’t the White Swan. That he’ll never be enough.

“Am I interrupting?”

Regulus’ voice cuts through the quiet studio like a blade, sharp and clear. Sirius doesn’t have to look to know it’s him—he’d know that clipped tone anywhere. His blood is still humming from the chair-throwing rage, and now it’s boiling.

“I swear to God, Reg, if you came here to try and get me to commit murder, you might actually get what you want.”

Sirius turns to face him, ready for a fight—but when he sees Regulus isn’t wearing that usual smug expression, something softens at the edges. He looks tired, tense, but not cruel.

“Not why I came here,” Regulus says, stepping fully into the studio. Even walking, he’s all precision—shoulders aligned, spine straight, perfectly placed feet. Of course. “I came to ask you something.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest, his breathing still heavy. “Is it whether I think you should dye your hair? Because the answer is yes. That stick up your arse needs a change.”

Regulus doesn't take the bait. He just sighs, then meets Sirius’ eyes head-on.

“I came to ask if you’d like for us to…” he hesitates, like the words hurt on the way out, “…help each other.”

Sirius lets out a bark of a laugh. “Help each other?” He shakes his head and turns away to grab his water bottle. “That’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said. You should open for a comedian.”

“I’m being serious.”

“I thought I was Sirius.”

Regulus stares at him, deadpan. Not even a blink. “You’re exhausting.”

“Try being me.”

“I’m trying to be helpful.”

Sirius snorts. “Since when?”

Regulus doesn’t flinch. “You were made for Black Swan. I was made for White Swan. That’s the truth, and we both know it. You’ve got the presence, the darkness. I’ve got the technique. If we stopped trying to one-up each other for two seconds, we could actually pull this off. ”

Sirius leans against the barre, skeptical. “And why would you want to help me? What’s the angle? Afraid I’ll outshine you?”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “Afraid Mum’ll disown us both if we screw this up. Which, I’ll admit, is less of a threat for you and more of a Tuesday. But still .”

“Fuck that,” Sirius mutters. “Who cares what she thinks?”

“I don’t care what she thinks,” Regulus says, leveling him with a look, “but I do care that the Bolshoi is watching.”

Sirius freezes. The air seems to stop moving in the room. Slowly, he turns to face his brother. “How do you know that?”

Regulus just smirks. “I didn’t. But I do now.”

Sirius’ mouth drops open slightly, caught, and Regulus tilts his head. “That’s why you’re so worked up, isn’t it? That’s why Margot screaming at you got under your skin—you know they’re watching. And you’re terrified of not being enough.”

Sirius narrows his eyes. “Go to hell.”

Regulus shrugs. “Probably. But first—do we have a deal?”

Sirius sighs, long and hard, running a hand down his face. “Fine. We help each other. But if you start trying to sabotage me, I swear—”

“You’ll throw a chair at me too?” Regulus says, eyes flicking to the dented wall. “Noted.”

They hold eye contact a second longer than necessary—brittle, bruised, but something like an understanding forming between them. It isn’t affection, not really. But it’s not nothing.

“God, I hate you,” Sirius mutters.

“Likewise,” Regulus replies, and there’s the barest trace of a smirk on his lips.

The air between them is still humming when the studio door creaks open again.

Remus steps inside slowly, messenger bag slung across his shoulder, eyes scanning the room—then halting when he sees both Black brothers standing there, not quite facing each other, but not looking away either.

“…Should I come back later?” he asks, voice quiet but laced with dry amusement. “Or are you two planning to kill each other with pirouettes?”

Sirius doesn’t even hesitate. “No, Reg here was just leaving.”

Regulus glances between them, gaze flicking from his brother to Remus and back. His lips twitch into something unreadable, maybe even smug, but he doesn’t argue. He simply exhales through his nose, adjusts the sleeves of his perfectly tailored rehearsal jumper, and walks toward the door.

“Don’t strain yourself, Sirius,” Regulus says, voice smooth as glass as he passes. “I’d hate for you to sweat too hard next time we rehearse.”

“Bye, Regulus,” Sirius calls, with all the venom of a fond insult.

Regulus vanishes through the door without another word.

Remus watches Regulus walk out, eyebrows raised. “I take it that wasn’t a heartwarming family moment.”

Sirius exhales, dragging a shaky hand through his hair. He feels like he's vibrating under his skin, still full of adrenaline and sharp words unsaid. “That was a heartwarming moment—for us. No one cried, no one bled. Progress, really.”

Remus snorts and leans against the doorframe, tapping his cane lightly against the floor. His smile is gentle, but there’s a sharpness in his eyes that makes Sirius feel seen in a way that’s a little too much.

“So,” Remus says, “I’m guessing you’re busy? Thought your rehearsal ended at four?”

“Yeah, it was supposed to,” Sirius mutters. He glances around the studio—silent now, golden with late-afternoon light—but everything still feels tense, air thick with the echo of Margot’s voice and the sting of his brother’s taunts.

He meets Remus' eyes again. It feels like they’re alone in a snow globe, suspended.

“I should run through my solo once more before heading home,” Sirius adds, like a confession.

Remus nods and, without a word, steps further into the room. He picks up the chair Sirius had thrown earlier and settles into it gracefully, folding his long limbs with ease. Then, evenly, he says, “Then run through it.”

Sirius blinks. He hadn’t expected that. He thought Remus might tell him to take a break, to sit, maybe even distract him with a flirt or two. But instead—Remus wants to see him dance.

Sirius swallows. “Alright,” he breathes, and turns.

He moves to the center of the studio. The light pools around him like water, pale and warm. He closes his eyes for a moment and lets the day bleed out of him. His mother’s voice. Margot’s sharp tongue. Regulus. The way he felt like a child in a room full of mirrors.

He breathes in.

And then he begins.

Every movement is deliberate, restrained. There’s something aching about the White Swan—the fragility, the longing. Sirius draws his arms up like wings, and suddenly it’s not about being perfect. It’s about being honest . The trembling in his fingers isn’t a mistake; it’s vulnerability. The slow tilt of his head isn’t for show; it’s a plea. He softens into the melancholy, lets it stretch across his limbs like silk. He is the White Swan: aching for escape, for understanding, for something just beyond reach.

He doesn’t think about the Bolshoi. He doesn’t think about how many times Margot told him to start again . He just thinks about the stillness that comes after heartbreak. The way loneliness hums in your bones when you try to fly and your wings just… fold.

When he finishes, he holds the final pose, his breath tearing from his lungs, his body trembling with the weight of everything he just released. His pulse thunders in his ears.

Slowly, he turns his head.

Remus is watching him.

Not just watching. Seeing .

Sirius feels a flush creep up his neck, pinking his cheeks. His fingers twitch at his sides. The air feels heavier, like it's pressing in around just the two of them.

He walks over—feet bare, steps soft—and stops in front of where Remus still sits, cane now laid beside the chair. His heart is pounding in his chest like it’s trying to be heard.

He leans in just slightly, head tilted, the beginnings of a smirk ghosting on his lips.

“Well?” he says, voice low, teasing. “Was that okay, Mr. Lupin ?”

Remus’ breath catches, and Sirius hears it. Feels it.

And then—before Sirius can think or blink—Remus is on his feet. His cane clatters to the floor, forgotten, as his hands come up to cradle Sirius’ face.

The kiss comes fast, like a held breath finally breaking.

Sirius makes a small, startled sound against his mouth, but his hands find Remus’ waist, grounding himself as the world spins around them. It’s soft, but there’s a tremor in it—like both of them are afraid of what this means and too desperate to stop.

Sirius kisses him back like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

They pull apart slowly, like neither of them really wants to, but the air has shifted—warmer, somehow quieter. Sirius’ eyes are wide, lips still parted, and Remus is close enough that he can feel his breath, can see the places where he’s trying to steady himself.

Sirius lets out a soft, stunned laugh, eyes fluttering down to Remus’ lips and then back up again. “I think I like that better than applause.”

Remus huffs a breath, and the laugh that escapes him is small but real, his eyes crinkling at the corners. But then he just… looks at Sirius. Long and searching, like there’s something pressing against the back of his throat that he doesn’t know how to say.

He opens his mouth once, then closes it.

And then, finally, he just says, “Are you hungry?”

Sirius blinks. The question catches him off guard in the gentlest way possible.

“Starving,” he admits, a little breathless. “I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

Remus nods. “Come over. I’ll cook.”

Sirius hesitates. He glances down at himself—sweat-slicked, muscles still trembling from the solo, the back of his shirt sticking to his skin. “I’m disgusting,” he says. “I need a shower before I can be around actual humans.”

Remus doesn’t miss a beat. “I have a shower.”

There’s a beat of stillness. They just look at each other.

It would be so easy to ruin this moment, Sirius thinks—to say something flippant, to laugh it off, to pretend this isn’t what it feels like: a turning point. An invitation. Something new blooming between them with hands and hunger and the faint memory of a kiss.

He nods once, slow.

“Okay.”

—

Remus’ flat is small but warm in the way most things touched by him are. The walls are lined with cluttered bookshelves and framed prints—some vintage, some artfully strange—and there's a lived-in comfort to it all. A plant is thriving in the corner by the window, despite the weak London sun, and an oversized cardigan is draped over the back of the couch like it lives there permanently. The kitchen is tiny, galley-style, but it smells like spice and coffee and something faintly sweet.

Sirius follows him inside, still a little shaky from the rush of everything, and Remus gestures toward the bathroom at the end of the short hall.

“Go on. Towels are under the sink. I’ll start dinner.”

Sirius nods, murmuring a quiet thanks as he disappears into the bathroom. It’s clean but not obsessively so—there are products on the counter, toothpaste smudged on the sink, and a half-used candle on the windowsill that smells like clove and bergamot.

He peels off his damp shirt, trying not to catch his reflection in the mirror, but failing.

There they are—thin, raised, pale against his skin. Slashes that trace across his lower back and curve up his right side. They’ve faded, but not enough. They’ll never really fade, not when he can still hear the shouting, feel the sting, the heat of shame that came with them.

Sirius’ throat tightens. He looks away quickly.

He steps into the shower and lets the hot water hit him like a wall, steam curling around his body as his muscles begin to unclench one by one. He ties his hair up loosely to keep it dry, and then reaches for the soap.

It smells like Remus. Earthy, clean, a little spicy—cedar and amber and something just shy of sandalwood. Sirius shuts his eyes and breathes it in. It’s grounding, oddly tender.

By the time he steps out, the bathroom is filled with steam and the mirror is fogged over, offering only a vague outline of his body. On the counter, a folded pair of navy sweatpants and a soft grey t-shirt are waiting. Remus’ clothes.

Sirius hesitates for a moment before pulling them on. The shirt is a little too big, the sleeves loose around his arms, and the sweatpants pool slightly at his ankles. It smells like the same soap, like clean laundry, like comfort.

He takes one last glance at the mirror, at the fog, at the softened version of himself, and then steps out into the hall.

His hair is still tied up as he walks over to join Remus in the kitchen where he has already started cooking.

Sirius pads barefoot into the kitchen, the sleeves of Remus’ shirt brushing his elbows, still slightly damp at the collar from his hair. The fabric is soft and worn in, and for some reason, that alone makes his chest ache.

Remus is already at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The kitchen is full of mouthwatering smells—garlic, butter, something savory bubbling gently on the burner. Without thinking, Sirius hops up and settles on the counter beside him, legs swinging slightly, eyes fixed on the stove.

“So,” he starts, voice lighter now, easier. “What are you making, Chef Lupin?”

Remus glances at him with a half-smile. “Mushroom risotto. It’s the only thing I make well enough that people don’t pretend to like it.”

Sirius chuckles. “Smells like something you’d get at a five-star place, actually. Not that I eat at many of those.”

Remus hums and keeps stirring, the wooden spoon clinking gently against the sides of the pot. Sirius watches him in silence for a few moments, studying the way his brow furrows in concentration, the way he sways ever so slightly as he moves—like music is in him even when none is playing.

Then, after a moment: “Why did you join the orchestra at the academy?”

Remus looks up at him, surprised by the question, but doesn’t hesitate. “My mum was a dancer,” he says, still focused on the pot. “Ballet. She was never famous or anything, but she loved it. And I used to go with her to the studio when I was little. I always wanted to dance, but…”

His gaze flicks down to his leg, to the cane leaning against the wall behind him. “It was never really an option. My knee’s always been rubbish.”

Sirius doesn’t say anything, just nods softly, encouraging.

“So I started playing instead,” Remus continues, voice gentler now, touched with nostalgia. “At first just to feel like I could be part of what she loved. I’d play, and she’d dance—it was just the two of us in the studio, usually after hours. And it stuck. I started falling in love with music the way she loved movement.”

Sirius’ throat tightens as he watches him. He can picture it too well—a younger Remus hunched over a piano while a woman spun and leapt barefoot across a worn dance floor.

“Your mom sounds lovely,” Sirius says quietly.

Remus smiles without looking at him, the kind of smile that lingers in the corners of his mouth and softens his whole face. “She was,” he says, softly. Happily.

They continued to sit in silence, the only sound the gentle simmer and occasional sizzle of food cooking on the stove. The air was warm, thick with the scent of garlic and cream, and yet Sirius felt something else humming beneath it all—an odd kind of stillness that made his skin tingle.

His gaze drifted out of the kitchen and landed on the living room, where a modest but well-loved record player sat nestled between stacks of books and a worn armchair. Without thinking, Sirius slipped off the counter and padded toward it, feet soundless on the hardwood floor.

“You’ve got good taste!” Sirius called toward the kitchen as he crouched beside the crate of vinyls. He could hear Remus let out a low chuckle in response, but no words followed. Sirius smiled anyway.

The records were sorted meticulously by genre—classical, folk, soft rock. His fingers trailed reverently along the spines until he came to a slim section of bossa nova covers, and his heart gave a small, inexplicable thud of delight. Astrud Gilberto. João Gilberto. Antonio Carlos Jobim. His mother used to sneer at the genre—called it "lazy music for lazy people." But Sirius loved it. Always had. It was music you could disappear into without needing to be perfect. Just move, just feel.

He slid one out, careful not to disturb the others, and placed it on the turntable. When the needle dropped, the vinyl crackled softly to life, and the slow, honey-warm hum of Portuguese lyrics began to wrap around him.

Sirius let his eyes close.

And he moved.

Not the precise, punishing movements Margot demanded. Not the tight, clean lines drilled into him since he was a boy. No. These were soft, languid sways, loose and full of breath. His feet barely made a sound on the wood as he floated across the floor, arms curling gently in the air, hips tilting with the pulse of the bass. His body rolled with the rhythm like he was made of water, every movement a quiet rebellion against perfection.

He moved toward the shelves, drawn not only by the music but the way the room seemed to hum with pieces of Remus.

The bookshelves were overflowing, double-stacked in places, full of dog-eared paperbacks and thick hardcovers. There were music theory tomes wedged beside battered poetry collections, novels with cracked spines and post-it notes sticking out like flags. He caught sight of one shelf full of books about dance—Martha Graham, Nijinsky, ballet history texts annotated in faded pen. Another section was dedicated entirely to queer literature—Baldwin, Lorde, Winterson.

Sirius smiled, reached out to trace a cover, then leaned in to read the spine of a poetry collection. Ocean Vuong.

He exhaled through his nose and let himself sway again, pulling back from the shelf. Eyes closed, arms loose, floating like the music could hold him up.

When he opened his eyes, Remus was there.

Leaning against the wall in the doorway, arms folded, a small smile playing on his lips.

Sirius froze, just slightly, feeling caught in something almost too tender to name.

“Dinner’s ready,” Remus said softly, like he didn’t want to break the spell.

Sirius nodded, clearing his throat. “Right.”

They moved toward the small dining table. The bossa nova played on quietly behind them, the warm crackle of vinyl threading between their footsteps. Sirius sat, watching as Remus served up the risotto, his movements careful and practiced. The scent was mouthwatering, the kind of comfort food that settled into your chest like safety.

Once they both had full plates in front of them, Sirius barely waited a second before diving in. The first bite of risotto melted on his tongue, and a sound escaped him before he could stop it—a soft, indecent moan.

“Holy shit , Remus, this is so good.” His eyes widened like he couldn’t believe what he was tasting. “Are you sure you’re nineteen? You cook like you’re a fifty-six-year-old Italian chef who’s been perfecting this dish for decades.”

Remus huffed a laugh, faintly pink in the cheeks, and shook his head. “Yes, I’m sure I’m nineteen. But I’ve lived alone for a bit over two years, and my mum was an amazing cook. I picked up a lot from her, I guess.”

“Well, fuck,” Sirius muttered, taking another bite and chewing slower this time, more thoughtful. “You cook like someone who gives a damn.”

“I do,” Remus said simply, and something in his voice—quiet and certain—made Sirius glance up.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that came not from awkwardness, but from everything unsaid pressing around the edges of the table. The music still spun faintly in the background, low and warm.

“So,” Remus said, after a sip of water. He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin in his hand. “Why did you start dancing?”

Sirius stilled.

He knew the question was coming. Everyone in the ballet world knew who his parents were—Orion and Walburga Black, ballet’s icy power couple, revered and feared in equal measure. Remus had probably already guessed most of the story. Still, it felt different to say it aloud. Even more so with Remus looking at him like that—open, interested, gentle.

“Well…” Sirius started, then paused to push his food around with his fork. “Yeah. My parents are pretty well-known. Kind of impossible not to be when you're raised by those two.” He gave a dry smile and took another bite before continuing. “So I’ve never really known a life without ballet. My mum—she was... breathtaking when she danced. She could hold an audience in her palm like it was nothing. And when I was little, I just thought— I want to be like her . I wanted to be beautiful too.”

Remus said nothing, just watched, waiting, patient.

“I used to love it,” Sirius admitted. “Back when it was just music and movement and me. But around the time I turned seven, my dad got... intense. He started drilling me and Regulus at home. Every mistake was like a personal offense to him. They pulled us out of school, started homeschooling us. It wasn’t even about education, it was just... time. More time for dance. Rehearsal. Technique. Conditioning. That was all that mattered.”

