FIC: It's a match! for liseuse
Dec. 5th, 2016 03:01 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
segundite.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
small_giftsTitle: It’s a match!
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
segundite
Recipient:liseuse
Rating: PG-13
Contents or warnings (highlight to view): *alcohol*
Word count: 3,082
Summary: Remus swipes right into the biggest mistake he’s made in a long time.
Notes: This was such fun to write! Thank you to Liseuse for your inspiring prompts. I tried to get as much of prompt 1 and the wildcard in here as I could. Your list of “likes” also shaped this story, particularly the mention of politics. Also, many thanks to my beta reader Jo!
Remus is stood on the windy corner of Gloucester and Courtfield just outside the station, waiting for a call from a client, when his phone pings with a different sort of notification. His thumb is clammy as he unlocks his phone. A van making the turn honks its horn, and Remus steps back, sits down on a bench, pushing aside an empty take-out box and a JAMES POTTER FOR KENSINGTON flyer. He shields his phone screen from the winter sun so he can read it.
“Send a message,” he says aloud, even though he hasn’t yet initiated a conversation with any of his matches. Can’t bring himself to. He’s seen how people use Tinder, swiping right on everyone just in case, and then ignoring the ugly ones. Remus is quite certain he’s one of the ugly ones. He only has one picture up, of him in Hyde Park with a goose behind him—he’s looking to the side, caught in profile by a friend’s camera and posted to Facebook with the caption “Remus takes up a career in twitching. LOL!” It’s the only good photo he has of himself.
He hovers his thumb across the button for so long that the screen locks before he can do anything. And then, his phone beeps again, the screen lights up. Sirius has sent him a message.
That’s all for a few seconds. Just Hey. And then:
And Remus immediately feels like an idiot, because that’s not a funny joke, it’s not even a joke, and here’s this Sirius fellow carrying the conversation and all Remus can do is compare one kind of swiping to another. This why no-one ever swipes right on him. They can tell from his daggy picture and dull description that he’s going to let them down with a bad pun.
His client should be calling soon, and then he can get have his meeting and go home. It’s getting dark earlier and earlier, and Remus doesn’t want to be out when the cold sets in. He looks out across the street and his eyes unfocus somewhere in the distance. His phone buzzes again.
Quietly, Remus rethinks his plans.
“Campaign manager? Earth to campaign manager?”
Sirius only looks up far enough to aim his kick right into James’ shin. He leans further back in his chair, knocking it against the side of the table. “Busy.”
“Busy with important campaign details, I hope,” James says.
“Sort of,” Sirius says. “I’ve got a date tonight.”
There is a downside to Sirius’ budding friendship with his shiny new phone—he’s distracted enough for James to snatch it from his hands. James pulls the phone close to his face, because he’s too stubborn to admit he needs bifocals with half a lens for reading. “Is this Tinder?”
“Yes, James, this is Tinder,” Sirius says, like he’s talking to little Harry. “You can give it back now.”
“Or I could chuck it out the window,” James says. “’Remus, 28. Architect from South London. Don’t fancy my chances.’ What kind of self-deprecating—”
Sirius doesn’t manage to snatch the phone, but he does get a hand over James’ mouth. “Enough of that. He’s fit.”
“He’s fit,” James mocks.
What James doesn’t know is that Sirius swipes right on average about once a month. He has standards, and most people are just so… average. There’s something about Remus that had caught Sirius’ eye, maybe the way his face looks in profile, or the goose in the background.
“And he agreed to go out with you?”
“What can I say?” Sirius shrugs. “It’s my natural allure.”
James narrows his eyes. “On the night of my fundraising dinner?”
Sirius shrinks back, stabilising himself with one foot on the chair.
“The offer’s still on, you know,” James says. “It’s a long way down to the street. Hell, I could probably lob your phone halfway across the street. It might get run over. That would be the icing on the cake, huh?”
