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small_giftsTitle: A Portrait of Best Friends
Author/Artist:paulamcg
Recipient:luminousgloom
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Word count: 4670
Summary: Before going to their parents’ for their first Christmas after leaving Hogwarts, the Marauders and Lily get together to celebrate solstice. What kind of gifts are expected, and what is eventually given – after two of the friends have come in from the cold?
Notes: Thank you, my amazing betasredblonde7 and liseuse. There are notes about the songs after the story text. All the remaining mistakes, e.g. in those notes, are mine.
A Portrait of Best Friends
Sometimes Padfoot is insufferable in his eagerness to make things perfect. James would find it irritating enough to watch even a silent flatmate dawdle around the tree, charming decorations to change shapes and sizes and places, when the two of them should be packing, so as to be ready to leave for Godric’s Hollow after tonight’s party. And Sirius doesn’t even content himself with humming or whistling. Having shared a lot of time with Lily, listening to Muggle records in her and Alice’s flat through their first autumn here in London, James is ever more aware of the shortcomings in Sirius’s talent as a singer.
Now Sirius starts once more with emotion, “It’ll be lonely this Christmas…”
Instead of placing the wrapped gift for his dad in his travelling trunk, James marches across to Sirius, tearing the paper off from around the earmuffs and putting them on. “Enough! The tree’s perfect. And you’re not going to be lonely.”
“This song’s so fitting. Listen. Emptiness and loneliness, and an unlit Christmas tree.”
James pulls out his wand and flicks it towards the tree, channelling all his exasperation into a voiceless illumination spell. Most of the stars and even the crescent moon on the top start twinkling.
“You can leave the lights on,” he snaps. “And I know you and Moony will Apparate or Floo here every night when the parents think you’re asleep.”
“All right. But we’re supposed to sing at Christmas. And I need practice. Hey, there’s the happier song, the one I learnt three years ago, when I first went to Godric’s Hollow.” And here he goes again, “God rest ye, merry unicorns, let nothing you dismay…”
That sounds quite as siriusly off key. At least the song is less sentimental and doesn’t remind James of how he’ll miss Lily when she’s once again – the last time ever, she’s promised – spending Christmas with her family in Benidorm.
“O tidings of magic and joy!” Sirius won’t shut up, but now he’s marched over to his trunk and started Summoning presents and clothes. “I can do the rest in the morning. I’m almost finished. Ready to pick up our Moony. See you at Lily’s!”
Peter feels the armchair disappear under him and he tumbles onto the bare floor. Remus should finally get some permanent furniture or at least a soft rug in this crummy room. By rubbing his sore backside and with a reproachful frown, Peter tries to communicate his indignation. Fat chance!
Remus, sitting on his mattress and holding a board with a small half-finished watercolour on his knees, barely glances up. “Sorry, mate. I forgot to warn you. Didn’t realise you’d been here for so long.”
Conjuring chairs or even more elaborate objects that last at least for an hour shouldn’t be too hard for someone who’s finished Hogwarts and even started studies at Merlin College in Oxford. Peter must have worn out his welcome. Perhaps he should leave now, so as to still have enough time to find the best bargains when shopping for some small presents to bring to their solstice party. That’s why he actually came – to remind Remus of what’s expected.
“You know, even the ancient Romans…” he starts.
Remus’s hearty laughter interrupts him. The bright brown eyes now turn to Peter as fondly as in their first school years, when even during class they chortled at caricatures and mocking verses, which they churned out together, the two of them, closer friends than the other Marauders.
“They did.” Peter finds it hard to continue in his grave tone when there’s odd joy bubbling in him. “Give presents.”
“Oh. Yes, I know. Sigillaria, that’s what they called them. The gifts given during Saturnalia.” He’s bent his head over the board again, but Peter can see him still smiling. “I thought you meant they used to sit on the floor. I’m glad you don’t mind sitting on mine while I finish these…”
“Have you thought maybe someone will be disappointed?” Peter blurts out. “I mean, to get only a card from you, like last year.”