Remus frowned, and his knuckles whitened slightly where they curled against the table.

“The Royal Ballet School offered us spots when I was twelve and Reg was 11. They accelerated everything—let us graduate by sixteen so we could focus solely on ballet. No distractions. No life, really.” Sirius sighed. “I think I stopped enjoying it around then. It started to feel like a cage I couldn’t crawl out of.”

He blinked, surprised at himself. He didn’t usually talk like this. Ballet was supposed to be business, clean lines and sharp movements, not messy feelings spilled across a dinner table.

“You don’t enjoy it?” Remus asked quietly. Not accusatory. Not even surprised. Just earnest.

Sirius looked up. His fork hung in the air for a second before he set it down.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I love dancing. I love moving, feeling the music like it’s stitched into my skin. It’s the one time I feel like I’m fully in my body. But ballet...” He trailed off and shook his head. “Ballet is toxic. It breaks people. It breaks me , sometimes. I think if it were less cruel, I’d love it more. But I’m good at it. And not doing it would feel like a waste.”

Remus’ brow furrowed slightly, his expression unreadable. Sirius braced himself for the usual lines— Then leave , Do something else , No one’s forcing you. But instead, Remus just nodded, slow and understanding.

“That sounds exhausting,” he said. “Having something you love so tangled up in something that hurts.”

Sirius swallowed hard, the words hitting him deeper than he expected. No one had ever put it quite like that before.

“It is,” he murmured. “It’s fucking exhausting.”

Remus looked at him for a long moment, like he had more to say, but didn’t know where to begin. Then he offered a small smile.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” he said, “when you dance—it’s the most honest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Sirius looked at him, really looked at him, and felt something in his chest shift.

They ate in near silence after that—comfortable, thoughtful silence. Every now and then Sirius would glance up to find Remus already watching him, or the other way around, and neither of them would say anything. They didn’t need to. It was like the air itself was heavy with words unspoken, but somehow, still enough.

When they finished, Sirius took both their plates without being asked and carried them to the sink. Remus didn’t protest. He just stood slowly, one hand gripping the edge of the table for a second longer than necessary.

Sirius clocked the motion, tucked it away.

He wandered to the couch afterward, sinking into the soft cushions with a contented sigh. The fabric smelled faintly of cedar and citrus—like something distinctly Remus, earthy and clean. He let his head fall back against the cushion, closing his eyes for a moment as the weight of the evening settled over him like a blanket.

A few moments later, he heard the soft steps approach, then felt the dip of the cushion beside him.

Remus sat down slowly, cautiously, as if trying not to disturb the quiet they'd built. His hand went to his knee, fingers digging in gently, rubbing slow circles through the fabric of his trousers.

Sirius turned toward him. “What’s wrong?”

Remus exhaled through his nose. “Nothing serious,” he said with a small smile, though it was tinged with weariness. “I’ve just been on my feet a lot today. The stairs at the academy don’t exactly help either.”

Sirius watched him for a beat, then held out his hand. “Let me.”

Remus blinked. “What?”

“Your knee. Let me help.”

Remus hesitated.

Sirius tilted his head, teasing gently, “What, scared I’ll be shit at it?”

Remus gave a soft, reluctant laugh and stood. Without a word, he unbuttoned his dress pants, pushing them down with practiced ease, and stepped out of them. He was left in just his soft black boxers and a slightly oversized t-shirt that hung low on his hips. He eased back down on the couch, shifting sideways until his long leg rested across Sirius’ lap.

The moment stretched.

Sirius swallowed.

The skin beneath his hands was warm, faintly freckled, the faint swell of old bruises and worn-out joints etched into the bone. He reached for the bottle of lotion resting on the coffee table—citrusy and herbal, something fresh—and squeezed a dollop into his palm. He rubbed his hands together first, warming it, then laid both palms on Remus’ knee.

He started slow, letting his fingers map the joint, pressing gently along the line of the kneecap and then beneath it. Remus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His eyes fluttered shut.

“You always have pain?” Sirius asked quietly, his thumbs moving in slow, practiced circles.

“Mm,” Remus murmured. “Mostly when I overdo it. Or when it’s cold. Or raining. Or I exist.”

Sirius gave a soft, sympathetic laugh. “Right. So, always.”

Remus smiled without opening his eyes.

Sirius continued, moving from the knee to the surrounding muscle, his touch becoming more purposeful. His fingers dug a little deeper, trailing up the curve of Remus’ thigh with slow, sure strokes. He worked carefully, watching Remus’ face for any sign of discomfort, but the only expression there was one of total surrender—eyes closed, lips parted, breath slow.

The room had gone quiet again, but this silence was different—thicker, charged.

His fingers swept higher, lotion slick against skin, and his thumbs moved up into the inner thigh, careful, reverent. Not sexual—at least, not yet—but intimate. Intimacy in the way Sirius focused completely on what his hands were doing. On the way Remus’ breathing changed, deepened. On the way he trusted him without question.

Remus opened his eyes slowly, blinking at him through lashes still heavy with calm.

“That feels…” he whispered, voice hoarse, “really fucking good.”

Sirius looked up, their eyes locking. The room was warm, low lit, shadows dancing across their faces from the record still turning in the corner.

“I want to kiss you so fucking bad right now,” Sirius whispers, the words tumbling out like a prayer, rough and reverent.

Remus doesn’t respond immediately. He just looks at Sirius, his gaze slow and unguarded, mouth curling into the softest smile—one full of warmth and something deeper, older, quieter than want.

Then, with the barest tilt of his chin, he nods.

That’s all Sirius needs.

He lifts Remus’ leg gently, one hand curling under the thigh that was still draped across his lap, and shifts forward, climbing up his body in a slow, careful movement. His legs settle on either side of Remus’ hips, the soft fabric of Remus’ t-shirt riding up under his thighs as he straddles him. He leans in, hands finding their way to the back of Remus’ head, tangling into the loose waves at the nape of his neck. His thumbs brush along Remus’ jaw.

Then he kisses him.

Soft at first.

Tentative—not from insecurity, but from awe.

Remus’ hands find Sirius’ hips almost immediately, fingers curling into the thin material of his borrowed shirt. He kisses back just as slowly, as if they’ve got forever to figure this out, as if he wants to savor every part of it. Their mouths move together with a quiet hunger that builds, deepens, grows heavy with heat but never loses its care.

Sirius moans softly into his mouth. It escapes without permission, a sound of disbelief more than lust. Because he can’t quite understand how he got here—how someone like Remus Lupin is letting him in like this. Touching him like he’s something soft, something to be kept. Like he’s not just a body in motion but a boy worth holding still.

He pulls back a breath, barely, to look at him. Remus’ lips are pink and kiss-swollen, his eyes half-lidded and dreamy. Sirius brushes his fingers along his jaw, his cheek, memorizing every inch like he might lose it in a second.

“You’re…” he breathes out, “God, you’re real.”

Remus huffs a soft laugh, his hand sliding up Sirius’ back beneath the shirt, fingertips skimming skin like a secret. “I think you might be, too.”

Their mouths crash again, this time with more urgency, like something has snapped loose between them. Sirius shifts in his lap, pressing down gently, his hips moving with an instinctive rhythm that pulls another soft gasp from Remus. Their hands begin to roam—trailing up ribs, gripping thighs, curling into hair. Sirius kisses like he’s starving, like the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth is the feeling of Remus’ mouth on his.

His thoughts blur.

All he knows is heat and breath and the steady thud of Remus’ heart against his chest.

Sirius pulls back just long enough to rest their foreheads together, panting softly. Remus’ eyes are closed now, one hand on Sirius’ waist, the other still cradling his back. They sit like that, caught in the in-between—every part of them wanting more, but unwilling to rush what’s already perfect.

Sirius lets out a shaky breath, still trying to catch up to everything he’s feeling.

“I’ve never…” he starts, voice barely audible, “I’ve never wanted to be known like this before.”

Remus opens his eyes.

“You are,” he says softly. “You’re known.”

And Sirius kisses him again—this time not with heat, but with gratitude.

Because being held like this? Being wanted like this?

It’s the most real he’s ever felt.

They’re kissing again, slow and messy, with hands wandering more boldly now—thumbs brushing under hems, fingertips dragging over skin like they’ve both forgotten where one body ends and the other begins. Sirius has never felt so wanted. Not for what he can do, or how well he can perform, but for just being here. For just being Sirius.

Remus’ hand trails down, slow and tentative, until it finds the waistband of the sweatpants Sirius borrowed. His fingers pause there, warm and patient.

Sirius pulls back slightly, breath catching as reality slides in like a whisper.

“Remus,” he says, voice rough. “As much as I want to—” and he really, really does, “—we can’t have sex. If I’m sore at rehearsal tomorrow morning, I’ll get in so much trouble.”

Remus’ thumb rubs just under the waistband, not pushing, just touching, grounding. He nods.

“We don’t have to have sex,” he murmurs, voice low, honest. “There are other things we can do. Only what you want.”

Sirius’ throat feels tight for a moment. The words settle in him like something sacred—there are other things we can do. Only what you want.

He nods.

“Okay.”

What follows is quiet and reverent.

Remus’ hands slip beneath the waistband with a gentle ease, and Sirius lets himself fall backward slightly, bracing his hands on Remus’ shoulders. Their mouths find each other again, slower now, but hungrier in a different way. More focused. More intentional. Hands move with care, with purpose, touching and teasing and learning. The room is filled with the soft rustle of fabric, the occasional gasp or sigh, and the music still faint in the background.

When Sirius comes, his head tipped forward into the curve of Remus’ neck, it’s with a shudder that feels like something deeper breaking loose inside him. Not just pleasure, but release. Something uncoiled in his chest, something old and tight finally letting go.

For once, he wasn’t thinking about his posture or his lines. He wasn’t performing, wasn’t pushing himself into someone else's shape. He was just… being. Messy, breathless, completely undone. And still—held.

Remus comes shortly after, muffling a sound into Sirius’ shoulder, and they stay like that for a while—tangled, quiet, still catching their breath.

Sirius presses his forehead to Remus’ jaw, letting himself smile.

This—whatever this is—it feels like the first thing in a long time that’s entirely his.

Chapter Text

The studio was too bright for a Halloween morning.

Fluorescent light buzzed faintly above, bouncing off the mirrors and glaring down on the Black brothers as they faced each other from opposite corners of the practice room. The air was thick with irritation, the kind that came from too many days in too small a space with too many unspoken things.

Sirius took another sip from his water bottle and nodded toward Regulus. “Your turns are too stiff.”

Regulus, who had just landed a complicated pirouette combination, turned sharply. “They are not stiff.”

“They’re not fluid, then,” Sirius said, arms crossed, sweat still cooling on his skin. “You’re not finishing the movement. It looks like you’re bailing out at the last second.”

Regulus scoffed, grabbing his towel off the barre and running it over his face with more force than necessary. “Says the man who flings himself across the stage like he’s auditioning for Swan Lake on acid.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Reg, I’m trying to help.”

“No, you’re trying to nitpick. You’ve been on my ass since we got here.”

“You asked me to critique you!”

“I didn’t ask you to be a dick about it!”

Sirius let out a bitter laugh, dragging his hand through his damp hair. “God, you’re unbelievable.”

The silence between them cracked sharp like broken glass. Neither of them moved. Outside the windows, the world was still dressed in orange and gray, leaves swirling in little dances across the pavement. Somewhere out there, people were buying candy, putting on costumes, living normal, non-ballet lives.

Sirius threw his towel onto the floor. “Fuck this. It’s our day off and we’re spending it in the studio? I don’t want to be here and neither do you.”

Regulus opened his mouth to argue, but Sirius cut him off.

“Don’t even try it. I can see it on your face. You look like you want to crawl out of your skin. And I sure as hell didn’t plan on spending my Halloween morning arguing with my little brother over the angle of your fucking foot.”

Regulus’ shoulders slumped just slightly. His towel hung loosely in one hand, and he looked suddenly younger than he had a moment ago—tired, not just from rehearsal, but from everything.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Sirius blinked, surprised it had been that easy. “Fine?”

Regulus sighed, walking toward his duffel bag by the mirror. “Let’s go.”

They gathered their things in silence. The only sounds were the rustle of fabric, the soft thump of water bottles tossed into bags, the squeak of ballet shoes against the marley floor.

Sirius slung his hoodie over his head and paused in the doorway, glancing back at the studio. It looked exactly the same as it always did—clean, stark, a little too cold. And yet somehow, in that moment, it felt suffocating.

“It’s Halloween,” he said again, softer this time. “We’re supposed to be… I don’t know, having fun. Not being miserable perfectionist freaks.”

Regulus gave him a look, dry and tired. “I didn’t realize you knew how to have fun.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Excuse you. I invented fun.”

Regulus snorted despite himself. “Yeah, okay.”

They left the studio together, the door clicking shut behind them, echoing in the hallway like a small relief.

Outside, the autumn air greeted them like a breath they hadn’t known they were holding. It smelled like leaves and smoke and the faintest hint of something sweet—caramel maybe, or candied apples from the street vendor down the block.

Sirius shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket and glanced sideways at Regulus as they walked. “We could go out tonight.”

Regulus side-eyed him. “Like… party out?”

“Or, you know, be human beings for once. Get candy. Watch something dumb. Egg someone’s house. Whatever.”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. He looked ahead, his expression unreadable. But then he said, “If I say yes, will you stop critiquing my turns?”

Sirius smirked. “Only if you admit I’m right.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but there was a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Fine. Let’s be human.”

—

Regulus sat on the rickety stool in the corner of Sirius’ cramped bathroom, scowling at his reflection as Sirius painted thick eyeliner along his lash line.

“This is ridiculous,” Regulus muttered, blinking hard and nearly ruining the line Sirius had just drawn. “You’re going to make me look like some washed-up rockstar.”

Sirius snorted, dabbing gently beneath Regulus’ eye with a makeup sponge. “You are a washed-up rockstar. You just don’t know it yet.”

Regulus let out a dramatic sigh, but he didn’t pull away. The lights above the mirror flickered slightly, casting warm gold shadows over the peeling wallpaper and the cluttered counter full of scattered makeup brushes, eyeliner pencils, and an open palette covered in smudged blacks and greys. It smelled faintly of setting spray and old cologne—undeniably Sirius’ space.

“I still don’t get why we couldn’t just be something normal. Like vampires or—God, I don’t know—bank robbers.”

“Because,” Sirius said with exaggerated patience, “we’re going as the Goblin King and Ziggy Stardust. Iconic. Glamorous. Timeless. And,” he added, smirking, “I already had half the wardrobe.”

Regulus groaned. “I look like a glitter bomb exploded on me.”

“Exactly.”

Despite the bickering, Sirius could tell his brother wasn’t actually upset. There was something lighter in Regulus tonight. The way he slumped in the chair without full tension in his shoulders. The way he complained like it was a bit, not a protest. A rare sort of peace for them—however fleeting.

Sirius leaned back, admiring his work, then flicked a bit of silver shimmer across Regulus’ cheekbone. “There. Beautiful.”

Regulus scowled again. Then, quieter, a little rough around the edges: “You’re lucky I love you.”

Sirius froze—not visibly, but inside it was like something cracked open.

It had been years. Maybe more than that. Not since they were kids, not since before everything with Orion and Walburga got bad. Before the yelling, the impossible standards, the silence. Love hadn’t been something passed around freely in the Black household. Especially not between brothers.

He blinked once, quickly, and cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said, voice low and a bit hoarse. “I’m lucky.”

Regulus didn’t seem to notice the shift, already pushing himself off the stool and heading toward the front room.

Sirius lingered in the mirror for just a second longer, eyes trailing the spot on the counter where the makeup brush still lay in his hand. Then he forced a grin back onto his face and followed.

“Now put your boots on, Stardust.”

Just as Regulus zipped up his silver-studded leather jacket, Sirius’ phone buzzed on the sink. He picked it up and swiped to answer.

“Hey, Prongs,” he said, balancing the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he straightened his hair in the mirror.

“Where the hell are you?” James’ voice came through, full of distant bar noise. “The girls are already here and Lily’s threatening to steal my liver if you don’t show up soon.”

Sirius chuckled. “Relax, we’re leaving in ten. Had to paint Reg’s face.”

“Is he letting you?”

“Barely. But he looks hot, so worth it.”

There was a pause, then James groaned. “Ugh, please don’t say that about your brother. You freak.”

Sirius laughed and hung up. “Come on. Party’s waiting.”

Regulus adjusted the collar of his jacket, checked himself in the mirror again, and gave a little shrug. “I still look insane.”

“Exactly,” Sirius said, throwing on his purple velvet coat. “Now let’s go be legends.”

The pub was already packed when they arrived—music thumping low through the floors, orange and purple lights washing over the crowd, and enough fake cobwebs hanging from the ceiling to qualify the whole place as a fire hazard. Sirius barely got one foot in the door before someone in a sexy Frankenstein costume handed him a shot. He took it with a grin, downed it immediately, and passed the empty glass to Regulus, who looked at it like it might bite.

The floorboards vibrated beneath them with bass as costumed bodies swirled across the dance floor. James spotted them from across the room, decked out in full Ghostbusters gear, complete with a homemade proton pack made of a shoebox and glow sticks. He raised a glass in greeting, grinning wildly.

“God, I love Halloween,” Sirius muttered, scanning the room with wide eyes, already feeling the buzz of energy sink into his skin.

And then he saw him.

Remus stood near the bar, talking to Marlene and Mary, dressed in what looked like a vintage vampire costume—high collar, deep red waistcoat, a thin line of black eyeliner smudged just so around his eyes. His curls were wild and perfect, his neck tilted in that soft way he did when he was laughing.

Sirius didn’t hesitate.

He weaved through the crowd without even looking back, practically beaming as he reached Remus. Without asking, without breaking stride, he leaned up and pressed a kiss to his lips, quick but sure.

“Hi,” Sirius said easily, eyes bright.

Remus smiled, clearly surprised but not at all unhappy. “Hi, yourself. You look…”

“Insane? Glorious? Like Ziggy Stardust possessed a glitter goblin?”