“You’re supposed to be my best friend,” Sirius says.
“You’re supposed to be my campaign manager.”
Sirius relents. “Point taken.”
James gives him back the phone.
“But,” Sirius says slowly, “there’s nothing wrong with him coming to the dinner, is there?”
It’s not a colossal change, just a different meeting place, but Remus is wary. He thinks about calling Pete and asking if he’s nearby, getting someone to escort him into the jaws of hell just in case Sirius, 29, Self-Employed, is self-employed as a serial killer and uses Tinder to pick up his victims. It’s Notting Hill, though. Posh, respectable Notting Hill. It’ll be fine.
He lights a fag and pulls his coat collar up around his neck as the wind grows bracing. It’s the middle of January and there’s never any work over the holidays—Remus wouldn’t be able to afford a cab anyway, let alone the petty change to top up his oyster card. His phone maps are an adequate guide through the unfamiliar streets, although the route does take him alongside Hyde Park. With little more than the guttering orange light at the end of his cigarette to cut through the darkness, Remus spends a good ten minutes convinced he’s going to be stabbed, or mugged, or both.
He comes to the right address at last, but it doesn’t seem like the place. There are cars pulled up and crawling for spots all along the street, and a house with open doors and light and laughter spilling out onto the planter boxes outside. Over the entrance, there’s a banner reading, JAMES POTTER FOR KENSINGTON.
Remus is already late. He types a quick message to Sirius:
For a moment, Remus can’t do anything but stare at his phone in disbelief. Sirius, smooth-talking in text and next-level handsome in all five of his profile pictures, invited Remus out on a date… to a political function.
Apart from anything else, Remus is wildly underdressed for the occasion. His heart is stuttering in his chest and his fingers tremble as he waits for a reply.
It’s hard to miss Sirius. He’s the only person leaving the building, pushing through a crowd of well-turned out nouveaux riches in smart blazers and sensible heels.
“’Scuse me,” he says, elbowing an elderly woman wearing a fascinator. “Coming through.”
Remus watches the partygoers turn their attention to Sirius. He notices that Sirius is just as moneyed as the rest of them, if the cut of his suit is anything to go by. Sirius pauses are the bottom of the front stairs to tug his lapel—it’s an almost nervous gesture, and Remus lets out a laugh that stops as soon as he remembers the situation he’s in. As Sirius moves his arms, the sleeves of his jacket slip down enough that Remus catches a glint of the kind of watch where you need a certain amount of prestige to even be allowed into the store to look at it.
“Ah—you’re Remus?”
“Yes, that’s me.” He raises a hand halfway into a wave before putting it down again, embarrassed.
Sirius beams at him. “I recognise you from your photo. With the goose.”
“With the goose,” Remus echos weakly.
“You want to come inside?” Sirius asks. “There’s champagne and canapés—don’t worry, you haven’t missed the main course.”
“I’m not—I didn’t realise you were inviting me out to a fancy dinner. I can’t go in there. Look at me.”
Sirius does look at him. He takes a good long look at Remus, and then he takes another, just for good measure. He’s quite convinced that he could look at Remus every day for the rest of his life and never get bored of him.
“I’ll stick out,” Remus adds, his words carrying more weight than before.
“Oh, I get it,” Sirius says. “Don’t worry about what you’re wearing. If anything, it’ll be good for James’ image if people see his campaign manager fraternising with a constituent.”
“I live in Dulwich,” Remus says.
Sirius waves a hand dismissively. He’s impatient to get out of the wind. “Details. You’re dressed like a commoner, so you’ll make the right impression.”
Remus doesn’t respond to that. There’s a look on his face that Sirius can’t quite read. He wonders if it’s impatience too. Or maybe Remus would’ve rathered a more private first date—but that can’t be helped. This is Sirius’ mistake, and he plans on making the most of it.
“Well, come on. Let’s get inside.”