Remus doesn’t look up. He’s biting his lip, perhaps just because he’s trying to focus on the last details in a miniature portrait of Lily riding a stag.
“I wonder what they’d think of bad poetry.” After an almost awkward silence, Remus starts babbling. “The ancient Romans also gave rhymes as gifts. I heard about this on our last Latin lecture. You know, I asked if I could take Latin, too, so at least I’d still have access to the college after the Dark Creature courses and the grant payments ended too soon, in early December.”
Is he trying to wriggle out of buying presents?
His Moony must be cold. Sirius can sense the shivers against his back when he stops Grim’s engine. He wishes there remained an excuse for them to stay pressed tight together, but he’s given up arguing against the idea to leave the motorbike here close to his flat.
Staying on the saddle, he only moves his hands from the handlebars into the pockets of his leather jacket. “You sure you want to walk?”
Moony’s getting off. “Yes. No offence, Grim!” Patting the seat, he manages to touch his fingers to Sirius’s backside, too.
It was actually a disappointment for Sirius that Remus was impatiently waiting for him on the busy Muggle street – not in his rented room or at least just outside of it, in that notorious magical neighbourhood, where worse crimes are ignored than two human-looking creatures in embrace. Now there’s hardly a chance to steal a kiss as long as they are in public. That’s why Sirius found it safer not to even look at his lover too closely before the bike ride.
Now he can’t help feasting his eyes on the beautiful face, the playful smile, the cheeks ruddy from the wind. He feels like touching the chilled skin, or at least that long green-and-orange knitted woollen scarf, which he remembers from their sixth autumn at Hogwarts, when on the walk to Hogsmeade they wrapped it around their clasped hands.
But with the scarf now all wound around his neck, Remus, too, shoves his hands into jacket pockets. He still wears the brown corduroy jacket he found in a secondhand shop in October. And the too short jeans from two summers ago, and the canvas shoes. At least he’s pulled on some socks, finally, so his ankles are not all bare, but no wonder he’s freezing. They’d better start walking briskly.
“Where is it you want to go on the way to Lily’s?” Sirius hastens to ask.
“Inner Temple Gardens.” Moony’s already striding down the pavement, southwards.
Catching up with him, so as to walk at least side by side, with arms almost rubbing together – still amazed at how much he yearns for closeness with his Moony, after only three years ago fearing any touch – he realises that Moony’s carrying an ugly old satchel, with the strap across his chest.
“Why that bag? What have you taken with you that you couldn’t shrink and fit in pockets?”
“Nothing much.” Remus doesn’t turn to look at him. “Only cards. Like last year. I could’ve used the shrinking spell. But this is for something I’ll pick on the way. Here’s the gate.”
They’ve been in these gardens before, sometimes walking the dog, Moony’s own Padfoot. Now Moony heads straight to where Pads has been lifting his leg against tree trunks just for the fun of marking this as his territory. Last time in his human form, Sirius admired the leaves in their newly-emerged warm colours, which Moony has taught him to appreciate. Now the branches are bare except for… something Moony’s set out to pick.
“Cherries?” Sirius finds it hard to focus when noticing that the frigid drizzle is starting to resemble sleet.
“No, crab apples.” Moony’s collected a handful of these tiny pale red fruit from the lowest branches and he’s now shoving them into his satchel.
“What d’you want them for? Haven’t they gone bad, frozen?”
Moony grabs one more apple and bites into it greedily. “Bitter,” he says with a humorous grin, “but edible – for others, too, I hope, after I’ve cooked them with…”
He reaches for the higher branches, and his thin wrist is exposed from under the corduroy sleeve and the frayed cuff of his sweatshirt. Sirius can’t bear to watch him and turns away from the sight, which reminds him of how cold he was himself on Christmas night three years ago when fleeing…
Better help his Moony and be done with this foolishness soon. Taller, Sirius gets hold of a few clusters of crab apples easily. They feel chilled like ice.