Remus gave a low laugh. “I was going to say beautiful, but sure.”

Behind them, Regulus had followed at a slower pace and now stood just inside the crowd, watching. His face was unreadable, arms crossed lightly over his silver jacket. Sirius caught the glance, that familiar flicker of something behind Regulus’ eyes—protective, maybe. Or just curious.

Sirius turned back to Remus. “I’ll find you later, alright?” he said, voice low and promising.

Remus just nodded. “I’ll be here. Go cause trouble.”

Sirius grinned, kissed him again on the cheek this time, then spun on his heel and jogged back toward Regulus, grabbing his brother’s arm before he could protest.

“Come on,” Sirius said. “We’re dancing.”

Regulus immediately dug in his heels. “Absolutely not. I’m not dancing with a glitter ghost in six-inch heels.”

“You don’t get to bail after letting me paint your face for half an hour,” Sirius said, already dragging him into the thick of the crowd. “Let’s go, Regulus. It’s Halloween. No brooding allowed.”

The music shifted—some remixed synth-pop anthem with a beat that pulsed straight through your chest. Sirius didn’t wait for permission; he started dancing like the music had its own gravity, pulling his body in every direction at once. Arms overhead, hips moving like liquid confidence. A few people turned to watch—he didn’t care.

At first, Regulus stood stiffly, looking like someone had stapled him to the floor. But Sirius bumped him with a shoulder, then again, until a reluctant smirk tugged at his mouth. With a groan of pure resignation, Regulus finally gave in.

He started moving—awkwardly at first, but it didn’t take long for the rhythm to catch. A few minutes later, they were jumping in place, shouting the lyrics to some ridiculous throwback track and laughing so hard Sirius could barely breathe.

Sirius threw his head back, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, and looked at his brother—laughing, alive, free. It wasn’t something he got to see often. And tonight, he was going to hold on to it for as long as it lasted.

—

"Okay, you are so drunk," Sirius laughed, voice light but laced with concern as he guided Regulus through the door of his apartment. Regulus stumbled, nearly tripping over his own feet before catching himself on the wall. He tried to shove Sirius playfully, but missed entirely and let out a wet hiccup.

“Do you—” Regulus hiccupped again and slapped Sirius’ chest with a weak hand. “Do you love that man you kissed?”

Sirius blinked at the question as he steered Regulus to the couch. “Remus? We just met in September. Love is a strong word.” He let out a small giggle, more out of surprise than amusement, and turned toward the kitchen. “Christ, you need water.”

“Remus,” Regulus repeated softly behind him, like he was tasting the name. “Is he… is he nice to you?”

Sirius paused at the sink, his hands tightening briefly around the glass. He filled it in silence, then walked it back to Regulus, his own head foggy with alcohol but still functional enough to know this wasn’t just drunk talk.

“Yes, he’s nice to me,” Sirius said gently, handing the glass over and sitting beside him. “He’s really good to me.”

Regulus stared down at the water, not drinking it, just holding it like something sacred. The light from the kitchen haloed him in a way that made him look too young, too breakable. His makeup was smudged and half gone, his eyeliner pooled in the corners of his eyes, which now shone with something too raw to name.

“I want to know that you’re being loved,” Regulus murmured, his voice quieter now, less slurred. “Because I don’t… I need to know that what Dad did to us—” his voice hitched, another hiccup caught in his throat, “—isn’t gonna make me feel unlovable forever.”

Sirius went still.

He turned to look at his brother, really look at him. The way his posture was caved in on itself. The bruises that had long since faded from skin but still seemed to haunt his body. The way he trembled slightly, even now, under a blanket of alcohol and music and Halloween glitter.

And the tears—clear and shimmering, clinging stubbornly to his lashes like they were afraid to fall.

“Oh, Reg,” Sirius whispered, his throat tightening. He reached out, rested a firm hand on Regulus’ arm, grounding them both. “You’re not unlovable. You never have been.”

He swallowed, brushing his thumb over Regulus’ sleeve like that might soften the truth.

“What Dad did… what Mom let happen—what she did , too—it doesn’t define us,” Sirius said, voice low and steady now. “They don't get to keep writing the story. We do. It's not too late for you to realize that. You're still here. That means something.”

Regulus turned his face away, but not before Sirius saw the tears slip free. One. Then another.

He didn’t speak again. He just gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, like any more would crack him open completely. Then he lay down slowly on the couch, curling in on himself, and within minutes his breathing had evened out into the shallow rhythm of sleep.

Sirius stayed sitting there for a long time, watching his little brother sleep, his chest aching with something heavy and ancient. Love. Guilt. Rage. Grief.

And hope.

Just a flicker.

But it was there.

Chapter Text

Sirius is sweating. His hair sticks damply to the back of his neck, his shirt clings to his spine, and Evan Rosier’s hand is on his waist again—firm, lingering, like he thinks he owns the damn space.

“Engage your core,” Evan mutters, breath too close to Sirius’ cheek. “You’re dumping your weight into your left hip again.”

Sirius shifts automatically, forcing the correction into his body even as irritation coils tighter in his chest. Evan’s hand trails to his stomach, pushing slightly, and Sirius exhales through his nose, jaw tight.

“Lift through the sternum,” Isaac calls gently from the front of the room. “Sirius, you’re collapsing in the chest. I want to see breath, not compression.”

Sirius adjusts again, spine aching. Evan’s fingers drag his arm into a cleaner line, then press against his shoulder blade. Too much. Always too much.

“You need to take more space here,” Evan says, nudging his thigh with his knee. “You’re pulling back.”

“Rosier, soften your hand. You’re manhandling him,” Isaac corrects, but his tone is even. “Sirius, try again. From the diagonal. This time with lift.”

Sirius nods and steps back into position, trying to focus on turnout, on precision, on anything but the way Evan’s fingertips keep brushing down his back like they’re doing him a favour. The studio lights are too bright. His muscles are shot. He’s so overstimulated he thinks he might crawl out of his own skin.

“Relax your fingers. You’re clenching again,” Isaac says, and Sirius tries, he really does, but there’s a knot forming behind his right eye and his heartbeat won’t slow down.

Evan touches his shoulder, then his ribs. Corrects his angle. Mutters something else he doesn’t catch. Sirius nods, tuning him out.

He’s going to scream. Or snap. Or cry. Something. He doesn’t even know anymore.

God, he’s tired.

He glances at the clock. Noon.

Twenty.

He’s twenty today.

And no one has said anything. Not even Remus.

They’ve all been busy, sure. Rehearsals, fittings, staging, chaos—but not one person remembered. Not one text. Not one joke. Not even a lazy “hey, old man” from James.

He doesn’t need much. Never has. But it’s his goddamn twentieth birthday and he’s being poked and prodded and pulled around like a mannequin, and Evan Rosier keeps touching him, and his chest is starting to feel too small for his lungs.

Isaac’s voice cuts in again. “Sirius, the transition into the lift needs more fluidity. You’re locking the upper body. Try breathing into it.”

Sirius does. Or tries. But his breath catches halfway and he thinks he might be holding it more than anything else.

And no one remembered my god damn birthday.

Isaac claps once, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the studio. “Alright. Let’s take a break for lunch. Good work. Sirius, keep that articulation in your upper back—don’t let the line collapse when you extend. Evan, ease off on the grip when you initiate the lift, you’re not wrangling cattle.”

Evan chuckles like it’s flattering. He brushes Sirius’ shoulder again on the way to grab his water, fingers trailing a bit too long, like they always do.

Sirius doesn’t laugh.

His skin is buzzing, overstimulated and sore, like his nerves are frayed wires. Every note from Isaac—kind, constructive, fair—still lands like a slap. Every time Evan touches him it’s like fire, not in a good way, but in a too-much, too-close, too-loud way. His own thoughts are a mess of self-loathing and frustration. He’s off today. He knows it. His turns are sluggish, his lines weak, his weight too far back. He can hear every correction in stereo, loud and echoing.

And Evan. Fucking Evan with his pretty hands and his smug smile and his obvious, constant touching. The way he adjusts Sirius’ hips, his ribs, even his jaw like he has the right.

And no one remembered his goddamn birthday.

Not even James. Not even Reg, not that he expected anything from him. 

Sirius doesn’t head for the door; instead, he crosses to the far corner of the studio, where the mirrors don’t quite reach and the light from the high windows doesn’t hit directly. He lowers himself slowly to the floor, his muscles tight and aching, and sits with his back against the wall, legs pulled in.

He sips his water. Closes his eyes.

Sits in the silence, and breathes.

Isaac glances down at his watch. “Alright, I’m heading out to grab something. Be back in twenty.” He gives them both a nod and a tired smile before slipping out the studio doors.

The room settles into a strange quiet, just Sirius and Evan now. Sirius doesn't move from his spot on the floor. Evan lingers by the barre, fiddling with his water bottle, and Sirius feels the weight of his stare without needing to look.

Then— 

The doors burst open.

“ HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUU— ”

Sirius blinks as James, Lily, and Mary march in, belting the tune completely off-key, a ridiculous grin on each of their faces. In Lily’s hands is a sandwich from Sirius’ favourite café, haphazardly wrapped and with a small candle sticking right out the top like a proud little flag.

“Oh my god,” Sirius says, already feeling tears burn behind his eyes.

“Make a wish, drama queen,” James grins, kneeling in front of him with a smirk, but his eyes are kind, warm. “Don’t cry, you’ll make the sandwich soggy.”

Sirius lets out a shaky breath and blows out the candle. Immediately, arms wrap around him from all sides—Mary from behind, Lily squeezing his shoulder, James tugging him forward into a full bear hug.

“We’re so sorry,” Lily says quickly. “Margot took all our phones at seven. Seven . Said we were too ‘distracted.’ I think she was about to start breathing fire.”

“It’s hell in Studio B,” Mary mutters. “She almost didn’t let us eat.”

“But we told her it was non-negotiable,” James adds with a wink. “You only turn twenty once.”

Sirius laughs, breath catching a little. “You’re all insane.”

“Mm-hm,” Lily says proudly. “And we love you. Now eat your sandwich.”

They stay for a few minutes, chatting about rehearsal chaos and Margot’s descent into full tyrant mode, but eventually Mary glances at the clock and groans.

“If we don’t leave now she will kill us.”

They all hug Sirius one more time—quick, tight, genuine—before heading for the door, each one tossing a final “Happy birthday!” over their shoulder.

The room settles again. Just Sirius and Evan.

Evan shifts awkwardly by the mirror and then says, “Happy birthday… I didn’t know.”

Sirius exhales, soft. “It’s fine.”

And it is. The ache in his chest has eased.

When they return to rehearsal, Evan doesn’t touch him as much. His hands, when necessary, are gentler. His voice is quieter. Sirius still feels like he’s unraveling slowly—but now it’s manageable.

Now, at least, he knows he’s not alone.

—

Sirius walks through the door of his apartment with a small sniff, the tears he’d held in all day finally slipping free. Twenty. Who knew that would be such a tragic age?

He toes off his shoes and drops his bag with a dull thud , already ready to collapse into bed and disappear under the covers. Maybe cry until he can’t feel the ache in his chest anymore. Maybe sleep until it’s not his birthday anymore.

But when he walks into the living room, he stops cold.

Remus is standing there.

Just… standing there. In front of the window, where the curtains flutter from the breeze, golden light spilling across the floor—and in his hands, a cupcake. One single candle flickers on top, its little flame dancing in the air like it knows something Sirius doesn’t.

Sirius stares, wide-eyed, like he can't quite believe the vision in front of him is real. His heart stumbles over itself.

“Happy birthday,” Remus says, voice soft.

Sirius blinks, a fresh tear slipping down his cheek.

Remus gives him a crooked smile. “Sorry I didn’t text. I wanted to surprise you. James gave me his spare key.”

Sirius nods wordlessly, and another tear escapes, trailing down the curve of his jaw.

Remus steps closer, holding out the cupcake. “Make a wish.”

Sirius stares at the tiny flame, at Remus’ eyes, at the miracle of this moment. He tries to think of something—anything—he could want more than this. But he can't. In this moment, standing in front of the person who makes the world make sense, he can't imagine needing anything else.

He leans forward and blows out the candle.

Remus grins, pulling the little wax stub out of the cupcake and holding it up. “Take a bite.”

Sirius laughs, the sound cracked and full of something fragile, and then bites into the cupcake. Frosting smears across the tip of his nose. He wrinkles it, scrunching his face.

Remus laughs, a real one, full and light, and then leans in and licks the frosting off Sirius’ nose before pulling him into a slow, deliberate kiss. It’s soft and unhurried—something that says you are loved, you are here, I’m not going anywhere.

Sirius melts into it. Into him. He doesn't even try to name the emotion curling in his chest. It’s too big, too deep, too everything.

When they finally pull back, Remus brushes a strand of hair behind Sirius’ ear and says, “So… how was your day?”

Sirius snorts, shaking his head. “Hell,” he says honestly. “But… better now.”

Remus kisses him again—slow and steady, like he’s making a promise without needing the words. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, he murmurs against Sirius’ lips, “I can make it even better… if you’d like.”

Sirius’ breath hitches, eyes fluttering shut.

“Oh yes, please,” he whispers, almost a sigh.

Remus smiles against his mouth and kisses him again, deeper this time, as he gently begins to walk them backwards—his hand steady at Sirius’ waist, guiding them toward the bedroom. Sirius follows without question, his fingers tangling in the soft fabric of Remus’ shirt.

They move slowly, step by step, mouths never far apart. Remus tilts his head to kiss down along Sirius’ jaw, then lower, pressing a kiss just beneath his ear, then to his throat. Sirius breathes out a shaky sound, his grip tightening.

Just as they pass through the doorway, Remus lets go of his cane. It lands with a soft clatter against the floorboards behind them, unnoticed, unnecessary now—because his hands are full with Sirius, and that’s all he wants.

They disappear into the room, the door swinging gently shut behind them.

Chapter Text

The studio was bright with early morning light, casting long, clear beams across the polished floors as the dancers gathered in clusters, stretching or nursing travel mugs of tea. The mirrors reflected a dozen tired faces, most of them already flushed with exertion from warm-ups.

At the front of the room, Ms. Rosier stood poised and composed, flanked by Margot on one side and Isaac on the other. Her heels clicked once against the floor, and just like that, the chatter died out.

“We’re in a good place,” she said, scanning the room with sharp, calculating eyes. “This first half is stronger than expected for November. You should be proud of the work you’ve put in.”

Margot gave a quiet nod of agreement. Isaac offered a small, tired smile.

“That said,” Rosier went on, “we’re not done. Not even close. I want this half perfected before the Christmas break. That means no fumbled transitions, no emotional lapses, no rhythm issues. Come January, we start the second half immediately. No easing in. I expect the same level of intensity you’ve brought so far—if not more.”

Sirius leaned against the barre along the back wall, arms folded, watching as the ensemble filtered onto the floor. Beside him, Regulus stood with his arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead.

They hadn’t really talked about Halloween.

There’d been no mention of the tears, of the trembling way Regulus had whispered about needing to feel loved. No follow-up conversation in the mornings after, no apology, no acknowledgment. Just the silence of shared avoidance, broken only when necessary.

Their solo practices were still scheduled regularly, but they always ended the same way—heated arguments, snapped words, and either Sirius or Regulus storming out. Usually Regulus. Lately, sometimes Sirius.

Still, even through the tension, Sirius could see it. In the way Regulus held himself, in the stiffness of his shoulders, in the fatigue under his eyes.

He was struggling.

Harder than Sirius, maybe.

Sirius watched the others take their places on the floor. James and Mary moved to the center, starting their duet with fluid energy and perfect chemistry. Pandora joined them a beat later, her movements sharp and haunting as she fell into step behind them, her style eerily graceful, like water folding in on itself.

It should’ve pulled Sirius in. It always had before.

But this time, he could only glance toward Regulus again, watching the way his brother’s fingers kept clenching and unclenching at his sides, as if he were holding something inside—rage or panic or exhaustion, Sirius couldn’t tell.

And then Sirius thought of Halloween.

Of how Regulus had asked—slurred and unguarded—if Remus was kind to him.

Of how he'd cried silently on the couch and said he needed to believe he wasn’t unlovable forever.

Sirius swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to the floor where the scene was building into its first crescendo.

“Do you ever,” he said quietly, not looking over, “feel like everything would fall apart if you stopped dancing for even a second?”

Regulus didn’t respond for a long moment. Then, his voice low and hoarse, he answered, “Sometimes I think it’s the only reason I’m still here.”

Sirius looked at him, his chest tight.

Regulus didn’t meet his eyes.

On the floor, the music swelled. Mary turned flawlessly into Pandora’s arms, and James leapt into a spin just off to the right. It was stunning. Technically precise. Emotionally honest.

But Sirius couldn’t hear any of it.

Not over the sound of Regulus breaking, quietly, right beside him.

—

“I just—” Sirius huffs, voice thin with frustration. He's curled up in Remus’ bed, one arm wrapped loosely around his knee, the other tracing soft, aimless patterns into the skin of Remus’ back. This had become a kind of routine for them now—after rehearsals, they’d drift back to Remus’ place, maybe make out, maybe get off, but mostly… mostly they talked. It was easier in the dark. Safer.

“I can tell he blames himself for so much of what happened to us when we were kids,” Sirius mutters. “Which is just… it’s not fair. Not for him. Not for me. Because it wasn’t our fault. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

Remus hums quietly in acknowledgment, then shifts, rolling onto his back so he can look up at Sirius. Sirius is wearing one of Remus’ oversized shirts, the collar slipping off one shoulder, a pair of borrowed boxers hanging low on his hips. His hair’s a mess, eyes shadowed from exhaustion—but Remus looks at him like he’s never seen anything so achingly perfect.

“You’ve never really told me what happened,” Remus says softly, reaching up to gently twine their fingers together. He strokes a thumb across the back of Sirius’ hand.

“I—” Sirius starts, but the words catch in his throat, like they’ve lodged behind years of silence and shame.