Whatever Remus might think of Sirius’ questionable attempt at asking him out, he follows, and Sirius is grateful for that. It’s not that he needs someone hanging off his arm for him to get comfortable at a party—this is his manor, weaving through the crowd and making meaningless small talk—but sometimes he thinks he needs something, or someone, to humanise him. It’s easy for him to forget that he’s the son of one of the more notorious Tories. He’s certainly been disinherited for long enough to have driven that message home. But there are people in James’ camp who still look at him like he doesn’t really belong there.
They pass into the main function room, waiters circulating with laden platters and conversation bubbling up through their weaving paths. Sirius lets it wash over him, commanding the attention of James’ guests wherever he walks. He pauses to check that Remus is still with him. He is. The plan is to head somewhere quiet but still visible, maybe introduce Remus to James, prove to him that he’s not just wasting time.
Every now and then, someone pauses Sirius to make small-talk. Remus stands back, his presence like an itch under Sirius’ skin. The good kind of distraction. Sirius feels like he’s riding a high. The waiters hand him glass after glass of champagne, and Sirius passes every second one to Remus—their backs of their fingers meet, Remus steps a little closer.
At last, he catches sight of James. “Potter!”
“Sirius—this is the date?”
“I don’t appreciate being referred to as the date,” Remus says. “My name is Remus. I’m Sirius’ date, yes. Although why he needs a date to a fundraising dinner, I can’t fathom.”
“I didn’t need a date,” Sirius says, “but I asked you anyway.”
Remus rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth turned up in a smile—Sirius likes that he can deal with a bit of give-and-take in conversation, and puts an arm around Remus’ waist.
“Since I’m here,” Remus says, “I might as well ask—James Potter, is it? What’s your policy platform?”
“Ah, trust Sirius to meet someone political.” James laughs. He quirks an eyebrow at Sirius. “He’s more manager than campaign, Remus. I’m not surprised he hasn’t told you anything about me. So, to summarise, I’m hoping for a surprise Labour win in this seat, appealing to—”
Sirius groans, loud and dramatic, cutting him off. “You really aren’t selling me well, are you?”
“Given that it’s your job to sell me, and you’ve just been showing off your date—”
“Remus.” He looks unimpressed.
“Right, Remus,” James says.
“Not all of us have the perfect wife and kid to spruce up the public image,” Sirius says. “I’ll make do with my bit of rough, thank you.”
“Alright,” Remus says, “that’s enough.”
He surprises Sirius, taking him by the wrist and leading him away from James, out of the crowd. Sirius knows he’s screwed up, somewhere in the back of mind, but he can’t place the right reaction. He gives Remus a questioning look.
Remus sets his jaw in a firm line. “I need some air.”
Sirius pushes around him and takes the lead, ignoring the way he knows James is looking at them. “Balcony. First floor.”
“Yeah,” Remus says. “That’ll do.”
Remus loses himself almost as soon as he passes Sirius. His head is swimming—he dimly registers that somewhere between one glass of champagne and the next he’s gone from tipsy to drunk, and he’s not sure how to feel about that.
He takes the steps two at a time, and Sirius drags behind. Sirius’ house suddenly feels very small, despite the pretensions of its interior decorating. It’s clear now to Remus that Sirius sees him as nothing more than a prop, a constituent. Just someone to show off in an attempt to create a certain image, an image that doesn’t necessarily align with his actions.
The back of the house looks over the District line, a courtyard below, and this, the balcony on the first floor. Each wall joins to another house, and along the row—uniform, with notes of difference in what kinds of flowers are growing over the balcony, which corner of the yard houses the olive tree. Three houses down there’s a woman with a towel wrapped over drying hair and a plume of cigarette smoke. A train rattles by, but there’s no silence for it to break.
“I have to leave,” Remus says.
He knows they’re upstairs. He knows he brought Sirius here. He can’t remember why—he has to go.
Sirius looks like someone’s dumped a bucket of cold water over his head. “But the night’s just begun!”