Passing the fruit to Moony, he gets a chance to touch his hands, colder than his own. He squeezes them briefly, glancing around. An old couple in mackintoshes has stopped to stare at them, obviously disapproving of what they are doing, even before detecting anything they might consider indecent.
“Let’s get to Grim and ride him to Lily’s now.” Sirius heads back for the north gate.
Remus follows, silent, but once out on the street, he turns to the right. “We can walk along the river. I want to pass by Tower Hill. You know, the trees I need are rare in central London, but there are these two places just on our way.”
Sirius sighs, trudging behind him, and the sigh turns into singing. “It’ll be lonely this Christmas, lonely and cold.”
Remus swirls around, and continues his walk, now backwards, responding, “Cold, so cold, without you to hold.”
Unable to resist the invitation in Moony’s voice, Sirius lets his hand reach out, but he turns the caress into a teasing tap on the shoulder. “You’re it!”
He passes and dashes ahead, eastward. Now he knows where to lead his Moony – how to get to Tower Hill. His heavy boots beat the pavement, and Moony’s steps follow, soft like a fairy’s.
At the entrance to Blackfriars underground station, Sirius leaps back and pushes Remus in. “Come on. I know you don’t mind a crowd where you end up leaning against people.”
He knows Remus loves it. And he himself has hated it, but now they must get in from the cold, and there is one person he is dying to touch. He’s got a few tickets in his pocket, and he’s not listening to Remus’s objections.
Here they are, rattling through a few stations. He’s noticed a tight enough spot between the end of a bench and a man hiding behind a newspaper. As he’s pushed Remus to sit down next to the man, some absurd feeling of fear on his Moony’s behalf or perhaps jealousy disturbs his enjoyment of sensing the body from shoulder to foot against his side and even the warm breath on his neck.
When heading out at Tower Hill station, edging their way through the crowd, they keep jostling each other, laughing as if they truly were children playing tag. Up in the rainy wind, Remus is serious again.
“Thanks for that ride, too,” he says, turning around to orient himself before striding to Tower Hill Garden.
This time Sirius can immediately recognise the tree Remus is interested in, one of their favourites at Hogwarts. He hurries to help gather dense clusters of bright red berries. When teaching him to pay attention to the differences between species, Remus used to make him taste anything that was edible, even haws from the hedges, but warned him to leave these berries untouched.
This memory makes Sirius stop with his hands full. “You said rowan berries were for the birds.”
“For those who need this food in the winter.” Moony looks at him with a trembly smile. “These berries are the last resort.”
His Moony, who loves beauty and food, and made him realise that sometimes in nature these two are the same thing… His Moony’s lips look pale, blue, compared with the red of the berries. And in the wide, intense eyes Sirius sees such hunger which can’t be concealed any longer, and he senses a shared need for their mouths to touch. Rashly, Sirius stumbles closer, collides with Remus and manages a clumsy, disguised kiss.
As James’s tickling tongue leaves her ear and starts travelling down her neck, Lily can hear birdsong from the stairwell. She’s barely begun to struggle up from the depths of the bean bag chair and the passionate embrace, when the warbling is replaced with a familiar melody. It’s a song by her old favourite, Queen… Yes, You’re My Best Friend.
“Padfoot whistles better than he sings,” James acknowledges.
And Pads is always considerate enough to announce his arrival with a melody she likes. The imitation of birds means that he and Remus are signalling to each other. She strides to the door, undoing the sealing charm, and opens the Muggle lock.
Sirius leaps out of Remus’s arms and looks at her sheepishly, licking his lips. “You were quick. Good. It’s freezing out there.”
She stands aside to let her dear pair of canines step in. “I know. You must have got cold, riding your Grim.”