Remus squeezes his fingers. “You don’t have to,” he says quickly, gently, voice so soft and steady it nearly undoes Sirius entirely.

But Sirius shakes his head. His throat burns. “No… I want to.” He takes a long, slow breath and lowers his gaze, focusing on the way Remus plays with his fingers like they’re something worth holding on to.

“My parents…” he begins, voice unsteady, “they always hit us, I think. Even when we were little. At first, it was just… you know, spankings, slaps, stuff people say is normal. But then we started dancing, and that’s when it got worse. Dad used to run our one-on-one sessions. He said he needed to see our lines, so we’d take off our shirts.”

Sirius’ voice trembles, and Remus shifts slightly closer but doesn’t interrupt. He just lets him speak.

“And then… one day he said we had to get fully naked. That our clothes were getting in the way of his corrections. I didn’t think it was wrong—I mean, I was nine. Regulus was seven. It just… it didn’t feel like a choice. We rehearsed like that all the time. And he’d hit us like that, too. With belts or sticks or whatever he was holding.”

He stops, blinks hard. He won’t cry. He can’t cry. Not yet.

“He’d shower with us after,” Sirius says, voice barely audible now. “Said it was normal. Said we were a family. And we believed him, because what else were we supposed to believe?”

Remus’ fingers curl tighter around his.

“I started to realize it wasn’t okay when he’d invite his friends over at night. They’d drink. Laugh. Then he’d wake us up and tell us to get undressed and show them how perfect our lines were. I didn’t want to. I’d say no. And when I did… he’d cut my back.”

Sirius swallows a sob, his free hand pressing hard against his mouth. Remus’ eyes shine in the low light, but he says nothing. Just listens.

“The first time he cut me,” Sirius whispers, “I ran to Mum. I thought—I thought she’d help. But she just told me to listen to my father. Said he knew what was best for us.”

A long silence stretches between them. Sirius presses his forehead to his knee, breath shallow.

“Reg never said no,” he murmurs after a moment. “He always did what Dad told him. So after a while, I wasn’t allowed in the private sessions anymore. It was just Reg. I tried to sneak in, tried to stop it, but if I made too much noise… Dad would come out and hit me. Or cut me again. And Reg… he just kept going. Like if he did everything right, maybe it would stop.”

His voice breaks at the end, cracking like something vital has shattered inside him.

Remus shifts again, slow and careful, until he’s sitting up. He doesn’t speak right away. Just gathers Sirius into his arms and holds him, one hand stroking through his hair, the other curled tightly around his waist.

Sirius doesn’t cry loudly. The tears just come—hot, silent, relentless.

The room is quiet, wrapped in the hush that only exists in the hours after midnight—when everything feels too big to hold and too close to avoid. Sirius breathes slow and ragged against Remus’ collarbone, their legs tangled beneath the sheets.

After a long while, Remus speaks, his voice a murmur into Sirius’ hair.

“Do you know when it stopped for Reg?”

Sirius shifts, but doesn’t lift his head. “Yeah. Once we were both over fifteen, he just… stopped caring to see us naked. Stopped caring to see us at all, really. We weren’t kids anymore, weren’t small and quiet and pretty. And our bodies—our lines—weren’t the same. He lost interest.”

He exhales, sharp and bitter. “It was mostly Mum after that. She’d corner us in hallways, slap us across the face for breathing too loudly, drag us to church and force us to kneel until our knees bled. She hated me for speaking back. Called me vulgar, a disgrace. Reg always just stood still, never fought it.”

Sirius finally sits up a little, resting on one elbow. His fingers twist in the edge of the blanket.

“When I turned sixteen, I left. Stopped going home for summers or breaks. Started staying with James’ family. They took me in like I was one of their own. I begged Reg to come with me—begged him. But he never did. He was always too scared to leave.”

He swipes a hand across his eyes, but his voice is steadier now, low with guilt.

“I know I’m hard on him sometimes. I know I say things I shouldn’t. But it’s like—he still treats them like they’re gods. Like he can’t see how wrong it all was. How much they broke us. And I just… I don’t know how to love someone who keeps defending the people who hurt us.”

There’s a long silence, the kind that settles between two people who trust each other enough not to rush it. Remus shifts closer, cupping Sirius’ face with a hand as warm and grounding as sunlight.

“Maybe,” he says gently, “the best thing you can do is talk to him. Not when you’re both exhausted from rehearsals or annoyed with each other. Just… a day when things are neutral. When you’re both clearheaded. Let him know that you see his pain. That you feel it too. That he’s not alone in it.”

Sirius doesn’t respond right away, just leans into the hand on his cheek, closing his eyes.

“And after that,” Remus continues softly, “all you can do is wait. He has to want to see the truth. But maybe hearing it from you—maybe that will help him take the first step.”

Sirius lets out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped in his lungs for years. He doesn’t speak, but he nods. Just once.

Then Remus pulls him down again, holds him tight, and Sirius lets himself be held—lets himself believe, for just a moment, that maybe healing is something they can do together.

Chapter Text

Regulus shows up to their one-on-one session five minutes early.

Sirius watches him from the mirror as he stretches, waiting for the tension to walk in first—sharp words, hunched shoulders, that constant brittle edge. But today, Regulus is just… quiet. Not cheerful, not open. But not angry, either. It throws Sirius off enough that he has to keep glancing at him, waiting for the shift. For the explosion.

It never comes.

They warm up without arguing. Mark through their pas de deux without any snide comments. It’s borderline eerie. Sirius keeps catching Regulus watching him, not with judgment or that usual air of superiority, but like he’s actually taking him in . Noticing things. Processing.

And Sirius—he can feel it too.

He’s dancing better. It’s not just technique, though he’s nailed that down tighter in the last few weeks. It’s that something inside him’s changed. He’s not moving like he’s trying to scream anymore. Not fighting the floor. Not fighting his partner. He still has fire—he’s still him—but the edges aren’t sharp just to be sharp. He’s dancing like he means it. Like he wants something from it, not like he’s trying to win.

He’s proud of that. Even if no one says it out loud.

They’re halfway through their third run when he decides to break the peace.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says as they both collapse to the floor for a water break.

Regulus raises an eyebrow. “That’s dangerous.”

Sirius huffs a laugh. “Piss off.”

It’s quiet for a moment, the kind of stillness that doesn’t feel hostile, just tired. Familiar.

Sirius takes a breath. “About Halloween.”

The second the words are out, he sees Regulus tense. His shoulders tighten. His face goes blank.

“You were really drunk that night.”

Regulus shrugs without looking at him. “Right. Sorry if I embarrassed you.”

“That’s not—” Sirius sits up straighter. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, what do you mean?” Regulus asks, too sharp too fast. “You’re not about to bring that night up to try and play some older brother guilt card, are you?”

Sirius shakes his head. “No. I just… I’ve been thinking about what you said. About wanting to feel lovable. About Dad.”

Regulus stands abruptly, walking a few paces away. His back is stiff, every movement like he’s ready to bolt. “I was drunk. People say shit.”

“You meant it,” Sirius says. He’s not accusing. He’s just sure.

Regulus spins around, arms folded across his chest. “Why the hell does it matter now?”

“Because I see you,” Sirius says. “Because I know you’re still hurting, and I—fuck, Reg, I feel it too. We went through the same thing.”

“No,” Regulus snaps. “We didn’t . You think just because we lived in the same house, we had the same pain? That it hit the same? You were always louder, always braver. You said no. You left. ”

That lands hard. Sirius looks away. “And you stayed.”

“I didn’t have a choice!”

“I begged you to come with me.”

“I was fifteen and terrified!” Regulus’ voice cracks. “You think I wanted to stay? You think I liked watching them tear us apart and still pretending they were gods?”

Sirius feels something deep inside him twist. Regulus’ eyes are shining now, and Sirius wants to reach out, but doesn’t.

“I know they made us think love had to hurt,” he says, quieter. “But it doesn’t. I promise it doesn’t. And I know I’ve been a prick to you sometimes, and that’s on me. But you’re not the only one who’s still bleeding.”

Regulus doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then he says, quietly, “You’re dancing better.”

Sirius blinks. “dancing?”

Regulus nods once. “You’re less of a try-hard now.”

A huff of laughter breaks out of Sirius despite himself. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Regulus rolls his eyes but his voice is softer when he mutters, “Don’t get used to it.”

Sirius hesitates. “Look… maybe one day when we’re both not pissed off, not mid-rehearsal and ready to murder each other—maybe we could talk. For real. I think it’d help. Just… so you know you’re not alone.”

Regulus doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t walk away either. Sirius will take that as a win.

“Can we just finish the damn routine?” Regulus says, turning back to their spots.

“Yeah,” Sirius murmurs, watching him. “Yeah, we can.”

They finish in near silence. Bodies in sync, like they were made to understand each other even when their words can’t quite keep up.

Rehearsal ends earlier than usual, and Sirius feels the rare buzz of something like satisfaction humming under his skin. Their dancing was good today. No explosions, no passive-aggressive digs. Just movement. And a conversation that didn’t end in slamming doors or bitter silence.

He pulls on his hoodie, slings his bag over his shoulder, and hesitates as Regulus bends to retie his laces.

“Hey,” he says, voice a little too casual to be truly casual.

Regulus glances up warily. “What?”

Sirius sighs. “Do you want to come to mine tonight? For dinner, I mean. Nothing fancy. Just… everyone’s coming over. James, Remus, Lily, Marlene, Mary, Peter.”

Regulus immediately goes still.

Sirius braces for rejection, but Regulus only mutters, “Only if I can bring Evan and Pandora.”

Sirius narrows his eyes. “Pandora? Fine. Evan—ugh. Fine.”

Regulus stands, slinging his own bag onto his back. “And Dorcas.”

Sirius groans, rubbing his face. “Seriously?”

Regulus gives him a flat look.

“Fine,” Sirius mutters.

Regulus starts toward the door, then turns back with infuriating calm. “And Barty.”

Sirius almost chokes. “ Fucking hell, I hate that man.”

Regulus just raises an eyebrow, already halfway through the exit.

“Does he have to come?” Sirius calls after him, exasperated.

Another shrug, another knowing look.

Sirius throws his hands in the air. “ Fine! Bloody bring your whole cult, why not?”

Regulus doesn’t answer. Just pushes the door open and walks out like he’s won something.

“WHAT TIME?” he shouts from the hallway.

Sirius rolls his eyes, voice echoing back, “ Seven! And tell Barty if he puts his shoes on the coffee table I will kill him.”

There’s no answer, but Sirius could swear he hears laughter as Regulus disappears around the corner.

—

Sirius is pacing.

Not just pacing, really—he’s doing that nervous thing where he tugs at his own fingers like they’re knots he can undo, where he walks the same tight circuit from the kitchen to the living room and back, muttering under his breath.

Remus watches him from the stove, leaning lightly against the counter, arms crossed but relaxed. There’s a soft smile tugging at his mouth, like he’s not sure if he should be amused or concerned.

“Sirius,” he says gently. “The food is done. The flat is clean. You’ve already rearranged the candles on the table three times. You’re good.”

“I know ,” Sirius hisses, whirling around and flinging his arms out dramatically. “But it’s not just dinner. It’s them . Together. In my flat. Regulus is bringing Barty. I might actually combust.”

Remus steps forward and gently catches Sirius’ wrist. “You won’t combust.”

“I might.”

“You won’t.” Remus tugs him closer and wraps his arms around Sirius’ waist, grounding him with a firm squeeze. “You’re anxious because you care. Because you want this to go well. That means you’re a decent human, not that you’re going to burst into flames.”

Sirius leans his forehead against Remus’ shoulder, muttering, “I hate how emotionally well-adjusted you are.”

Remus chuckles, pressing a kiss to Sirius’ temple. “You love it.”

“I do.”

They stand like that for a moment—quiet, warm, safe. Then the buzzer cuts through the stillness like a knife.

Sirius jumps. “It begins,” he whispers, wide-eyed.

Remus lets him go and watches as he walks over to the intercom and presses the button.

“Yeah?”

A burst of voices answers. “It’s us!” James calls. “We brought wine!”

“And I made brownies!” Mary adds.

“Not from scratch,” Lily says flatly.

“They’re still brownies!” Mary defends.

Sirius rolls his eyes and presses the door buzzer. “First wave’s here,” he mumbles to Remus.

Remus is already moving to grab more glasses from the cupboard. “You’ve got this,” he says quietly. “One weird dinner party at a time.”

And Sirius tries to believe him.

The flat fills quickly with noise. James is the first through the door, arms wide for a dramatic hug Sirius dodges with a squawk.

“Oi! You didn’t tell me this was a no hugging zone,” James complains, waving a bottle of red wine in the air like a peace offering. Lily slips past him, rolling her eyes, but she pauses to press a kiss to Sirius’ cheek.

“Thanks for having us,” she says genuinely.

Mary and Marlene arrive with tupperware and a giant paper bag full of snacks no one asked for. Sirius is pretty sure there’s a loaf of sourdough in there. He’s too anxious to question it.

“I’m already looking for where I’ll be sitting,” Mary says, peeking into the living room. “Ideally near someone dramatic and someone soft.”

“So, Remus and me,” James says, winking.

“You’re the drama , Potter,” Lily snipes, already halfway to the kitchen with the wine.

The energy is easy and familiar, laughter spilling through the rooms like the music Sirius forgot to put on. Someone finds his Bluetooth speaker and starts queueing up a playlist that swings wildly from Bowie to Fleetwood Mac to ABBA. Sirius lets himself breathe.

For a minute.

He’s laughing at something Peter says—something about a boy in his film class who tried to light a cigarette off a hot glue gun—when the buzzer goes again.

Sirius freezes.

Everyone glances toward the door.

Remus, without missing a beat, reaches over and places a warm hand on Sirius’ arm.

“You’re fine,” he says softly, just for him. “You invited them. You can handle it.”

Sirius looks at him, searches for something in his eyes—steady reassurance, calm, kindness—and finds it all there. He nods once.

Then walks to the intercom, pressing the button.

“Yeah?”

“It’s us,” Regulus says, voice clipped but clear.

Sirius doesn’t say anything, just buzzes them in.

The second wave is coming.

And he’s still standing.

The door swings open with a soft click, and in they walk: Regulus first, shoulders drawn tight but head held high, followed by Evan, who’s in all black and already surveying the flat like he owns it. Pandora glides in next, her skirt swishing as she moves, and Dorcas follows closely behind, linking arms with her like they came as one unit. And then—of course—Barty. He doesn’t so much walk in as saunter, eyes flicking around like he’s calculating weaknesses in the room.

The conversation in the flat slows to a stop.

Not entirely silent—someone clears their throat, a glass clinks, Mary shuffles over slightly—but the warmth from before dims, an awkward tension coiling in Sirius’ stomach. He feels like every mistake he’s ever made has culminated in this moment , this clumsy blend of two fractured worlds, all under the harsh overhead light in his own flat.

He swallows hard.

Then—

Clap clap!

Remus.

“Alright, dinner is ready!” he says brightly, clapping his hands together like he’s hosting a game show. “And don’t worry, Sirius didn’t help much—why don’t you all find a seat and we’ll bring it out?”

There’s a soft chuckle around the room, a few people begin moving, and just like that the tension cracks open.

Sirius walks over to Remus, heart still stuttering. He leans in and whispers, “Thank you.”

Remus smiles at him gently, takes Sirius’ face in both hands, and presses a soft kiss to his lips.

Then he whispers, close and sure, “Everything is fine.”

And Sirius believes him.

By the time the food is spread out, the seating has sorted itself. Sirius ends up between Remus and James, across from Regulus and Evan. The conversation takes a moment to thaw, but the food helps—spaghetti, garlic bread, salad, all hot and filling.

Then Lily lifts her glass, looks down the table toward Pandora and says, “So, how are you finding the ensemble choreography for the Act II closer? That diagonal cross move is murder on my thighs.”

Pandora dabs her mouth with a napkin delicately, then places it in her lap and sighs. “Though I swore to never speak behind anyone’s back and wish no harm upon another soul…”

She pauses dramatically.

“…Margot is a total bitch with a stick so far up her arse it’s practically coming out of her face.”

The table erupts into laughter.

“Oh my God , yes!” Lily cries, slapping her hand on the table. “She gave me notes the other day about my posture . While I was drinking water!”

“She once told me I was too ‘self-absorbed’ in the mirror to be part of a true ensemble,” Regulus says dryly. “While literally fixing her lipstick in said mirror.”

That gets another round of laughs, this time a bit more surprised—Regulus rarely joins in. But when he glances around and even lets a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth, Sirius relaxes all the way into his seat.

Remus leans into him slightly, placing a warm hand on his thigh under the table, and gives it a gentle squeeze.

Sirius lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and smiles.

Everything is fine.

—

After dinner, the group settles into the living room in that way only close-knit chaos can allow. Some on the couch, some sprawled across the floor, others balanced on arms of chairs and cushions pulled from the furniture.

Marlene and Dorcas—who, somehow, only met tonight—have taken to each other with startling ease. Dorcas is now seated sideways in Marlene’s lap, their arms casually draped around one another as if this is something they’ve done a thousand times before. It isn’t. But it feels natural, like something inevitable.

Mary and Pandora are curled up together on the loveseat nearby, their shoulders pressed close. They’re talking in quiet voices between larger conversations, their laughter slipping easily between them like it belongs there.

Remus sits on the floor, back against the wall, long legs stretched out in front of him. Sirius is between them, reclining slightly against Remus’ chest, feeling his calm, steady presence with every breath.

Across from them, Barty is dramatically sprawled out on the rug like a bored cat, his head resting casually on Evan’s thigh. Sirius watches them for a moment, arching a brow. It makes him wonder—not for the first time—if they’re a thing. With Barty, it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s for show.

Regulus sits slightly apart in one of the armchairs, legs crossed, a glass of wine swirling lazily in his hand. He looks relaxed, even elegant, but Sirius knows that stillness is always deliberate. Like he’s waiting for something.