“What were you planning to do after you introduced me to all of your constituents?” Remus asks. “Take me out for a late dinner? Or take me upstairs for a quick fuck? Because that’s not what I’m here for, Sirius.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Sirius says. “I forgot this was happening when I asked you out. It was either skip the fundraiser, or put you off to another night—and I…”
“Spit it out,” Remus says. He forces down another sip of champagne—not his drink of choice, but good enough to get him drunk—and steps back, leaning with one hand on the balcony railing for support.
“Wasn’t sure when I’d get another chance,” Sirius says.
He scrunches his pretty face into a frown, and takes a purposeful stride towards Remus. He cups one hand around Remus’ jaw, and leans in close. Remus blinks and then they’re kissing, firm and messy, noses brushing, chests pressed together. His tongue feels numb from all the alcohol, but every inch of his skin is buzzing, alive to the chill of the night and the thrill of experience. A moment passes, and Remus keeps a tight hold on the champagne flute. If even a single drop spills onto his hand, he has lost his composure, something he never wants to do. Least of all around someone he’s just met.
Sirius pulls away. “I’m all about carpe-ing the diem.”
“We could’ve kept talking on Tinder,” Remus says, breathing heavy. “You could’ve made an effort to keep it up. I—”
I might’ve, he thinks. But would he have? Would he have kept texting Sirius after the initial thrill of matching with him had faded off? Maybe this night is their night, their one window of opportunity.
Sirius shrugs, turns his back on Remus. “We’re different people from different worlds. Maybe it’s not going to work out.”
Which Remus takes to mean, he knows he’s screwed it up. But nothing, nothing is beyond redemption. Remus really does believe that—or maybe he doesn’t, but the tips of his fingers and his nose are burning in the freezing wind and his blood thrums with all the alcohol running through it and he wants this, damn it, he wants a posh boyfriend from Notting Hill living in a house overlooking the train tracks, and he’ll take all the shit that comes with it.
Sirius walks away. He walks back through the glass doors like he could just delete his conversation with history with Remus, wipe his phone and forget it ever happens.
A train clatters past. A snowflake falls onto Remus’ cheek—if the wind was any stronger, he would fall backwards and blow onto the tracks. With each gust, Remus’ resolve only grows. He stands straight and throws the flute of champagne at Sirius. He throws it with the kind of precision only a drunk affecting sobriety can manage, and it lands squarely on Sirius’ back, leaving a stain down his expensive coat.
“Don’t walk away from me!”
The glass shatters on the polished wooden floor. When Sirius turns around again, he steps on the shards. There is no lull in the sound of conversation that rises from the fundraising dinner below, but the way the glass squeaks when it comes apart under the sole of a very expensive shoe rings in Remus’ ears. The sound fills his mind like static and he barely notices that Sirius is standing right in front of him until Sirius is standing right in front of him.
Remus half-expects Sirius to kiss him again, but he doesn’t. He takes out his phone and presses a few buttons, types something in lazy swipes and lots of backspacing, and then Remus’ phone vibrates in his pocket.
Sirius looks up with a half-smile on his face. He opens his mouth, and then closes it again. Remus kisses him, just lightly. He dips his head back and closes his eyelids to the snowflakes, the sound of the trains and the party and a couple arguing a few houses down.
They’re two people from two different worlds; all they can do is try.
Author/Artist:
segunditeRecipient:
liseuseRating: PG-13
Contents or warnings (highlight to view): *alcohol*
Word count: 3,082
Summary: Remus swipes right into the biggest mistake he’s made in a long time.
Notes: This was such fun to write! Thank you to Liseuse for your inspiring prompts. I tried to get as much of prompt 1 and the wildcard in here as I could. Your list of “likes” also shaped this story, particularly the mention of politics. Also, many thanks to my beta reader Jo!
It's a match!