“No, we’re fine,” Remus replies, but his mumbling betrays that if Sirius dared kiss him behind the door, it hasn’t been enough to warm up his face. “We walked. From Tower Hill station.”
“On days like this it would be nicer for guests if I had a Floo connection. But you know, Alice preferred a Muggle flat, exotic for her. Anyway, she’s already gone home for Christmas, and it’s just the five of us to celebrate together.”
She wants to make it clear to Sirius that there’s no need for restraint. They all know that these two are lovers besides friends. But Sirius is still not comfortable with any caresses when anyone’s watching.
He and Remus are not taking off their jackets, just hollering their hellos to James and to Peter, who’s crouching on the hearthrug.
“Wormtail’s only now lighting a fire.” Lily reaches to unwind Remus’s pretty scarf, wondering how she could make up for interrupting the intimate moment. “I think it’s still warmest in the kitchen.”
“That’s just where I’d like to go first, after offering you this,” Remus says, digging into a satchel made of cheap, cracking vinyl.
Now he’s holding a cluster of rowan berries on his left palm. As he points his wand at it, Lily’s eyes stray to his knuckles, which are raw, reddened. And she’s taken unawares when he presents to her a delicate berry wreath, one she’d be happy to decorate her door with.
“A crown for the queen of the Marauders,” Sirius exclaims, taking the wreath and lifting it on her head.
“Oh, you charming puppies! Thank you.”
“Lily, listen.” Remus whispers, stretching his satchel wider open for her to see in. “I decided to pick a lot of berries and some crab apples, too. It would be a shame to let them go wasted. I could cook them into jam if… Could you spare some sugar?”
She’s startled by the way he words it, as if begging. He seldom asks for anything in any way.
“Oh, you really know how to make…? And of course, I’ve got a lot.” Now she remembers to whisper. “What a wonderful idea. You know, it could be a gift from you to everyone. Sirius can help you, and the rest of us will stay away from the kitchen, so it’ll be a surprise.”
Yes, this is just where Remus wants to be. As soon as Lily’s closed the kitchen door, he pushes Sirius against it, pulls open the zipper of his biker jacket and wraps his arms around him under the leather, pressing tight for the warmth he’s sorely missed. Burying his cold face in the thick black mane, he breathes in the luxurious sandalwood scent, then sighs out his bliss.
“You smell beautiful,” he says with his lips brushing Sirius’s neck. “You’re all beautiful. I love how you touched me even out there.”
It is truly amazing how his Pads, who used to – fittingly and heartbreakingly – define himself as a stray, has continued to gradually shed his old fears. Now Remus no longer needs to wait for permission before caressing him. But that requires complete privacy.
“In here I…” Sirius starts, sliding a hand into Remus’s back pocket.
Remus silences him by kissing his lips, then breaks the kiss so as to say with a teasing smile, “We’ll have time for more while the berries and crab apples are simmering.”
Sirius groans. Perhaps he’s praised Remus for patience with the stray exactly because he’s impatient himself whenever he’s set his heart on something.
Having reluctantly disentangled himself from Sirius, Remus lifts the strap over his head and empties the satchel onto the counter. “Help me, this won’t take more than a minute. Just wash the fruit and remove the stems. No need to peel or core the crab apples.”
Fortunately Remus has cooked here with Lily and knows where to find a big saucepan, and how to use this Muggle stove, which works with gas, anyway, and can be lit with a wand. To speed things up, he sets some water to boil immediately and starts adding fruit as they get cleaned.
He’s practised patience all his life, or the life he can remember, since he was five – waiting for days of health. The delay makes any satisfaction just sweeter. Sweet…
He hurries to rummage the cupboards for the sugar, even though it’s going to be needed only after the simmering and the draining. Yes, this mundane craving now is new and hard to bear. Tomorrow finally he’ll be home, and dad will heap mutton bangers and mash on his plate. He hasn’t and he won’t let them – anyone – know and worry and think he’s not independent. Luckily his parents don’t expect shop-bought gifts.