Lily and James are tucked into the couch together, more affectionate than usual. James’ hand is resting low on her back, her legs thrown easily over his lap. It’s well known they’re hooking up, but they try not to let it bleed into the studio. Less mess that way, or so they say.

The conversation turns toward the show—of course it does.

Peter, perched on the floor beside the coffee table, says through a mouthful of chocolate: “Lighting and stage are already losing their minds. No one’s telling them anything. I don’t think they even know what the Act II set’s supposed to be yet.”

Marlene groans. “Don’t get me started. I’m still missing measurements for half the guys.” Her eyes flick across the room and land squarely on Barty. “Including you.”

Barty grins, propping himself up on his elbows. “Come over here and measure me then.”

Marlene recoils with a dramatic grimace. “ Ew . You wish .”

That earns a few laughs.

“I’m excited we’re finally starting on the second half,” Lily says. “But I’m also convinced we’re running out of time.”

“Same,” Mary mutters. “Like, I know we say that every time but I mean it this time.”

“When’s opening again?” Remus asks from behind Sirius, casually resting his chin on Sirius’ shoulder. “The orchestra doesn’t get many updates.”

“March 10th,” Lily says.

Remus hums, a soft thoughtful sound no one else seems to notice.

Except Sirius.

He turns his head, tilting it just enough to catch Remus’ expression. “Why the hum?”

“Oh,” Remus says, smiling a little. “Nothing. I’ll just be performing on my birthday.”

Sirius’ eyes go wide. “Wait—March 10th is your birthday?”

Remus nods, like it’s no big deal, but Sirius is already smirking.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing as he leans in, brushing his lips against Remus’ neck, “I’ll be in a very celebratory mood that night, so…”

Remus chuckles softly behind him, and the warmth of it sinks deep into Sirius’ chest.

When he looks back at the group, his gaze catches on Regulus.

Regulus is watching them. Not glaring or scoffing, not even judgmental—just watching, quietly, with a look Sirius recognizes instantly. It’s not jealousy. Not exactly.

It’s hope.

It’s that fragile, aching kind of look that says: I want that. I hope I can have that someday.

Sirius meets his brother’s eyes, and for once, no walls go up between them. No posturing, no cold dismissal.

Just a small nod.

Yes, you can.

Chapter Text

The theatre was colder than Sirius expected it to be. The sort of cold that crept in through tights and warm-up layers, settling into his shoulders no matter how many stretches he did. Still, the stage was alive in a way that made up for the chill. Lighting rigs were being tested above them, the sharp smell of paint and gaffer tape hung in the air, and the full orchestra was finally nestled into the pit.

Sirius spotted Remus as he passed the front of the stage, the other boy adjusting his music stand, bow in hand. He lifted his hand in a lazy wave, and Remus, without missing a beat, winked back at him. Just a little thing, but Sirius carried it with him like a talisman as he headed to the wings.

The first full run of Act I and II. The real test. Everyone was tense, but it buzzed through the cast like electricity.

Evan Rosier, in his pristine whites and sharp angles, played Prince Siegfried with all the arrogance of someone who thought royalty was his birthright. Sirius, in contrast, was the White Swan—ethereal, aching, tragic. And then there was Regulus. Black Swan. Precision like a knife’s edge. Cold and calculating with a flicker of desperation underneath.

James brought levity as Baron von Rothbart, his cape swirling behind him in dramatic, exaggerated flourishes that somehow still worked. The whole first half was coming together better than Sirius had dared to hope. The timing with the orchestra was tight, the energy was high, and even Margot had only yelled twice from the stalls.

But then, halfway through the third sequence—just before the pas de deux between Siegfried and the Black Swan—Sirius saw them.

Mr. and Mrs. Black, standing stiffly beside Ms. Rosier near the back of the theatre. Regal, silent, and disapproving in that way only his parents could manage without saying a word. Sirius' chest went tight. Not for himself, though—he’d long since stopped caring what they thought.

He glanced stage left and caught sight of Regulus. His brother’s gaze had locked on them the moment they walked in. The next moment, Regulus faltered. Just a half-step behind the music. His arm dropped too early in a lift, and Evan had to compensate. It wasn’t catastrophic—but it was noticeable.

Sirius felt the sting of it like it had happened to him.

—

It was nearly time. The final sequence of the day—White Swan’s final pas de deux with Prince Siegfried. Sirius was standing just offstage, already in position, about to step into the lights, when he spotted Regulus, alone near the wing, arms crossed tightly and shoulders drawn up to his ears.

He hesitated.

“Reg?” Sirius said quietly, stepping closer.

Regulus flinched at the sound of his voice but didn’t look at him. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor and muttered, “Why are they even here?”

“I don’t know, Reg,” Sirius said, trying to keep his voice steady. “But you did good—”

“No I didn’t,” Regulus cut him off, still not meeting his eyes. “I faltered, and Dad definitely noticed. Fuck.”

His panic was obvious now, rising fast like a wave about to crest. Sirius reached out a hand, hovering just behind his brother’s shoulder, unsure whether to touch him.

He didn’t know how to help—not when he was supposed to go out there in a moment. Not when he had to gather every ounce of his own composure just to get through this performance. And for a terrible second, guilt gnawed at him.

But the stage manager called his name, and Sirius forced himself to take a breath and turn away.

Then he stepped into the light.

And Sirius danced like they didn’t own his body anymore.

Not the Blacks. Not their expectations. Not their legacy. Not their shame.

His movement was fluid, emotional, filled with both restraint and ache, every extension and breath rooted in the knowledge that he’d crafted this version of the White Swan himself. Not Margot. Not tradition. Him.

He wasn’t beautiful because they approved of him. He was beautiful because he had chosen to be.

By the time Evan joined him, stepping in with practiced hands and careful partnering, Sirius had found something transcendent in his own skin. For once, Evan’s touch didn’t break the spell. The two of them moved like water—mirrored sorrow, grace in tension. The orchestra played to them, not the other way around.

When the final note hit and Sirius lowered from the final lift, the theatre was silent for a breath—then someone clapped. Then another. And then Margot, of all people, stood.

As they walked offstage, Sirius ran a towel over his face, breath shallow but eyes bright.

Evan stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Fuck,” Evan said, sounding like he meant it in every bone of his body. “Maybe you do need a stage. That was perfect.”

Before Sirius could reply, Evan slapped a high five into his palm. A rare show of actual warmth. Sirius blinked, caught off-guard, but laughed anyway, soft and stunned.

Then the others swarmed. James jogged over, sweat-darkened shirt clinging to his chest, grinning. Lily called out from the pit, “That was gorgeous , Sirius!” Mary gave him a thumbs-up from her seat near the edge of the stage. Even Margot offered a single nod, which, from her, might as well have been a standing ovation.

But Regulus was already gone.

Sirius caught a glimpse of him slipping through the wings, head down, body rigid, not looking at anyone. Ms. Rosier was calling everyone to gather at the front of the stage for notes and updates, and Sirius hesitated—his heart tugging toward the wings—but didn’t move.

Ms. Rosier clapped her hands sharply, the sound echoing across the stage. “Everyone, gather ‘round.”

They shuffled forward—sweaty, breathless, still buzzing from the run—but quieted quickly. Even Margot stood off to the side, arms crossed, looking vaguely satisfied.

“You did well today,” Ms. Rosier said, eyes sweeping over all of them. “Very well. There are a few things to fix up, of course—but overall, we’re in an amazing spot heading into the holiday.”

That drew a few sighs of relief. Lily bumped her shoulder against James; Mary yawned into her arm. Sirius glanced briefly at the wings, but Regulus was still gone.

“You are now dismissed for Christmas break,” Ms. Rosier continued. “Rehearsals resume on the twenty-eighth. During your time off, I expect all of you to be eating consciously —you are dancers, not hibernating bears—and reviewing the second half of Swan Lake .”

There were a few quiet chuckles.

“When you return,” she added, “I want thoughtful questions about the second half. Bring your brains, not just your bodies.”

Then, to everyone’s surprise, she smiled. A real one. Warm, if still a little intimidating.

“You’ve earned this. Happy Christmas.”

The tension onstage cracked like ice under sun. Bags were grabbed, hugs were exchanged, someone shouted, “First one to the showers wins!” and feet began to scatter.

Sirius stood, still catching his breath, the adrenaline just starting to fade from his limbs.

“Sirius,” Ms. Rosier said before he could take a step. “Please stay behind.”

He froze, heartbeat tripping once.

He nodded, barely. “Yes, ma’am.”

Sirius jogged lightly down the side stairs of the stage, still riding the high of adrenaline and movement, his chest rising and falling. As he passed the front row, he paused—just briefly—beside Remus, who was carefully tucking his sheet music into his bag.

Without a word, Sirius bent down and pressed a quick kiss to Remus’ lips.

Remus smiled up at him, golden in the house lights. “You were amazing.”

Sirius flushed, a little breathless, and kissed him again, slower this time. “I’ll come to your place tonight?”

Remus nodded, quiet but sure. “I’ll be waiting.”

Sirius walked on, pulse still stuttering—but now for entirely different reasons. Ms. Rosier stood waiting near the wings, flanked by Margot and Issac. Behind them, like ghosts in tailored wool, his parents lingered in the shadows, arms folded, speaking quietly to Ms. Rosier’s assistant. They watched him approach. He didn’t glance their way. Not once.

He walked straight past them, like they were part of the set dressing, and came to a stop in front of Ms. Rosier.

“What’s going on?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

Ms. Rosier clasped her hands behind her back, eyes gleaming just a little.

“Since this is your final show with us,” she said, “I have a job for you.”

Sirius blinked.

“We’d like you to choreograph your Act III solo,” she said plainly. “Completely.”

His mouth dropped open.

Margot and Issac both nodded in agreement, Issac’s grin a little wider than usual.

“What you showed us today,” Ms. Rosier continued, “proved you understand not only the choreography, but the heart of the role. You understand what’s expected of you. And we trust that you can handle this.”

Sirius’s breath caught.

“We’ll schedule weekly meetings with the three of us,” she went on, “to review your progress, help where needed, and guide you through the process. But this will be your creation.”

He could barely speak. “I—I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t,” she said.

Still stunned, still floating, he turned to go.

“Sirius.”

He heard the voice before he saw them.

His parents had stepped closer, now standing at the edge of the stage. “Are you coming home for the holidays? There’s important family business—”

“Sorry!” Sirius called out over his shoulder, already backing away, arms raised theatrically. “Can’t hear you over the millions of ideas I have for my own choreographed solo!”

And with a wicked grin, he threw them the middle finger before spinning on his heel.

Margot gasped loudly, Issac choked on a laugh—but Ms. Rosier only shook her head, her expression unreadable save for the faintest trace of a smile tugging at her lips.

—

Sirius stepped out of the studio, hair damp from the shower and hoodie pulled loosely over his head. His bag was slung across his shoulder, and despite the chill in the air, he felt oddly warm—buzzing with the electricity of the day. His muscles were sore in the good way, and his thoughts were already drifting toward Remus, toward warm food and softer kisses.

But then he saw Regulus.

His brother stood against the far wall of the building, arms crossed tight and posture sharp, like he was trying to keep himself from collapsing inward. He didn’t look up right away, didn’t move at all. Just stared at nothing.

Sirius crossed the sidewalk toward him.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

Regulus didn’t flinch this time, just exhaled through his nose.

“How are you so good at not faltering under their eyes?” he asked, voice low and tired.

Sirius blinked, unsure how to answer.

Regulus finally looked at him, eyes glassy but dry. “How is it we went through the same thing, but you’re so… unfazed?”

Sirius shook his head. “I’m far from unfazed.”

Regulus said nothing.

“Before Remus,” Sirius went on quietly, “I hated people looking at me with lust. Because that was the same way Dad looked at me, and it made me feel… full of guilt and disgust. I hated being known like that. Seen like that.”

His breath caught. Regulus just watched.

“And dancing?” Sirius gave a soft, humorless laugh. “You should see me in rehearsal. I get in so much shit because when I get a correction, Dad’s face flashes through my mind. I freeze. I panic. I feel like I’m ten again.”

He shrugged, eyes a little distant now. “But I’ve learned that I have to make my dancing my own. Not something tied to him. Not something he gets to keep haunting.”

Regulus looked away for a second, jaw clenching. Then he nodded. Took a deep breath. Let it out.

Sirius reached for his bag, adjusting the strap. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

Regulus hesitated, then said, “Probably going home.”

Sirius stepped closer. “Don’t.”

Regulus blinked at him.

“Come with me to James’.”

The invitation sat between them like it had all those years ago. But this time, Regulus didn’t scoff. Didn’t turn away. He just looked at Sirius, eyes softening, and nodded once.

“Okay,” he whispered.

He turned and walked down the path into the night.

And Sirius… Sirius stood there for a long moment, something heavy in his chest finally loosening.

When he reached Remus’ flat, the door opened before he could knock. The smell of something warm and familiar drifted out into the hallway—pasta, maybe. Rosemary. Home.

Remus smiled the moment he saw him, eyes crinkling. Then he tugged him inside without a word and kissed him.

It was soft, deep, grounding. Sirius melted into it.

When they pulled back, Sirius whispered, “How did I get so lucky to have you?”

Remus brushed a thumb against his cheek. “I ask myself that every time I look at you.”

And just like that, Sirius was home.

Chapter Text

The morning was quiet, the kind of stillness that wrapped around them like the extra blankets on Remus’ bed. The world outside was cold and pale, but inside, under the covers, Sirius was warm—his chest pressed to Remus’ back, his breath fanning across the nape of his neck.

“I’m kind of excited,” Sirius murmured, voice low and sleepy. “To go to James’ for Christmas. With Regulus. But also… kind of nervous.”

Remus shifted slightly, turning just enough to look at him. Their legs tangled, their hands finding each other under the duvet. Sirius' fingers ran idly along the soft skin of Remus’ arm.

“He said yes,” Sirius continued, “and I meant what I said—I want him there. I want him to know he can have something else. But it’s still weird, you know? Still him. Still me. Still them.”

Remus nodded, brushing a slow kiss to Sirius’ temple. “You’re doing something huge for him, love.”

Sirius gave a half-smile. “We’ll see if he lets me.”

They lay like that for a moment longer, in the hush of shared breath and sunlight beginning to filter through the curtains. Fingers traced ribs. A thumb grazed the curve of a hip. Sirius pressed a kiss to Remus’ collarbone, slow and reverent.

Then Remus spoke, his voice equally soft: “I have to go do something today, and I’d like company. What time do you have to pick Reg up?”

Sirius blinked, pulling back slightly to check his phone on the nightstand. “Three.”

Remus met his eyes. “Would you come with me somewhere?”

Sirius tilted his head, curious. “Where?”

Remus didn’t answer—just smiled a little, unreadable. “You’ll see.”

There was a beat of silence. Sirius wanted to ask again, but something in the way Remus looked at him made him stop.

He nodded. “Okay.”

They slowly sat up, the cold air meeting their bare skin making them huddle close again for just a second before climbing out of bed. Sirius grabbed his hoodie from the floor. Remus stretched, then reached for the soft jumper Sirius had claimed last week and forgotten to give back.

They got dressed and as they did, something unspoken passed between them: this Christmas was going to be different—for both of them.

They walked in silence through the cold, Sirius’ gloved hand brushing against Remus’ every so often. The sky was a soft gray, the kind that threatened snow but hadn’t yet decided. Remus’ cane tapped steadily against the pavement, the sound rhythmic and familiar.

Sirius hadn’t asked again where they were going. But when Remus turned through the black iron gate of the cemetery, Sirius knew.

They passed families bundled in coats and scarves, crouching to lay wreaths or brush snow from stone. Some cried. Some smiled through it. It was quiet except for the wind.

Remus led them toward a quiet row tucked beneath a leafless oak. He stopped in front of two headstones, simple and neat. One read Hope Lupin , the other Lyall Lupin .

Remus took a breath. “Happy Christmas,” he said softly, his voice clearer than it had been all morning. “I brought someone. I think you’d like him.”

He glanced sideways, then nodded Sirius forward.

“This is Sirius,” he said. “He’s loud. And reckless. But he’s also… good. And he makes things feel easier. Lighter.”

Sirius blinked quickly, his throat tightening as he looked at the stones. He stepped closer, brushing his hand over the top edge of Hope’s grave. Then he looked at Remus.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you it was meet-the-parents day,” Remus said, a small, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Sirius stared at him for a long moment, then looked down again. “Hi,” he said quietly, almost awkwardly. “You two raised a great man. He’s far too kind for this world.”

They stood in silence for a while, the wind playing with the ends of their coats.

“What are you doing for the holidays?” Sirius asked gently, his voice lower now.

He’d known Hope was gone. But Lyall—Sirius hadn’t realized. And it hit him then, that Remus was truly alone in this world. That he came here alone.

Remus shrugged one shoulder. “Probably sleeping in. Watching some movies. It’s just another day.”

“That won’t stand,” Sirius said, shaking his head. Then he turned back to the graves. “I hope it’s okay with you,” he said, addressing them, “but I would like to spend Christmas with your son.”

He turned back to Remus. “Come with me and Reg to James’. Please.”

Remus hesitated. “Sirius, I don’t want to—”

“Hush,” Sirius cut in, stepping closer. “You aren’t a burden. You’re not imposing. They’ll love you.”

Remus looked down for a long moment, then up at Sirius. His eyes were soft, damp at the edges. He nodded.

“Okay.”

Sirius reached for his hand, and together they stood in the quiet a moment longer, the cold forgotten.

—

“I need that shirt,” Regulus was saying, rifling through his drawer with increasing frustration. “The dark green one, with the collar—”

Sirius groaned from where he stood near the door, arms crossed. “You are literally packing for two nights. Two. I think you can survive without one hyper-specific pretentious shirt.”

“It’s not pretentious, it’s necessary . That shirt pulls the outfit together.”

“You’re going to James Potter’s house, not a royal gala.”

“I don’t want to go anyway!”

“Oh don’t give me that, you dick,” Sirius snapped, flinging an arm toward Regulus’ half-zipped duffel. “Pack your shit and let’s go. We’re going to miss the bus if you keep being a picky fucking princess .”