Remus is stood on the windy corner of Gloucester and Courtfield just outside the station, waiting for a call from a client, when his phone pings with a different sort of notification. His thumb is clammy as he unlocks his phone. A van making the turn honks its horn, and Remus steps back, sits down on a bench, pushing aside an empty take-out box and a JAMES POTTER FOR KENSINGTON flyer. He shields his phone screen from the winter sun so he can read it.
You and Sirius have liked each other.
Send a Message / Keep Playing
Send a Message / Keep Playing
“Send a message,” he says aloud, even though he hasn’t yet initiated a conversation with any of his matches. Can’t bring himself to. He’s seen how people use Tinder, swiping right on everyone just in case, and then ignoring the ugly ones. Remus is quite certain he’s one of the ugly ones. He only has one picture up, of him in Hyde Park with a goose behind him—he’s looking to the side, caught in profile by a friend’s camera and posted to Facebook with the caption “Remus takes up a career in twitching. LOL!” It’s the only good photo he has of himself.
He hovers his thumb across the button for so long that the screen locks before he can do anything. And then, his phone beeps again, the screen lights up. Sirius has sent him a message.
Hey
That’s all for a few seconds. Just Hey. And then:
What’s up?
>> Not much. Slow day. You?
Haha mate ducking up to my eyeballs in work
This app is the only shot that keeps me sane
>> What’s your job?
Butterfat
*Bureaucracy
Still getting the hang of my new phone sorry
It’s got that thing where you swipe
>> Like tinder
And Remus immediately feels like an idiot, because that’s not a funny joke, it’s not even a joke, and here’s this Sirius fellow carrying the conversation and all Remus can do is compare one kind of swiping to another. This why no-one ever swipes right on him. They can tell from his daggy picture and dull description that he’s going to let them down with a bad pun.
His client should be calling soon, and then he can get have his meeting and go home. It’s getting dark earlier and earlier, and Remus doesn’t want to be out when the cold sets in. He looks out across the street and his eyes unfocus somewhere in the distance. His phone buzzes again.
LOL! Exactly
Hey you’re only a few miles away
This is going to sound crazy but are you doing anything tonight?
Quietly, Remus rethinks his plans.
* * *
“Campaign manager? Earth to campaign manager?”
Sirius only looks up far enough to aim his kick right into James’ shin. He leans further back in his chair, knocking it against the side of the table. “Busy.”
“Busy with important campaign details, I hope,” James says.
“Sort of,” Sirius says. “I’ve got a date tonight.”
There is a downside to Sirius’ budding friendship with his shiny new phone—he’s distracted enough for James to snatch it from his hands. James pulls the phone close to his face, because he’s too stubborn to admit he needs bifocals with half a lens for reading. “Is this Tinder?”
“Yes, James, this is Tinder,” Sirius says, like he’s talking to little Harry. “You can give it back now.”
“Or I could chuck it out the window,” James says. “’Remus, 28. Architect from South London. Don’t fancy my chances.’ What kind of self-deprecating—”
Sirius doesn’t manage to snatch the phone, but he does get a hand over James’ mouth. “Enough of that. He’s fit.”
“He’s fit,” James mocks.
What James doesn’t know is that Sirius swipes right on average about once a month. He has standards, and most people are just so… average. There’s something about Remus that had caught Sirius’ eye, maybe the way his face looks in profile, or the goose in the background.
“And he agreed to go out with you?”
“What can I say?” Sirius shrugs. “It’s my natural allure.”
James narrows his eyes. “On the night of my fundraising dinner?”
Sirius shrinks back, stabilising himself with one foot on the chair.
“The offer’s still on, you know,” James says. “It’s a long way down to the street. Hell, I could probably lob your phone halfway across the street. It might get run over. That would be the icing on the cake, huh?”
“You’re supposed to be my best friend,” Sirius says.
“You’re supposed to be my campaign manager.”
Sirius relents. “Point taken.”
James gives him back the phone.