Here it is, a heavy jar. When he opens the lid, some sugar spills onto his palm. Really, he didn’t mean it, but now he’s brought the palm up to his mouth…
“What’s this?” Sirius can’t have noticed as he’s marvelling at Lily’s electric toaster.
Remus wipes the counter next to the jar with the side of a hand, which he licks covertly before replying, “It’s for toasting slices of bread.”
“Let’s try it!” Having tossed the rest of the cleaned berries into the saucepan, Sirius reaches for Remus’s shoulder and squeezes it hard, without looking at him but into the open cupboard instead.
Is he suspecting something? And Remus is dizzy – perhaps because of the sudden jolt given by the sugar. He won’t be able to keep his cool if he tries to protest, and he pretends to hardly notice what Sirius is up to.
“There’s a lot of bread,” Sirius says, fiddling with the Muggle gadget. “You place a slice here, I guess.”
Remus pours some extra water out of the saucepan, then stares down at the steaming surface. If he’s blushing, it can be explained by the heat. Now there’s a good boil, and it’s time to turn down the gas flame so as to achieve gentle simmering. The bitter odour is suddenly joined by a delicious scent, then by a burnt smell, and Remus turns to see two dark brown slices pop up from the toaster.
“When the jam’s ready, we can all spread some on toast. So it’s important to experiment now. But we shouldn’t let these slices go wasted. They are edible.” Sirius takes a bite of a slice, handing the other to Remus.
And Remus stuffs his slice in with all the satisfaction there’s time for. “The simmering time is only twenty minutes,” he says when his mouth is still blissfully filled with warm bread. “Now let’s continue our experiments in taming the stray.”
Feeling giddy, he stumbles against Sirius and walks him backwards to the small kitchen table.
“Warm enough now to take off some clothes?” he continues. “You are. So hot.”
He pushes the leather jacket back from the shoulders and rubs his palms over the fine wool of the jumper, then slips a hand under the hem. But so as to reach bare skin, he needs to untuck the shirt, and he starts to open the belt.
Sirius shifts aside, clearly still not comfortable with being undressed. But while he’s falling to sit on a chair, he pulls down the zipper on Remus’s jacket.
Now he’s untying the knot in the shoelace Remus uses for a belt. Having lifted the hem of the sweatshirt up, he’s already trailing some of the oldest scars with his lips, and Remus focuses on imagining that they’re not there – that the skin on his chest is beautiful, healthy, worth such passionate caresses. And as Sirius opens the buttons on his jeans, he dares hope for a new treat.
“Yes, Pads, touch…” But he remembers to replace the pleading with a question. “D’you want to touch me?”
Sirius tilts his head back enough for Remus to see the long, slender fingers slide inside his fly and take out the cock, which is – perhaps because he’s been so cold and felt so drained – only starting to harden. Slow, soft strokes awaken his lust, and he grips Sirius’s hair, reaching his thumbs to rub the temples. They stare into each other’s eyes, and Sirius’s are gleaming, their grey lit almost silvery. Are there tears? Is this too much? Sirius jerks his head, but no, it’s only to bend it towards Remus’s crotch.
Oh! Remus can’t help moaning. The tip of his cock is touched extremely gently by the tongue, then by the lips. It’s a sweet torment to wait for the firm pressure of Sirius’s mouth to encircle his hard-on.
Just as it is now to stay still and allow Sirius to control the movement, so slow, tentative. He knows… No, he doesn’t want to think now about why it’s taken so long before Sirius even tried if he could possibly enjoy this. But the lips also withdraw slowly, without any sign of disgust, and return for a moment to kiss what’s leaking at the tip.
Sirius has bared his own hard-on, and it’s irresistibly handsome. Remus looks up from it to meet Sirius’s eyes again, and lifting his fingers in front of his mouth, mimics licking and rubbing. Sirius shakes his head, with lips forming perhaps the words: another time. And Remus nods with a genuine smile.