Regulus whirled around, glaring, then grabbed the first shirt his hand landed on—a stretched out navy jumper that definitely didn’t match whatever aesthetic he was after—and shoved it angrily into his bag.

“ Fine! ” he shouted, zipping the bag with way more force than necessary and storming out of the dorm room, muttering something about being surrounded by heathens .

Sirius exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Bloody hell.”

Behind him, Remus was leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching the entire scene with a lazy, amused smirk on his face. He didn’t say a word.

Sirius turned to him, scowling slightly. “Not a word.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Remus said, his grin widening. “But I am enjoying this a lot more than I probably should.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, shouldering his own bag as they stepped out of the room. “You're dating me, so technically this is your fault.”

Remus laughed softly and followed them down the hallway, the sound of Sirius huffing and Regulus stomping ahead echoing down the corridor.

—

The door swung open before they even had the chance to knock, and there stood Effie Potter, beaming like they’d just brought Christmas morning with them.

“Sirius!” she exclaimed, pulling him straight into a tight hug, rocking him slightly on her toes. “It’s so good to see you, darling.”

Sirius hugged her back without hesitation, face buried in her shoulder for a moment. “Hi, Mum.”

She smiled at that, and then turned her attention to the boy standing beside him.

“You must be Remus,” she said warmly, holding out both hands to him.

Remus, a little startled but clearly charmed, stepped forward to shake her hands. “Yes—Remus Lupin. Thank you for having me.”

“Oh, sweetheart, any friend of Sirius is family,” she said, giving his hands a squeeze. Then her gaze flicked over to Regulus, standing a little stiffer at the side with his bag slung over one shoulder.

He stepped forward and extended his hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Potter, for allowing me here during your holiday.”

Her smile didn’t falter for a second. “Of course, sweetheart,” she said, shaking his hand gently, then glancing sideways at Sirius with a twinkle in her eye. “Why don’t you show your brother to the spare room, love? Everything’s all set up for him. And yours, of course, is already ready.”

Sirius caught the meaning instantly— your room —like it was his room, not just a guest space. A place always waiting for him. That meant more than she knew.

He nodded and nudged Regulus toward the stairs. “C’mon, Princess. Let’s get you settled.”

“Charming,” Regulus muttered, but he followed.

“Oh, and James will be home soon,” Effie called after them. “Just popped out to the shop for me!”

—

Later that evening, the living room was glowing with warm light and the scent of mulled cider, and the coffee table was covered in snacks and half-finished board games. They’d cycled through Uno, charades, and were deep into an aggressive round of Cards Against Humanity .

James was dealing the cards dramatically, already laughing before the round began. “Okay, this is the perfect hand. I swear if none of you pick mine I’m disowning you.”

Sirius scoffed, tossing a marshmallow at his head. “You don’t have that kind of power.”

“Watch me.”

He grinned and glanced at Regulus, who had been surprisingly decent at every single game—almost too decent.

“You know,” James said as he picked up a card Regulus had played and read it aloud, “you’re suspiciously good at this. Quiet ones always are. Bet you’ve got a wicked little mind under all that perfectly combed hair.”

Regulus blinked, clearly not expecting to be addressed so directly, and then—almost imperceptibly—his ears turned pink.

Sirius noticed. He didn’t say anything, but he definitely noticed.

He smirked into his cider and leaned a little closer to Remus beside him, whispering, “I think James just made Reg blush.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Tragic. We should alert the press.”

Sirius snorted into his drink.

As another round of Cards Against Humanity wrapped up—Regulus winning with a card that made Remus snort into his sleeve—Effie rose from her chair with a gentle smile.

“Well,” she said with a stretch, “I think that’s enough madness for me tonight. Monty?”

Monty looked up from his place on the couch, already half-asleep with a tea cup balanced on his knee. “Bed sounds like the right idea.”

“We’ll see you all in the morning,” Effie added as she ruffled James’ hair. “Presents at eight. Don’t be late.”

James groaned dramatically. “You’re evil.”

“You say that every year.” Effie leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “Goodnight, my loves.”

“Goodnight, Mum,” James said, followed by a chorus of goodnights from everyone else as she and Monty disappeared upstairs.

As the room settled again, James leaned back against the couch cushions with a stretch. “I swear, she gets more competitive every year.”

“Only because she always wins,” Sirius said with a grin.

James chuckled, then glanced at Regulus. “You’re way too good at that game, by the way.”

Regulus gave a small smirk. “I’m observant.”

Remus, curled up beside Sirius, gave a light laugh. “So, how’s the show coming along, anyway? You’ve all been working nonstop, haven’t you?”

“It’s intense,” James said immediately. “Like, Rosier isn’t just remounting it—she’s trying to reinvent it.”

Sirius nodded. “The first half is mostly solid now, but the second one’s still in flux. We’ve been reviewing different versions, picking apart what works and what doesn’t.”

“She’s made it collaborative,” Regulus added. “We’ve been helping shape it, which is kind of terrifying but also—cool.”

Remus raised his eyebrows. “That sounds incredible. And… kinda chaotic.”

Sirius laughed under his breath. “It is. But it’s also the most engaged I’ve ever seen the company. Everyone actually cares about what we’re building.”

“I wish I could see the rehearsals,” Remus said. “It sounds like you’re all creating something special.”

There was a short pause. Then Sirius shifted slightly and said, “Actually… there’s something else.”

James looked at him knowingly but stayed quiet. Regulus, on the other hand, looked curious.

“Ms. Rosier asked me to choreograph a solo,” Sirius said, voice careful. “For the final show.”

Remus blinked. “You’re choreographing it yourself?”

Sirius nodded. “Weekly check-ins with Rosier, Margot, and Isaac, but yeah. It’s mine.”

Remus’s eyes widened. “Sirius, that’s amazing.”

Regulus was quiet, but his expression stayed neutral. Sirius glanced at him, unsure.

“I didn’t want to say anything earlier,” Sirius added. “Wasn’t sure how it would land.”

But Regulus surprised him by nodding slowly. “I’m happy for you.”

Sirius exhaled, shoulders dropping. “Thanks.”

“You deserve it,” Remus said quietly, smiling. “They wouldn’t have asked if they didn’t trust you.”

James grinned. “It’s gonna be bloody brilliant.”

Sirius ducked his head, slightly pink. “Alright, alright, let’s not make it a thing.”

“Too late,” Remus murmured, nudging him with a smirk.

Regulus rolled his eyes but there was the faintest ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth. Sirius caught it—and held onto it.

—

Later that night, once the laughter had quieted and the warmth of the fire had softened into a low crackle, Sirius slipped down the hall and knocked gently on the door to the spare room. It creaked open with a push, and Regulus looked up from where he was sitting cross-legged on the bed, a book forgotten in his lap.

“Hey,” Sirius said. “Just wanted to say goodnight.”

Regulus set the book aside and nodded. “Come in.”

Sirius stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and crossed the room to sit beside Regulus on the bed. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then Regulus glanced over, voice quiet. “Thanks for getting me to come. This has… this has already been the best Christmas I’ve had in years.”

Sirius smiled, letting that settle warmly in his chest. “I’m glad you’re here.”

They sat in silence a little longer before Sirius let out a soft chuckle and leaned back on his hands.

“Remember that Christmas when you were nine and I was eleven? We were in my room, and someone started chucking rocks at the window.”

Regulus blinked, then laughed under his breath. “Oh my god—James.”

“Yeah.” Sirius grinned. “James standing in the snow with two presents, trying to be stealthy. And somehow, we got him up to my room, and just laid around all night eating candy he brought. Until we heard Mum’s heels downstairs and he bolted like his life depended on it.”

Regulus smiled, the kind of small, honest smile Sirius didn’t see often enough. “I had the biggest crush on James.”

Sirius turned to stare at him, mouth open. “I knew it! I knew it.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but there was no heat behind it. Sirius nudged him with his shoulder.

“You know he’s pansexual, right? And like—sure, he’s obsessed with Lily, but I’m not totally convinced she’s obsessed with him, and if he knew you were an option and you didn’t hate him, he would absolutely fall for you and—”

“Sirius,” Regulus cut in with a soft laugh. “As stupidly handsome as he is and as nice as he is… he’s not the one for me.”

Sirius tilted his head, surprised by the softness in Regulus’ tone.

“I would just make him sad,” Regulus continued. “James needs someone who matches his happiness. I think Lily’s that for him.”

Sirius was quiet for a moment, then hummed. “That’s fair.”

He reached out and gave Regulus’ knee a gentle pat. “Your person is out there, Reg. You don’t have to rush it. But I want you to know—they are.”

Regulus looked at him, eyes a little shinier than before. “Thank you, Sirius.”

Sirius stood, leaning down to ruffle his brother’s hair with one hand. “Merry Christmas, Reg.”

Regulus smoothed his hair out, but his smirk lingered. “Merry Christmas.”

Sirius stepped out into the quiet hallway, heart full, and closed the door behind him.

Chapter Text

The morning light poured in soft and golden through the curtains, casting a warm halo over Remus' face as he slept beside Sirius. The covers were half-kicked down, one of Remus’ arms tucked beneath the pillow, his other hand resting lightly against Sirius’ bare chest. His breathing was slow, even. Peaceful.

Sirius didn’t move. He barely even breathed.

He just watched.

Watched the way the light hit the soft freckles across Remus’ nose. Watched how his eyelashes curled ever so slightly at the ends. Watched the gentle twitch of his fingers like he was dreaming something quiet, something good.

And Sirius thought— I’ve never felt more content in my life.

He was dancing like himself again, not like a shadow of his father. He was creating. He was taking ownership of the thing that once felt like a chain. Regulus had started letting him in again, even if it was still cautious, even if it came with a dozen sharp edges.

And beside him, this boy. This kind, sharp, impossibly soft boy. Sirius had him. Or maybe—he was letting Sirius have him.

And that thought nearly made his chest ache.

I’m falling in love with him.

The words formed clean and whole in his mind. Undeniable. Solid. And as soon as they did, Sirius sat bolt upright in bed like he'd been electrocuted.

“Fuck,” he said aloud.

Remus stirred slightly beside him, but didn’t wake. Sirius clapped a hand over his mouth, heart pounding in his throat.

Because love —that was serious. That was terrifying. That was something he hadn’t let himself think about since… well, maybe ever. Not like this.

Not something real. Not someone real.

And yet—there it was.

Remus Lupin. Asleep in his bed on Christmas morning, golden light brushing his face, and Sirius completely, utterly doomed.

There was a knock at the door—light, then a little louder.

“Boys?” came Effie’s warm voice from the hallway. “Breakfast is ready and the tree’s looking awfully lonely without you. Presents are waiting.”

Sirius blinked, still frozen where he sat.

Remus stirred beside him with a small groan, stretching slightly before sitting up. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then reached out and dragged a hand gently across Sirius’ back.

Sirius flinched, just slightly, like the touch startled him.

Remus frowned, more awake now. “Hey,” he said, his voice still hoarse with sleep. “Are you alright?”

Sirius turned to look at him, and Remus’ face was all softness—creased with sleep, golden in the light, eyes laced with concern.

And that softness made Sirius' chest clench in a whole new way. His thoughts screamed run , but his body stayed still.

He nodded quickly, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. Just... weird dream.”

Remus didn’t push. He just nodded and leaned in, pressing a kiss to Sirius’ cheek. “Happy Christmas,” he whispered, his lips still close to Sirius’ skin.

Sirius swallowed, his voice catching slightly. “Happy Christmas,” he echoed back.

They sat like that for a moment longer, before the sounds of movement downstairs reminded them of where they were.

They both tugged on shirts—Sirius’ was half inside out, and Remus’ still smelled like Sirius—and padded quietly down the hallway, the air filled with the smell of cinnamon, toast, and pine.

Whatever panic was brewing inside Sirius, he shoved it down deep.

When they came down, the tree lights were twinkling gently and the smell of breakfast wafted in from the dining room. Regulus and James were already on the couch, each cradling a mug of coffee and talking in low voices, their heads tipped toward one another in easy conversation.

Sirius didn’t catch what they were saying. His mind was still foggy with everything that had come crashing down on him upstairs. The word love kept echoing around his head like a siren.

Regulus looked up, met Sirius’ eyes, and immediately furrowed his brows in silent question. You alright? it said, clear as anything.

Sirius ignored him. “I’m gonna make some tea,” he mumbled, already turning toward the kitchen. “Anyone want?”

Only Remus raised a hand, still half-tucked into the oversized jumper Sirius had lent him. “Yeah, sure.”

Sirius nodded and disappeared into the kitchen, letting the door swing closed behind him.

The moment it did, he leaned both hands against the counter and squeezed his eyes shut. His chest was too tight. His thoughts were too loud.

What the fuck am I doing?

I’m in love with him.

The kettle clicked on. Sirius barely registered it.

I’m in love with him and he deserves so much more than I can give. He deserves—God, he deserves softness, and light, and safety. He deserves someone who didn’t grow up learning love through locked doors and bruised feelings. He deserves a clean slate. Why would he want to be loved by someone who has such a fucked-up view of what love is?

His breathing started to shake.

The door creaked open again, and Regulus stepped in, shutting it quietly behind him. He didn’t speak right away. Just watched his brother, the tremble in his shoulders.

Then, softly: “What’s wrong?”

Sirius shook his head, but the words came anyway, like floodgates bursting open. “I’m in love with Remus,” he whispered, and then louder, more desperate, “I’m in love with him, and it’s terrifying, Reg. It’s fucking terrifying because he deserves so much more than I can offer. Why would he want to be loved by someone who doesn’t know how to love properly? Who only ever learned it through—control, and fear, and—”

His voice cracked.

“Why would he want that? Why would he want me?”

Regulus crossed the room slowly. His voice, when it came, was even and sure. “I want to be loved by you.”

Sirius blinked at him, stunned.

“You’ve loved me,” Regulus said, stepping closer. “Through everything. You’ve loved me even when I was a nightmare. Even when I was cold. And you never feel bad about that.”

Sirius’ throat tightened.

“And James,” Regulus continued. “Effie, Monty. Your friends. You love them, and you don’t feel guilty about it. So why do you feel guilty about loving Remus?”

Sirius didn’t have an answer. His eyes filled with tears.

“I don’t know,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Regulus reached out and touched his arm. “Maybe,” he said gently, “that’s something you just need to sit with. Until you figure it out.”

Sirius swallowed, then nodded once. He didn’t trust his voice.

The kettle clicked off.

They joined the group after a moment, Remus shooting Sirius a concerned look. Sirius caught it and brushed it off, forcing a smile onto his face as they stepped into the lounge.

Effie and Monty had gone all out—despite only learning last minute that Regulus and Remus would be joining them for Christmas, they still had presents waiting under the tree for both of them.

They handed Regulus a box wrapped in crisp silver paper. Inside were brand new white silk pointe shoes, the kind recommended by Marlene, apparently. “She said they’d go perfectly with your costume,” Effie added with a proud smile. The moment Regulus peeled back the tissue and saw what they were, his eyes welled with tears. He blinked quickly, trying to hide it, but the room seemed to pause with the weight of it. Gifts hadn’t exactly been common in the Black household.

There was more—a soft jumper in a deep charcoal and a sleek new belt with an ornate clasp. “Clearly someone’s been asking James about your aesthetic,” Sirius said with a small grin. Regulus gave a watery smile back, clutching the belt a little tighter.

For Remus, there was a small stack: a few vinyl records Sirius had once mentioned he didn’t have yet, and a pristine new set of cooking knives. “Sirius told us how good your cooking is,” Monty said. “Figured you deserved something worthy of it.”

Remus laughed softly, blinking fast. “This is... more than I expected,” he said, voice thick. “Thank you.” Holidays hadn’t meant much to him in a long time. Not like this.

Sirius sat among them, trying his best to engage—smiling at jokes, reacting with warmth when others spoke. But Remus kept noticing how his eyes drifted, how he seemed caught in thought. When he opened his own gifts—some new warm-up gear, a few dance accessories, and a beautiful framed print of an old ballet program—he smiled and said all the right things. But there was something distant in him. Something quietly wrong.

They said their goodbyes at the door, pulling on coats and scarves, exchanging lingering hugs with Effie and Monty. Effie cupped Regulus’ cheek and whispered something that made him smile shyly, and Monty ruffled his hair before hugging Sirius tightly.

The walk to the bus stop was quiet. Snow crunched softly beneath their shoes, the festive buzz of the morning giving way to a gentle, sleepy silence. Sirius sat by the window, staring out blankly as the city passed them by. Regulus sat next to him, quiet as well, though he kept shooting glances in his brother’s direction. Remus, across the aisle, could feel the weight of the shift. Sirius hadn’t said much all morning. He hadn’t reached for his hand once. He hadn’t kissed him when no one was looking like he usually did.

But Remus didn’t press. Not yet.

When they got to Regulus’ dorm, they all stood on the pavement together for a moment. Sirius hugged his brother first—tight, silent. Then Regulus turned to Remus and hugged him too, a soft “Merry Christmas” spoken into the fold of his coat.

“See you in rehearsal,” Sirius said.

Regulus nodded, then disappeared into the building.

Sirius and Remus walked the rest of the way to Remus’ flat in a silence that grew heavier with every step. The sky was beginning to bruise with early evening blue, the air sharp and cold. When they reached the base of the stairs that led up to Remus’ place, Sirius stopped. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched slightly like he was bracing against something worse than wind.

“Um,” he said. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna go home.”

Remus froze at the top of the steps. Then he turned and walked slowly back down until he was standing in front of Sirius, the breath between them visible in the cold air.

“Alright,” Remus said carefully. “You’ve been off all day. You haven’t held my hand once, you haven’t kissed me back once, and you can barely meet my eyes.” He looked up at him, searching. “What’s wrong?”

Sirius huffed, glancing away. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Remus let out a hollow laugh. “If you’re wanting to break up with me, just do it, Sirius. I can’t deal with you suddenly distancing yourself until it’s like we were nothing.”