“But,” Sirius says slowly, “there’s nothing wrong with him coming to the dinner, is there?”
* * *
Change of plans. Want to come to my place?
It’s not a colossal change, just a different meeting place, but Remus is wary. He thinks about calling Pete and asking if he’s nearby, getting someone to escort him into the jaws of hell just in case Sirius, 29, Self-Employed, is self-employed as a serial killer and uses Tinder to pick up his victims. It’s Notting Hill, though. Posh, respectable Notting Hill. It’ll be fine.
He lights a fag and pulls his coat collar up around his neck as the wind grows bracing. It’s the middle of January and there’s never any work over the holidays—Remus wouldn’t be able to afford a cab anyway, let alone the petty change to top up his oyster card. His phone maps are an adequate guide through the unfamiliar streets, although the route does take him alongside Hyde Park. With little more than the guttering orange light at the end of his cigarette to cut through the darkness, Remus spends a good ten minutes convinced he’s going to be stabbed, or mugged, or both.
He comes to the right address at last, but it doesn’t seem like the place. There are cars pulled up and crawling for spots all along the street, and a house with open doors and light and laughter spilling out onto the planter boxes outside. Over the entrance, there’s a banner reading, JAMES POTTER FOR KENSINGTON.
Remus is already late. He types a quick message to Sirius:
>> I don’t think this is your house. This place has a do on for ?? A by-election ?
Nah that’s it! Come on in I’ll find you
For a moment, Remus can’t do anything but stare at his phone in disbelief. Sirius, smooth-talking in text and next-level handsome in all five of his profile pictures, invited Remus out on a date… to a political function.
>> No, I’d rather not walk in on my own. It would be good of you if you’d come out and meet me here
Apart from anything else, Remus is wildly underdressed for the occasion. His heart is stuttering in his chest and his fingers tremble as he waits for a reply.
Ok give me a no
*Mo
It’s hard to miss Sirius. He’s the only person leaving the building, pushing through a crowd of well-turned out nouveaux riches in smart blazers and sensible heels.
“’Scuse me,” he says, elbowing an elderly woman wearing a fascinator. “Coming through.”
Remus watches the partygoers turn their attention to Sirius. He notices that Sirius is just as moneyed as the rest of them, if the cut of his suit is anything to go by. Sirius pauses are the bottom of the front stairs to tug his lapel—it’s an almost nervous gesture, and Remus lets out a laugh that stops as soon as he remembers the situation he’s in. As Sirius moves his arms, the sleeves of his jacket slip down enough that Remus catches a glint of the kind of watch where you need a certain amount of prestige to even be allowed into the store to look at it.
“Ah—you’re Remus?”
“Yes, that’s me.” He raises a hand halfway into a wave before putting it down again, embarrassed.
Sirius beams at him. “I recognise you from your photo. With the goose.”
“With the goose,” Remus echos weakly.
“You want to come inside?” Sirius asks. “There’s champagne and canapés—don’t worry, you haven’t missed the main course.”
“I’m not—I didn’t realise you were inviting me out to a fancy dinner. I can’t go in there. Look at me.”
* * *
Sirius does look at him. He takes a good long look at Remus, and then he takes another, just for good measure. He’s quite convinced that he could look at Remus every day for the rest of his life and never get bored of him.
“I’ll stick out,” Remus adds, his words carrying more weight than before.
“Oh, I get it,” Sirius says. “Don’t worry about what you’re wearing. If anything, it’ll be good for James’ image if people see his campaign manager fraternising with a constituent.”
“I live in Dulwich,” Remus says.
Sirius waves a hand dismissively. He’s impatient to get out of the wind. “Details. You’re dressed like a commoner, so you’ll make the right impression.”
Remus doesn’t respond to that. There’s a look on his face that Sirius can’t quite read. He wonders if it’s impatience too. Or maybe Remus would’ve rathered a more private first date—but that can’t be helped. This is Sirius’ mistake, and he plans on making the most of it.