To no surprise, Sirius pats his thighs, and Remus settles astride on his lap, seeking support from the back of the chair and kissing Sirius’s mouth, savouring the taste which proves what Sirius has now wanted to do for the very first time. Their cocks rub together, and almost immediately, once again, with the fresh and familiar pleasure of reaching a new, shared home, they’re coming at the same time.
There’s a knock on the door. “It’s been half an hour. We’re coming in for gift-giving.” It’s James warning them.
Chortling, Remus gets up, and Sirius performs the Scouring Charms before they hurriedly close their flies.
And Peter announces, “Early Christmas presents for everyone,” striding into the kitchen, having already started dealing out identical winter-weather-themed advent calendars.
Sirius peers at his. “I know what it is, even though the pictures aren’t moving. I’d say it’s rather a late present.”
“It’s a real treat for tonight,” Remus says, actually happy that Peter must have got the calendars for a reduced price. “We can open as many as twenty-one paper windows. Thank you, Wormy. I’ve got only one picture for each of you.”
Having found his satchel on the floor, Remus reaches in the side pocket for the aquarelle cards he’s managed to paint thanks to the excessive amounts of art materials presented to him by Sirius. He doesn’t listen closely enough to hear who mutters, who exclaims their thanks, but Lily succeeds in even hugging him when he’s already turned to move the saucepan from the stove.
“You’ve got a cotton cloth for the draining?” he asks her. “The jam will be a gift for everyone, the sweetest part of it is from Lily. And a lot of the fruit picked by Pads.”
“I can also burn more toast for spreading it on,” Sirius adds, digging small flat packages from the breast pocket of his jacket. “Besides, I got some music for you – good music, on records, which you can always listen to here on Lily’s player.”
When the shrinking spell breaks, Remus is holding the unwrapped present with the back cover of the record sleeve up, and his eyes happen to catch the song title “Our House”.
“Yours is from a secondhand shop.” Sirius’s voice is tender. “That’s where you find the best things. I was actually looking for this band’s first album, and this second one, from 1970, doesn’t have the song… you know, with ‘I am sorry’.”
“I know.” The song Lily was singing and making them learn soon after the Willow Incident. “This one looks at least as good. Promising.”
Sirius is bending so close to examine the list of songs that Remus’s lips manage to touch his chin.
There’s a smacking sound of a kiss, and Remus looks up to see James cupping mittened hands around Lily’s face.
“You’ve taken so much trouble. I’ve got only drinks for all of you,” James is saying.
“I’ve got the same gift for everyone, too.” Lily’s come over to Sirius and Remus, and to Remus she hands a cotton cloth for the jam as well as a pair of thick mittens with a pattern of stars, to Sirius a pair with crescent moons. “And it was no trouble. You know, mum tried in vain to teach me to knit neatly when I was ten. But now it works like a charm.”
“Thank you,” Remus says. “This deserves a group hug.” A sub-group hug of the three of them.
Sirius disentangles himself first, but smiles, only a bit embarrassed.
As Remus is finding a bowl and laying the cloth over it, Lily starts to sing, “On the first day of Christmas/ My best friend gave to me/ A portrait of my best friend.”
“How can that make sense?” Peter, of course, protests.
“We’re all best friends, aren’t we?” Lily explains.
“Yes, a great song to practise – and make new!” And Sirius makes up a verse. “On the second day of Christmas/ My best friend gave to me/ Two knitted mittens...”
Lily joins him for, “And a portrait of my best friend.”
“Ha!” says James, and he sings, “On the third day of Christmas/ My best friend gave to me/ Three off-key songs/ Two knitted mittens/ And a portrait of my best friend.”
Peter’s ready to accept the song. “On the fourth day of Christmas/ My best friend gave to me/ Four Butterbeers/ Three off-key songs/ Two knitted mittens/ And a portrait of my best friend.”