Sirius’ head snapped up, eyes wide. “No. No, I don’t want to break up. God, Remus—I don’t want that at all.”

Remus stepped just a little closer, voice gentler now but no less sure. “Then what?”

The wind bit at Sirius’ exposed neck, the tip of his nose. He could feel it stinging his eyes, sharp and cold. But not as cold as the fear sitting in his chest.

“I’m in love with you,” Sirius whispers.

He watches as Remus’ eyes widen—first with surprise, then confusion.

“What?”

“I’m in love with you,” Sirius says again, voice cracking. “And you deserve better. God, Remus—you deserve the whole world. You deserve someone whose version of love isn’t so twisted. Someone whose idea of love wasn’t poisoned by parents who beat him or a father who—” he chokes, “—who raped him.”

Remus freezes, pain flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You deserve someone who will have sex with you without backing out or making excuses,” Sirius says, voice rising. “You deserve someone who can give you everything. And I can’t—I’m not that person. You deserve so much more than me.”

He’s crying now, trying not to fall apart. His hands clench tightly around the strap of his bag to keep them from shaking.

“Sirius,” Remus says gently, his voice low and warm.

Sirius can’t bear the way he’s looking at him—soft and open and full of compassion.

“Fuck, don’t look at me like that,” he snaps, voice breaking. “I don’t deserve that.”

He takes a shaky breath. “I don’t want to lose you, Remus. But I just… I don’t think I’m enough.”

Remus steps closer, voice calm but firm. “Why do you think you get to decide what I do or don’t deserve?”

Sirius blinks, startled.

“I deserve love,” Remus says quietly. “And you love me. So let me deserve you.”

Sirius is silent, every bone in his body aching with how much he wants to believe that.

“Come upstairs,” Remus says. “I have a present for you. You can leave after that if you still want to.”

Then he turns and walks up the stairs, leaving Sirius rooted to the spot.

Sirius stood at the bottom of the steps for a long moment, staring at the place Remus had just disappeared into. His chest felt too tight. Everything inside him screamed to run, to disappear before he could mess it all up worse than he already had.

But he couldn’t leave. Not really. Not when Remus had looked at him like that.

He slowly climbed the stairs, each step heavy with hesitation. When he got to the door, it was already unlocked. He stepped inside quietly, closing it behind him, the silence stretching between them like something fragile and brittle.

Remus didn’t say anything as Sirius entered the flat—just walked ahead to his room, his cane tapping softly against the floor until he reached the door and leaned it carefully against the wall. Sirius followed without being asked, hovering in the doorway until Remus looked over and nodded once toward the bed.

They sat down on the edge, side by side. Sirius' heart was pounding.

“I have something to give you,” Remus said, reaching into his bedside table for his phone. “It’s not done yet, but… here.”

He pulled up a file labeled Brightest Star and pressed play.

Sirius sat still as the room filled with music. A delicate piano melody began, soft and slow, like the way sunlight slips across a quiet morning. Then the violin joined in—wistful, aching, like longing turned into sound. The whole song was instrumental, but somehow it said more than any lyrics could. It was grief and love and hope and heartache all woven together, raw and honest and careful.

Sirius felt the weight of it like a hand pressed to his chest.

When it ended, he turned slowly to look at Remus.

“Did you write that?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Remus nodded, his jaw tight. His eyes were on the floor, and even in the dim light, Sirius could see how hurt he still looked. How much Sirius’ words had carved into him earlier.

Sirius reached out, cupping his face with both hands. He leaned in and kissed him—softly, reverently, pouring as much apology and love into it as he could. When he pulled back, his eyes were full of tears again.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered. “I love it.”

Then he kissed him again—deeper this time—and shifted, crawling into Remus’ lap, straddling him gently. His hands never left Remus’ face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones like he could smooth the sadness away.

“I love you,” Sirius breathed against his lips. “I love you so much.”

He leaned forward, slowly and deliberately, guiding Remus down until his back hit the mattress. The kiss deepened, Sirius’ hands framing Remus’ jaw like he was something delicate, something he couldn’t believe he got to hold. Remus’ hands slid instinctively to Sirius’ waist, grounding them both. He let Sirius lead, lips parting, breaths mingling.

“I love you,” Sirius whispered again, voice shaky but certain, as his mouth moved to Remus’ neck, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses against the skin like a prayer.

One of his hands trailed down slowly, fingers brushing against Remus’ stomach before slipping lower, to the buckle of his belt. He started to undo it, hesitantly.

“Sirius.” Remus’ voice was low but firm, not harsh—just enough to make Sirius pause.

Sirius froze, lifting his head to meet Remus’ eyes. Remus was watching him closely, his brows slightly furrowed, searching his face.

“You’re emotional,” Remus said gently. “We don’t have to do anything. Not right now.”

“What?” Sirius blinked, sitting up slightly but still straddling Remus' hips. “No—I want to. I love you.” His voice cracked slightly with how much he meant it, how much he wanted this to be okay.

Remus reached up, cupping his face with both hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that clung stubbornly to Sirius’ lashes. His smile was small, tender.

“I know,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Sirius’ lips. “I know you do. But I’m telling you that we don’t have to if you’re not one hundred percent sure. No pressure. No expectations.”

“I am sure,” Sirius whispered, his voice thick. “I want this. I want you.”

Remus searched his eyes for a long moment, like he was looking for any cracks, any uncertainty. But Sirius just nodded, eyes steady and open.

So Remus kissed him again—slow and warm—and then gently flipped them over, easing Sirius onto his back. Sirius went willingly, his fingers tangling in Remus’ shirt, his breath stuttering.

Remus lowered himself, mouth returning to Sirius’ neck, finding that sensitive spot just beneath his jaw and pressing into it gently, reverently.

Everything was unhurried. Careful. Honest.

And Sirius let go, holding onto Remus like he was the only real thing left in the world.

“At any moment, if you want to stop, just tell me, okay?” Remus’ voice was firm, but the gentleness beneath it made Sirius’ heart flutter. He sat up slightly, meeting Sirius’ eyes, searching for any hesitation or fear.

Sirius just stared, caught in the warmth of Remus’ gaze, feeling a fluttering in his chest. How was it possible for someone to be this beautiful? His chest ached with something sweet and aching all at once.

“Sirius?” Remus’ voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him back to the moment. “Are you okay?”

“What?” Sirius blinked, shaking off the haze of awe. He met Remus’ eyes again, his gaze searching, just to make sure that Remus wasn’t unsure.

“If you want to stop, tell me,” Remus repeated, his voice still gentle but insistent.

“Okay,” Sirius whispered, nodding, his heart thudding. It felt like a weight was lifting off him, like a promise. Remus wasn’t going to push him, and that meant everything.

Sirius watched, a breath catching in his throat, as Remus slowly peeled off his shirt. His smooth, tanned skin caught the light, each movement deliberate and fluid. The sight took Sirius' breath away, and for a moment, he couldn’t seem to look away. His body tensed, eyes tracing every inch of Remus—there was something so intimate about seeing him this way, so exposed and raw. It felt like a privilege, like something sacred.

When Remus finally met his gaze again, Sirius’ heart beat faster, his chest tight. His skin felt too hot, like he couldn’t get enough of him. Remus was perfect in a way that made Sirius feel both terrified and consumed with awe all at once.

Remus reached down then, his fingers grazing the edges of Sirius’ shirt. He pulled it off slowly, carefully, and then let his fingertips trail across the scars on Sirius’ sides. Sirius shuddered at the contact, his body going tense, but it wasn’t a bad feeling—it was grounding. Remus’ touch was gentle, reverent, and for the first time in a long time, Sirius didn’t feel ashamed of the marks on his skin.

“God, you are so beautiful,” Remus murmured, his voice low and breathless, and Sirius’ heart lurched at the raw honesty in those words.

Then Remus moved off the bed, his movements fluid as he stood to undress. His belt came off first, then the rest of his pants followed, and Sirius felt his breath hitch again. It wasn’t about the body, not really. It was about how everything was so careful, so tender—this was not rushed, this was not about anything other than the two of them, here, now.

Remus crawled back over Sirius, his movements slow, deliberate. He leaned down, pressing soft kisses along Sirius’ stomach, his lips trailing over the skin like he was trying to memorize every inch of him. Sirius’ hands trembled as they moved to touch him, but Remus guided him back with a soft, reassuring press of his lips, like he was telling Sirius, not yet, not yet.

Remus’ hands went to the button of Sirius’ jeans, his fingers nimble as he undid the zipper and slowly began to peel the fabric away from Sirius' body. It was a slow burn, the anticipation almost too much to bear, but it was nothing short of perfect.

Sirius’ pulse raced, each movement pulling them deeper into this space where nothing else mattered. It was just them now. No distractions, no past or fears. Just them.

“Go lay back against the pillow,” Remus whispered, his voice low and gentle, like a reassurance. He pressed a soft, quick kiss against Sirius’ lips before pulling back, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made Sirius’ heart race.

Sirius hesitated for a moment, the intensity of the situation making him feel a little unsure, but then he did as Remus asked, settling back against the pillow. He was now fully exposed, the soft glow of the room illuminating every inch of him. For a moment, it felt overwhelming—the vulnerability, the intimacy—but then he looked up at Remus and saw the care in his eyes, and it made him feel safer than he thought possible.

Remus reached over to the nightstand, his fingers brushing over the surface before grabbing a condom and a small bottle of lube. As he came back to Sirius, his movements were calm, assured—everything about Remus was grounding.

“Have you ever done this with anyone before?” Remus’ voice was gentle, quiet, and Sirius felt the knot in his stomach tighten slightly at the question. Remus’ eyes were searching his, as if waiting for an answer that would reassure them both.

Sirius could feel his cheeks flush. “Uh… not really?” he huffed out a nervous laugh, trying to cover the sudden nervousness welling up inside him. “I mean, one time when I was 17… me and this guy started to, but I freaked out. He was barely one knuckle deep and I bolted. Left without saying anything.” The words tumbled out, and as soon as they did, he wanted to pull them back. He could practically feel the weight of the embarrassment in his chest.

He buried his face in his hands. “God, this is so embarrassing.”

Sirius immediately regretted saying anything at all, but Remus’ voice was soft and comforting as he gently pulled Sirius’ hands away from his face.

“Hey, no, don’t do that,” Remus said quietly, his thumb brushing across Sirius’ wrist as their fingers intertwined. “It’s okay. We’ll go as slow as you need. You’re not alone in this.”

Sirius felt a lump in his throat, overwhelmed by how easily Remus was making this feel... okay. This was real, raw, and nothing like he had ever experienced before, but Remus was steady, calm, and his presence was everything Sirius needed right now.

Remus took a breath, his eyes scanning Sirius’ face one last time. He shifted his body slightly, reaching down to gently place his finger at Sirius’ entrance, and Sirius froze, holding his breath in anticipation.

“It’s going to hurt a little,” Remus murmured, his voice calm and steady. “Just tell me if you want me to slow down, okay?”

Sirius nodded, his chest tight, trying to ground himself. The feeling of being this open, this vulnerable, was terrifying—but Remus was here. Remus was gentle. Remus was giving him the space he needed to breathe.

Remus slowly pressed his finger inside, and Sirius’ breath hitched. There was a sharp sting at first, but it was bearable. He focused on Remus’ steady gaze, the way his hand was so warm, so certain against his own. It wasn’t just physical; it was like Remus was anchoring him, keeping him grounded while everything else inside him seemed to whirl.

“How does that feel?” Remus asked softly, his voice a tender question.

Sirius swallowed hard, his throat tight. It hurt a little, but it was manageable. He wanted this, even if it was more intense than he had expected. More than anything, he wanted to be closer to Remus. To experience this with him.

“Good,” Sirius finally managed to breathe out, his voice hoarse. “Just... keep going.”

Remus’ eyes softened, his lips curling into a small, reassuring smile before he leaned down and kissed Sirius gently. The kiss was soft, sweet, and everything that Sirius needed right now. Remus was here. Remus wasn’t going anywhere.

Remus resumed, his finger shifting and stretching slowly inside of him, but it was different now—there was no rush, no urgency. Everything was deliberate, full of intention, as if Remus was trying to show him that he didn’t have to be afraid.

Sirius felt another finger slip in, and while the discomfort was still there, it was fading. The gentle pressure, the way Remus’ eyes never left his, made him feel like they were building something together, not just this. It was more than just the physical. It was trust. It was Remus, showing him that this could be something beautiful.

“I’m here,” Remus whispered against his skin, his voice low, filled with warmth. “You’re doing great. Just tell me if you need anything.”

Sirius closed his eyes for a moment, trying to focus on the feeling—on Remus—and not the vulnerability that was starting to feel like it might swallow him whole. But then Remus kissed him again, soft and slow, reminding him that everything would be okay.

Suddenly, a wave of something intense washed over Sirius. He let out a sharp gasp, his breath catching in his throat, and Remus paused for a brief moment, sensing the shift in the air.

"Found it?" Remus asked, his voice low and teasing. His lips curled into a smirk as Sirius stared at him, wide-eyed, as though Remus were something more than human—something ethereal.

Remus curled his fingers again, pressing deeper, hitting that same spot. Sirius gasped again, his grip tightening around Remus' hand, and he instinctively brought his other hand to the back of Remus' neck, pulling him closer, as if desperate for more.

"Fuck," Sirius gasped out, feeling a rush of heat pool in his stomach, a wave of longing that made everything feel electric. But then, just as quickly, Remus pulled out entirely.

Sirius' brows furrowed in confusion, his chest heaving. "What? No, wait, why did you stop?" He searched Remus' face, eyes wide, voice frantic with a mix of frustration and need. Remus simply laughed softly, the sound low and full of warmth, before kissing Sirius lightly, a tender brush of lips to soothe the ache left behind.

Remus then sat up, reaching for the condom. He opened it with practiced ease, sliding it onto himself, his eyes never leaving Sirius'. One hand stayed firmly in Sirius' grip, grounding them both in the moment.

He returned to Sirius' side, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, and then lined himself up, his breath warm against Sirius’ skin.

"You okay?" Remus asked, his voice quiet but sincere. Sirius, unable to trust his own voice, nodded instead, his chest tight with anticipation, the need pulsing through him stronger than before.

"Yes, god—stop being a tease and just get on with it."

Remus chuckled, a soft laugh escaping his lips, before he nodded and slowly began to push into Sirius. The stretch was intense; Sirius' eyes widened at the unfamiliar, burning sensation. It wasn’t painful, not exactly, but it wasn’t comfortable either—not yet. He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping Remus tighter.

"Tell me when I can move," Remus whispered, his breath hot against Sirius’ neck. His other hand slid down between them, gently beginning to stroke Sirius in a rhythm that made his pulse race.

"Fuck, okay—move, you can move," Sirius finally breathed out, his voice breaking as the tension in his body shifted. His breath hitched in a soft, breathy moan as Remus began to move, slowly at first, pressing deeper with each thrust.

When Remus finally bottoms out, they stay like that for a moment, foreheads nearly touching, both panting, the room thick with heat and the sound of their breath. Sirius' fingers twitch where they’re laced with Remus’, holding tighter, grounding himself. His whole body is stretched and full, and he feels like he's shaking from the inside out.

Then Remus starts to move again, slow at first, and Sirius lets out a noise—raw and unexpected—that doesn’t sound entirely human. His head tips back, mouth falling open as his hips rock down instinctively to meet Remus’ rhythm. The sounds spilling out of him become louder, less controlled, borderline obscene, and somewhere in the back of his mind he starts to feel bad for Remus' neighbors.

Remus’ thrusts begin to stagger, losing their smooth rhythm, and then he lets out a noise that doesn’t sound like pleasure—it’s sharper, tighter, and Sirius recognizes it instantly.

“Wait—stop. Stop,” he says quickly, voice urgent.

Remus freezes immediately, eyes locking on Sirius’, wide with alarm. “What? Are you okay?” he asks, his voice hoarse, already reaching up to touch Sirius’ face like he’s afraid he’s hurt him.

“Yes, I’m okay,” Sirius says, and then softens, brushing his thumb along Remus’ jaw. “But clearly you’re not. Is your knee hurting?” He glances down briefly, concern etched into every line of his face, before looking back up.

“What? No—it’s fine, I’m fine,” Remus tries, brushing it off, but Sirius raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Pull out,” he says firmly.

“What?”

“I said pull out.”

Remus pouts, clearly reluctant, but doesn’t argue. He pulls out slowly, eyes still on Sirius as if afraid he might change his mind.

“Lay on your back,” Sirius instructs, already shifting. Remus complies with a faint smirk.

“Yes, sir,” he mutters under his breath, and Sirius snorts.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, though the corners of his mouth twitch.

Sirius crawls over, slow and deliberate, straddling Remus’ hips. He reaches down, wrapping a hand around Remus, guiding him back to where they left off. Then, with a steady breath, he sinks down onto him, slow and careful. His mouth falls open again as he takes him in fully, eyes fluttering shut as he adjusts, breath catching in his throat.

Once he’s all the way down, he pauses, hands pressed against Remus’ chest, his fingertips splayed over the warm skin. He takes a second to steady his breathing, to find the rhythm again in his own body.

When he opens his eyes, Remus is staring up at him like he’s never seen anything so beautiful—like Sirius is something sacred. There’s so much raw hunger in his expression, so much open, unfiltered want , that Sirius’ heart clenches, overwhelmed by the weight of it.

That look alone makes his entire body burn.

“Give me your hand,” Sirius says, voice low but steady, and Remus immediately threads their fingers together, grounding them both in the connection. As soon as their hands are laced, Sirius starts to move—slow at first, finding his rhythm again.

Remus gasps, his breath hitching. “Fuck, Sirius,” he groans, his free hand gripping Sirius’ hip like he needs the anchor. His eyes flicker up, drinking in the sight above him. “You are so beautiful.”

“Yeah?” Sirius breathes, focusing on the roll of his hips. “Keep talking.”