“Well, come on. Let’s get inside.”
Whatever Remus might think of Sirius’ questionable attempt at asking him out, he follows, and Sirius is grateful for that. It’s not that he needs someone hanging off his arm for him to get comfortable at a party—this is his manor, weaving through the crowd and making meaningless small talk—but sometimes he thinks he needs something, or someone, to humanise him. It’s easy for him to forget that he’s the son of one of the more notorious Tories. He’s certainly been disinherited for long enough to have driven that message home. But there are people in James’ camp who still look at him like he doesn’t really belong there.
They pass into the main function room, waiters circulating with laden platters and conversation bubbling up through their weaving paths. Sirius lets it wash over him, commanding the attention of James’ guests wherever he walks. He pauses to check that Remus is still with him. He is. The plan is to head somewhere quiet but still visible, maybe introduce Remus to James, prove to him that he’s not just wasting time.
Every now and then, someone pauses Sirius to make small-talk. Remus stands back, his presence like an itch under Sirius’ skin. The good kind of distraction. Sirius feels like he’s riding a high. The waiters hand him glass after glass of champagne, and Sirius passes every second one to Remus—their backs of their fingers meet, Remus steps a little closer.
At last, he catches sight of James. “Potter!”
“Sirius—this is the date?”
“I don’t appreciate being referred to as the date,” Remus says. “My name is Remus. I’m Sirius’ date, yes. Although why he needs a date to a fundraising dinner, I can’t fathom.”
“I didn’t need a date,” Sirius says, “but I asked you anyway.”
Remus rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth turned up in a smile—Sirius likes that he can deal with a bit of give-and-take in conversation, and puts an arm around Remus’ waist.
“Since I’m here,” Remus says, “I might as well ask—James Potter, is it? What’s your policy platform?”
“Ah, trust Sirius to meet someone political.” James laughs. He quirks an eyebrow at Sirius. “He’s more manager than campaign, Remus. I’m not surprised he hasn’t told you anything about me. So, to summarise, I’m hoping for a surprise Labour win in this seat, appealing to—”
Sirius groans, loud and dramatic, cutting him off. “You really aren’t selling me well, are you?”
“Given that it’s your job to sell me, and you’ve just been showing off your date—”
“Remus.” He looks unimpressed.
“Right, Remus,” James says.
“Not all of us have the perfect wife and kid to spruce up the public image,” Sirius says. “I’ll make do with my bit of rough, thank you.”
“Alright,” Remus says, “that’s enough.”
He surprises Sirius, taking him by the wrist and leading him away from James, out of the crowd. Sirius knows he’s screwed up, somewhere in the back of mind, but he can’t place the right reaction. He gives Remus a questioning look.
Remus sets his jaw in a firm line. “I need some air.”
Sirius pushes around him and takes the lead, ignoring the way he knows James is looking at them. “Balcony. First floor.”
“Yeah,” Remus says. “That’ll do.”
* * *
Remus loses himself almost as soon as he passes Sirius. His head is swimming—he dimly registers that somewhere between one glass of champagne and the next he’s gone from tipsy to drunk, and he’s not sure how to feel about that.
He takes the steps two at a time, and Sirius drags behind. Sirius’ house suddenly feels very small, despite the pretensions of its interior decorating. It’s clear now to Remus that Sirius sees him as nothing more than a prop, a constituent. Just someone to show off in an attempt to create a certain image, an image that doesn’t necessarily align with his actions.
The back of the house looks over the District line, a courtyard below, and this, the balcony on the first floor. Each wall joins to another house, and along the row—uniform, with notes of difference in what kinds of flowers are growing over the balcony, which corner of the yard houses the olive tree. Three houses down there’s a woman with a towel wrapped over drying hair and a plume of cigarette smoke. A train rattles by, but there’s no silence for it to break.
“I have to leave,” Remus says.