Remus has tipped the pulpy fruit and liquid onto the cloth and gathered the edges. Now he’s lifting a chair – the one which he and Sirius used – onto the table, and he realises that what he wants to add fits perfectly in the next verse with its partly slower rhythm. “On the fifth day of Christmas/ My best friend gave to me/ Five stolen kisses/ Four Butterbeers/ Three off-key songs/ Two knitted mittens/ And a portrait of my best friend.”
By the time the rowan-and-crab-apple juice is dripping into the bowl through the cloth suspended from the chair, and they’re all sitting around the table, on chairs conjured by Lily, and drinking, not only four Butterbeers, the song is completed in their fervent disharmony.
“On the twelfth day of Christmas/ My best friend gave to me/ Twelve happy moments/ Eleven old calendars/ Ten slices a-burning/ Nine jarfuls of jam/ Eight pounds of berries/ Seven pounds of sugar/ Six Quidditch stories/ Five stolen kisses/ Four Butterbeers/ Three off-key songs/ Two knitted mittens/ And a portrait of my best friends.”
Notes: Sirius practises singing Lonely This Christmas, by the English glam rock band Mud, and wizards’ (or perhaps non-human and part-human magical creatures’) version of the traditional Christmas song God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Together the five friends make their version of another traditional song, The Twelve Days of Christmas. The 1970 album with Our House is Déjà Vu by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, and the song with the phrase “I am sorry” is Suite: Judy Blue Eyes, included in the 1969 album titled Crosby, Stills & Nash.
Author/Artist:
paulamcgRecipient:
luminousgloomRating: R
Warnings: None
Word count: 4670
Summary: Before going to their parents’ for their first Christmas after leaving Hogwarts, the Marauders and Lily get together to celebrate solstice. What kind of gifts are expected, and what is eventually given – after two of the friends have come in from the cold?
Notes: Thank you, my amazing betas
redblonde7 and liseuse. There are notes about the songs after the story text. All the remaining mistakes, e.g. in those notes, are mine.A Portrait of Best Friends
Sometimes Padfoot is insufferable in his eagerness to make things perfect. James would find it irritating enough to watch even a silent flatmate dawdle around the tree, charming decorations to change shapes and sizes and places, when the two of them should be packing, so as to be ready to leave for Godric’s Hollow after tonight’s party. And Sirius doesn’t even content himself with humming or whistling. Having shared a lot of time with Lily, listening to Muggle records in her and Alice’s flat through their first autumn here in London, James is ever more aware of the shortcomings in Sirius’s talent as a singer.
Now Sirius starts once more with emotion, “It’ll be lonely this Christmas…”
Instead of placing the wrapped gift for his dad in his travelling trunk, James marches across to Sirius, tearing the paper off from around the earmuffs and putting them on. “Enough! The tree’s perfect. And you’re not going to be lonely.”
“This song’s so fitting. Listen. Emptiness and loneliness, and an unlit Christmas tree.”
James pulls out his wand and flicks it towards the tree, channelling all his exasperation into a voiceless illumination spell. Most of the stars and even the crescent moon on the top start twinkling.
“You can leave the lights on,” he snaps. “And I know you and Moony will Apparate or Floo here every night when the parents think you’re asleep.”
“All right. But we’re supposed to sing at Christmas. And I need practice. Hey, there’s the happier song, the one I learnt three years ago, when I first went to Godric’s Hollow.” And here he goes again, “God rest ye, merry unicorns, let nothing you dismay…”
That sounds quite as siriusly off key. At least the song is less sentimental and doesn’t remind James of how he’ll miss Lily when she’s once again – the last time ever, she’s promised – spending Christmas with her family in Benidorm.
“O tidings of magic and joy!” Sirius won’t shut up, but now he’s marched over to his trunk and started Summoning presents and clothes. “I can do the rest in the morning. I’m almost finished. Ready to pick up our Moony. See you at Lily’s!”