Remus obeys without hesitation, voice unraveling as he speaks, like the words are pouring out faster than he can control. “You don’t even get it, do you?” he says, shaking his head, gaze dragging hungrily up and down Sirius’ body. “What you do to people. Everyone wants you—you walk into a room, and it’s like gravity shifts. You don’t even notice it. You don’t even see how stunning you are. You just… exist, and the whole world aches for you.”

Sirius lets out a shaky breath, his movements faltering for just a second under the weight of Remus’ words. He’s so close he can feel it building, tight and burning and inevitable.

“Don’t stop,” he begs. “Please—keep talking, don’t stop.”

Remus’ eyes darken, and he sits up just enough to bring his mouth to Sirius’ chest. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs against his skin. “I could mark every inch of you, make sure everyone knows you're mine.”

He punctuates the promise with his teeth, nipping just under Sirius’ collarbone, then trailing lower, sucking bruises into the warm skin, each one making Sirius jolt and gasp.

“Fuck, Remus—I’m close,” Sirius breathes out, head tipping forward, his body trembling.

“Me too, baby,” Remus groans, his voice thick, hips rolling up to meet Sirius’ every movement. “So close.”

It only takes a few more thrusts before everything breaks. Sirius comes with Remus’ name on his lips, his body shuddering, nails digging into Remus’ chest. Remus follows seconds after, moaning Sirius’ name like it’s a prayer, his whole body going taut before he finally relaxes.

Sirius collapses onto Remus’ chest, boneless, spent, their fingers still locked together like neither of them is willing to let go. His face is pressed into the curve of Remus’ neck, his breath warm and uneven.

For a while, there’s only the sound of their breathing, slowing gradually as they come down from the high.

Then, softly, Remus murmurs into Sirius’ hair, “Hey, Sirius?”

“Mhm?” Sirius hums, too blissed out to speak properly.

“I love you too.”

Chapter Text

The studio buzzed with post-holiday energy. Dancers warming up, chatting softly, shaking out stiff limbs and stretching against the mirrors. The floor echoed with socked feet and the occasional sharp clap of movement. The air still carried a trace of peppermint and someone’s floral perfume—faint reminders of Christmas now gone.

Sirius stood near the back, arms crossed as he surveyed the space. It felt strange to be back after a week away, but something in his chest settled as soon as he stepped onto the floor.

At the front of the studio, a sharp clap cut through the murmur.

Ms. Rosier stood tall and severe, dressed in black, hair pulled tight and eyes sharper than ever. Beside her stood Margot with a clipboard, and Isaac, who looked like he hadn’t slept but was too stubborn to admit it.

“Welcome back,” Rosier said coolly. “I trust you haven’t all forgotten how to move.”

A few dancers let out nervous chuckles, but they died quickly.

“We’re going straight into Acts III and IV,” she continued. “This is the core of the performance—emotionally and physically. If you’re not fully here, you’ll get left behind. I don’t have the patience to drag anyone along.”

Margot stepped forward, flipping through her clipboard. “Scene Two of Act III is up first. There have been changes in the transitions, and Scene Four—originally a solo—is now a duet.”

Isaac chimed in, voice low but intense. “It’s a power shift. Two dancers instead of one—mirrored control, mirrored vulnerability. It needs tension. Sirius, Evan—you’re up.”

Sirius blinked. His gaze shifted across the room to Evan Rosier, who was already rolling out his neck like he’d known this was coming.

“And later,” Margot added, “we’re folding in Regulus to make it a trio. The dynamic changes—conflict, tension, connection. Think triangulation.”

Ms. Rosier gave Sirius a pointed look. “Stay after rehearsal if you need help with the new lift.”

“Got it,” Sirius said, already peeling off his sweater.

“Everyone else—ten minutes to warm up. Shoes off. Eyes up.”

The room scattered into motion, bodies moving across the floor like waves. Some practiced pirouettes, others eased into stretches, the music still unplayed but already pulsing in memory.

Isaac led them down the hallway to one of the smaller rehearsal studios. The air in this room felt different—more intimate somehow, the mirrors catching every glance, every shift. Sirius walked beside Regulus, Evan just ahead of them, and they all settled down on the floor in a loose circle. The silence stretched comfortably until Isaac opened his notebook, pages already covered in notes and counts.

“This piece begins with Sirius and Evan,” Isaac said, his tone a bit more thoughtful than usual. “It’s romantic. Soft at first. There’s history between the two characters—attraction, trust, tension. They’re circling something they’ve never quite touched before.”

Sirius swallowed, stealing a quick glance at Evan, who was watching Isaac with calm focus.

“Then Regulus enters,” Isaac continued. “He doesn’t interrupt the romance so much as… transform it. His presence shifts everything. Suddenly, what was intimate becomes unstable. The triangle isn't about balance. It’s about dissonance, and what people are afraid to admit they want.”

Sirius nodded slowly, the words sinking deep into his chest. He turned slightly and nudged Regulus with his elbow, lowering his voice.

“I’ve got something to tell you later.”

Regulus arched a brow at him, curious but silent.

Isaac clapped once, getting to his feet. “Alright. Evan, Sirius—center please.”

Sirius stood, rolling his shoulders. Evan joined him quickly, stepping close with that familiar ease. His hand went to Sirius’ waist, fingers pressing with a gentle squeeze—flirty, confident.

“Missed my dancing buddy,” Evan murmured, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Sirius let out a laugh, soft and real. “Right. Me too.”

He let his body fall into the rhythm of that closeness, already starting to feel the chemistry buzz beneath his skin. From the edge of the room, Regulus watched quietly, arms crossed.

Isaac took his place near the speaker. “Let’s start from the top.”

Isaac adjusted the speaker on the floor, then turned back to them with a thoughtful hum. “Alright. I want to start with stillness. Evan behind Sirius. Close—but not touching yet. Like there’s this charge between you two, and neither of you wants to be the first to break it.”

Evan moved behind Sirius, just as instructed. Sirius felt the presence of him before anything else—the warmth of his chest, the ghost of his breath against the back of his neck.

“Now,” Isaac continued, stepping between them to demonstrate, “Sirius, your arms are relaxed at your sides. Evan, I want your right hand to hover here—” He gently lifted Evan’s arm, guiding his hand to float just above Sirius’ hip. “And your left at the center of his chest. Don’t touch yet. Let the tension live in that space.”

Evan followed the guidance exactly, and Sirius felt the electricity instantly. They held the position, not moving, not speaking—just feeling . Sirius’ breath caught slightly. He could see Evan’s eyes in the mirror in front of them, locked onto his, steady and unreadable.

“Then,” Isaac continued, “Evan, I want you to sweep your hand from his chest down his sternum, slow and deliberate. Sirius, lean into it just a little. Not a full surrender—something in between resistance and want.”

They moved as instructed, the touch finally landing and sparking something in Sirius’ gut. His eyes met Evan’s in the mirror again, and this time, Evan offered the smallest smirk—half playful, half serious. Sirius tilted his head just slightly in return, giving a smirk of his own.

“Good,” Isaac said quietly. “Let your eyes tell the story. You’ve known each other a long time, and this is the moment everything could change—but neither of you wants to say it out loud.”

Sirius shifted to face Evan as instructed, the space between them practically humming. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The tension was already written in every glance, every measured breath.

Isaac clapped again. “Perfect. Hold that. We’re going to layer in movement next, but that energy—keep that.”

From across the room, Regulus sat still, watching the silent conversation unfold between them. His jaw was tense.

Evan’s palm brushed lightly along Sirius’ chest, just as Isaac had directed, and Sirius tilted into it slightly—his body warm under the weight of Evan’s gaze. Their feet shifted in tandem, close enough to touch, never quite crossing that invisible line. Sirius could feel the pull between them in every inch of space they didn’t fill.

Isaac circled them like a hawk, eyes sharp. “Yes—yes, exactly like that. Evan, sweep lower, but keep the movement soft, like you’re trying not to startle him. Sirius, give in a little more. Not too much—just enough to make him think he’s winning.”

They moved with precision, with unspoken rhythm. Sirius let his eyes lift to meet Evan’s again, and the smirk was still there—cocky and familiar. His breath caught, not from the movement, but from something underneath it all.

Isaac clapped, practically beaming. “God, your chemistry is off the charts today! Keep this up—this is the best I've seen all month.”

Sirius flushed slightly, trying to keep his face neutral as Evan chuckled beside him, clearly pleased. But the moment shifted when Regulus stood from where he'd been watching quietly across the room.

“Oh, right,” Isaac said, suddenly remembering. “Regulus, come on in. You’re up.”

Sirius turned toward his brother as he stepped forward, but something was already off. Regulus didn’t meet his eyes. Isaac gently pulled Evan aside and gestured for Regulus to take his place behind Sirius.

“Same positioning,” Isaac said. “Right hand near the hip, left near the chest. Don’t touch yet.”

Regulus tried, but his movements were stilted—too slow, too uncertain. His hand hovered in the wrong place, too high, and Isaac was quick to correct him.

“No, Reg, here—right above the hip, not on the ribs,” Isaac said, adjusting him with a light touch. “And lower your shoulders. You’re too tense.”

Regulus nodded, jaw tight, but didn’t say anything. They tried the first movement again. Sirius leaned, waiting for the same charge he’d felt with Evan, but it wasn’t there. Regulus’ hand swept too fast. He missed his cue. His footing faltered.

Isaac sighed gently and stepped in again. “Let’s go from the top.”

They did. Twice. Three times. Regulus kept stumbling—not physically, but in energy, in rhythm, in something Sirius couldn’t quite name. His brother wasn’t clumsy, not ever, but right now he danced like he couldn’t find his footing at all.

Finally, Isaac held up a hand. “Okay. This is okay—we’ve been away for a week. It’s a good start.” His voice was encouraging, but firm. “Let’s move on from this moment for now.”

Sirius nodded and stepped back, but Regulus stood still for a beat longer than necessary, arms stiff at his sides, frustration plain on his face.

Sirius frowned, watching him. Something was wrong. But Regulus wouldn’t look at him.

And whatever had sparked in the room earlier—between him and Evan, between all of them—it was gone.

—

The studio was mostly cleared out, the low hum of post-rehearsal chatter gone quiet as Ms. Rosier, Margot, and Isaac packed up their things and offered tired goodbyes. Sirius stretched out his back with a small groan, muscles humming from the hours of movement. He was wiping sweat off his neck with the hem of his shirt when the door opened again.

Remus stepped into the studio, hands in the pockets of his coat, scarf half-undone like he’d rushed to get there.

Sirius lit up instantly. “Hey!” he called, grin wide as he jogged over.

Remus barely had time to smile back before Sirius leaned up and pressed a quick, slightly breathless kiss to his mouth.

“Give me two minutes and I’ll be ready to leave,” Sirius said against his lips, voice warm and fond, then darted away toward his bag.

Remus blinked, caught off guard and a little dazed, then chuckled to himself and leaned against the doorway to wait.

Before Sirius could reach his duffel, Evan appeared at his side, looping an arm around his shoulders with an exaggerated sigh. “Ugh. Cheating on me already. I’m crushed.”

Sirius laughed, tilting his head toward Evan but not pulling away. “You’ll survive.”

Evan pouted. “Barely. I thought what we had was real.”

“You flirted with Regulus today.”

“I flirt with everyone,” Evan said shamelessly. “But you—” he tapped Sirius’ nose—“you’re special.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, but his smile didn’t fade as he pulled away to grab his things.

Sirius glanced over to the side and caught Regulus standing off to the side, watching him and Evan, his gaze sharp and intense. There was something unsettling in the way Regulus was looking at them—something unreadable, but Sirius couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t entirely positive.

He took a deep breath, trying to shake off the odd tension, and finished packing his things. Once everything was together, he started walking over to where Regulus was standing, still deep in thought.

"Hey, Reg?" Sirius said, trying to keep his voice light. "You know how I mentioned I had something to tell you?"

Regulus shot him a glare, eyes narrowing in a way that made Sirius pause. "What is it? Is it about how you freak out about being in love and then try and find your way into my friends’ pants?"

Sirius froze, a lump forming in his throat. "What?"

Regulus didn’t wait for an answer. He just shook his head, his expression dark, before turning and storming past Sirius, his movements sharp with frustration. He brushed past Remus, not sparing a glance, and the room felt colder all of a sudden.

Remus, still standing near the doorway, watched Regulus leave with confusion clearly written across his face. "What was that about?" he asked, brows furrowing slightly as he glanced between Sirius and the door where Regulus had just exited.

Sirius stood still for a moment, stunned by Regulus’ words, his heart racing. He shook his head, trying to process everything, then finally walked over to Remus and took his hand in his. "I don’t know… but I’ll explain it later," he muttered, his voice quiet and uncertain.

As they started to head for the door, Evan’s voice rang out from the back of the room with a playful, teasing shout, “Bye, lover boy! See you tomorrow!”

Sirius rolled his eyes, but Remus looked at Evan for a moment, his expression unreadable, his brows pulling together in confusion. But instead of responding, Remus just gave him a quick glance, then let Sirius lead him out of the room, walking side by side, but with an air of uncertainty hanging between them.

When they finally got to Sirius' apartment, he walked in, throwing his jacket onto the couch before muttering, “I need to shower, I feel gross.”

Remus nodded absently, following him inside, but his expression seemed off. His lips were pursed, his brow furrowed just enough that it was noticeable. Sirius caught it out of the corner of his eye as he stripped off his shirt, and when he glanced over at Remus, he felt a shift in the air.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Sirius asked, his voice softer now as he took a step toward Remus.

Remus hesitated, a slight frown tugging at his lips. He shook his head. “Nothing, I just… got a vibe between you and Evan.”

Sirius paused, eyebrows knitting together. “A vibe?”

Remus sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, looking anywhere but at Sirius. “You know what? Never mind. It’s fine. Go shower. I can get dinner started.”

But before Remus could turn toward the kitchen, Sirius stepped forward, his hand reaching out to grab Remus’ arm, gently stopping him.

“No,” Sirius said, his voice firm yet laced with confusion. “Talk to me. What do you mean a vibe?”

Remus huffed, frustration creeping into his voice. “It just… it feels more flirty than before, I don’t know.”

Sirius felt his heart tighten at the words, and without thinking, he reached out to grab Remus’ face, gently but firmly forcing him to look into his eyes. “Hey, no. Never. I can’t stand him most of the time, honestly. Our characters are together, so we’ve been working on the tension for the performance. I swear to you, nothing is going on between us.”

Remus didn’t immediately respond, his eyes searching Sirius’ face, unsure. He opened his mouth to say something, but instead just gave a small nod, his eyes softening but still holding some of that uncertainty.

Sirius didn’t want any more doubt between them. Without thinking, he leaned up, pressing a kiss to Remus' lips, soft but certain. He pulled back slightly and muttered against his lips, “I love you.”

Remus, after a beat of hesitation, grabbed Sirius’ waist, pulling him closer, his voice barely a whisper. “I love you.”

The kiss deepened for a moment, both of them losing themselves in the heat and closeness. Sirius felt a warmth spread through him, his fingers slipping into Remus’ hair, pulling him even closer. But as the moment lingered, Sirius suddenly pulled back, his face scrunched in playful annoyance.

“Alright, I really do have to shower, I’m gross,” he said, glancing down at himself, feeling the sweat of rehearsal still clinging to his skin.

Remus smirked, leaning in just enough to place a teasing lick against Sirius' neck. “Mmm, I don’t mind,” he murmured, his breath hot against Sirius' skin.

Sirius shivered, giggling and shoving Remus' face away gently. “Gross,” he said, making a face before turning down the hallway toward his shower.

Remus laughed behind him, still grinning as he leaned against the counter. "I'm serious, though. I don't mind."

Sirius looked back over his shoulder with a wink. "Maybe I'll just take a longer shower to make you suffer a bit."

—

Sirius and Remus were curled up on the couch, their bodies relaxed and tangled together, the soft hum of the quiet apartment filling the space. Sirius had his head resting against Remus' chest, one of Remus' arms draped around him. They had spent the last few hours winding down, enjoying the rare quiet between them after a long day of rehearsal.

Sirius’ phone suddenly buzzed, breaking the peaceful atmosphere. He groaned, pulling it out of his pocket and seeing the caller ID. "Regulus?" he muttered under his breath before answering with a frantic tone.

"Are you okay?" he blurted, his heart beating faster at the mere thought of his brother.

There was a pause on the other end, followed by Regulus' familiar, sarcastic voice. "What, no hello?"

Sirius huffed in frustration, rolling his eyes. "Fuck you, you never call me. What am I supposed to expect? I didn’t even think you had my number, to be honest."

Regulus let out a dry chuckle. "Sorry about snapping at rehearsal. I don't think you want to fuck Evan. I was just frustrated. You have chemistry with everyone, and I can’t seem to find it within myself."

Sirius frowned, sitting up a little, his brow furrowing. "You don’t have to apologize for that, Reg. I get it. It’s just—" he paused, glancing at Remus beside him, who was quietly watching him, "—I wanted to tell you that… I told Remus, um... what we talked about."

Remus perked up immediately at hearing his name, his eyes lighting up before he leaned in and placed a soft kiss against Sirius' neck. The gesture sent a warm rush of affection through him, and Sirius felt his heart flutter.

He rolled his eyes but adjusted himself so Remus had more space, still feeling the tension from the earlier conversation with Regulus. “Alright, well, I’ll see you at rehearsal. I gotta go.”

"Alright," Regulus said with a sigh, his tone softening. "I’m happy for you, Sirius."

Sirius smiled, his heart swelling. "Thank you. I love you, bye."

"Bye, love you too," Regulus replied before the line went silent.

Sirius hung up the phone and turned to look at Remus, who was still smiling at him. "I was talking to my brother," he said, his voice soft.

Remus raised an eyebrow playfully. "Mhm. Well, what were you saying about me?"

Sirius smirked, leaning in closer, teasingly close to kissing Remus. "None of your business," he replied with a sly grin.

Remus leaned in, closing the space between them and capturing Sirius’ lips in a soft kiss, his fingers trailing up Sirius' back. The kiss deepened, and Sirius melted into it, feeling the love between them grow stronger with every passing second.