He knows they’re upstairs. He knows he brought Sirius here. He can’t remember why—he has to go.
Sirius looks like someone’s dumped a bucket of cold water over his head. “But the night’s just begun!”
“What were you planning to do after you introduced me to all of your constituents?” Remus asks. “Take me out for a late dinner? Or take me upstairs for a quick fuck? Because that’s not what I’m here for, Sirius.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Sirius says. “I forgot this was happening when I asked you out. It was either skip the fundraiser, or put you off to another night—and I…”
“Spit it out,” Remus says. He forces down another sip of champagne—not his drink of choice, but good enough to get him drunk—and steps back, leaning with one hand on the balcony railing for support.
“Wasn’t sure when I’d get another chance,” Sirius says.
He scrunches his pretty face into a frown, and takes a purposeful stride towards Remus. He cups one hand around Remus’ jaw, and leans in close. Remus blinks and then they’re kissing, firm and messy, noses brushing, chests pressed together. His tongue feels numb from all the alcohol, but every inch of his skin is buzzing, alive to the chill of the night and the thrill of experience. A moment passes, and Remus keeps a tight hold on the champagne flute. If even a single drop spills onto his hand, he has lost his composure, something he never wants to do. Least of all around someone he’s just met.
Sirius pulls away. “I’m all about carpe-ing the diem.”
“We could’ve kept talking on Tinder,” Remus says, breathing heavy. “You could’ve made an effort to keep it up. I—”
I might’ve, he thinks. But would he have? Would he have kept texting Sirius after the initial thrill of matching with him had faded off? Maybe this night is their night, their one window of opportunity.
Sirius shrugs, turns his back on Remus. “We’re different people from different worlds. Maybe it’s not going to work out.”
Which Remus takes to mean, he knows he’s screwed it up. But nothing, nothing is beyond redemption. Remus really does believe that—or maybe he doesn’t, but the tips of his fingers and his nose are burning in the freezing wind and his blood thrums with all the alcohol running through it and he wants this, damn it, he wants a posh boyfriend from Notting Hill living in a house overlooking the train tracks, and he’ll take all the shit that comes with it.
Sirius walks away. He walks back through the glass doors like he could just delete his conversation with history with Remus, wipe his phone and forget it ever happens.
A train clatters past. A snowflake falls onto Remus’ cheek—if the wind was any stronger, he would fall backwards and blow onto the tracks. With each gust, Remus’ resolve only grows. He stands straight and throws the flute of champagne at Sirius. He throws it with the kind of precision only a drunk affecting sobriety can manage, and it lands squarely on Sirius’ back, leaving a stain down his expensive coat.
“Don’t walk away from me!”
The glass shatters on the polished wooden floor. When Sirius turns around again, he steps on the shards. There is no lull in the sound of conversation that rises from the fundraising dinner below, but the way the glass squeaks when it comes apart under the sole of a very expensive shoe rings in Remus’ ears. The sound fills his mind like static and he barely notices that Sirius is standing right in front of him until Sirius is standing right in front of him.
Remus half-expects Sirius to kiss him again, but he doesn’t. He takes out his phone and presses a few buttons, types something in lazy swipes and lots of backspacing, and then Remus’ phone vibrates in his pocket.
You’re hot, I can’t believe I matched with you. I’m Sirius, I live in Notting Hill, I don’t really have a job but I do policial stuff I guess. Want to go on a date sometime?
>> Hmmmmmm I don’t know weave just met
>> *We’ve
Still, worth a shot?
>> … Yes
>> Were zero miles apart maybe we should meet up
Do you think you can be outside my house in five minutes?
>> I think so
Sirius looks up with a half-smile on his face. He opens his mouth, and then closes it again. Remus kisses him, just lightly. He dips his head back and closes his eyelids to the snowflakes, the sound of the trains and the party and a couple arguing a few houses down.
They’re two people from two different worlds; all they can do is try.
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