Peter feels the armchair disappear under him and he tumbles onto the bare floor. Remus should finally get some permanent furniture or at least a soft rug in this crummy room. By rubbing his sore backside and with a reproachful frown, Peter tries to communicate his indignation. Fat chance!
Remus, sitting on his mattress and holding a board with a small half-finished watercolour on his knees, barely glances up. “Sorry, mate. I forgot to warn you. Didn’t realise you’d been here for so long.”
Conjuring chairs or even more elaborate objects that last at least for an hour shouldn’t be too hard for someone who’s finished Hogwarts and even started studies at Merlin College in Oxford. Peter must have worn out his welcome. Perhaps he should leave now, so as to still have enough time to find the best bargains when shopping for some small presents to bring to their solstice party. That’s why he actually came – to remind Remus of what’s expected.
“You know, even the ancient Romans…” he starts.
Remus’s hearty laughter interrupts him. The bright brown eyes now turn to Peter as fondly as in their first school years, when even during class they chortled at caricatures and mocking verses, which they churned out together, the two of them, closer friends than the other Marauders.
“They did.” Peter finds it hard to continue in his grave tone when there’s odd joy bubbling in him. “Give presents.”
“Oh. Yes, I know. Sigillaria, that’s what they called them. The gifts given during Saturnalia.” He’s bent his head over the board again, but Peter can see him still smiling. “I thought you meant they used to sit on the floor. I’m glad you don’t mind sitting on mine while I finish these…”
“Have you thought maybe someone will be disappointed?” Peter blurts out. “I mean, to get only a card from you, like last year.”
Remus doesn’t look up. He’s biting his lip, perhaps just because he’s trying to focus on the last details in a miniature portrait of Lily riding a stag.
“I wonder what they’d think of bad poetry.” After an almost awkward silence, Remus starts babbling. “The ancient Romans also gave rhymes as gifts. I heard about this on our last Latin lecture. You know, I asked if I could take Latin, too, so at least I’d still have access to the college after the Dark Creature courses and the grant payments ended too soon, in early December.”
Is he trying to wriggle out of buying presents?
His Moony must be cold. Sirius can sense the shivers against his back when he stops Grim’s engine. He wishes there remained an excuse for them to stay pressed tight together, but he’s given up arguing against the idea to leave the motorbike here close to his flat.
Staying on the saddle, he only moves his hands from the handlebars into the pockets of his leather jacket. “You sure you want to walk?”
Moony’s getting off. “Yes. No offence, Grim!” Patting the seat, he manages to touch his fingers to Sirius’s backside, too.
It was actually a disappointment for Sirius that Remus was impatiently waiting for him on the busy Muggle street – not in his rented room or at least just outside of it, in that notorious magical neighbourhood, where worse crimes are ignored than two human-looking creatures in embrace. Now there’s hardly a chance to steal a kiss as long as they are in public. That’s why Sirius found it safer not to even look at his lover too closely before the bike ride.
Now he can’t help feasting his eyes on the beautiful face, the playful smile, the cheeks ruddy from the wind. He feels like touching the chilled skin, or at least that long green-and-orange knitted woollen scarf, which he remembers from their sixth autumn at Hogwarts, when on the walk to Hogsmeade they wrapped it around their clasped hands.
But with the scarf now all wound around his neck, Remus, too, shoves his hands into jacket pockets. He still wears the brown corduroy jacket he found in a secondhand shop in October. And the too short jeans from two summers ago, and the canvas shoes. At least he’s pulled on some socks, finally, so his ankles are not all bare, but no wonder he’s freezing. They’d better start walking briskly.
“Where is it you want to go on the way to Lily’s?” Sirius hastens to ask.
“Inner Temple Gardens.” Moony’s already striding down the pavement, southwards.
Catching up with him, so as to walk at least side by side, with arms almost rubbing together – still amazed at how much he yearns for closeness with his Moony, after only three years ago fearing any touch – he realises that Moony’s carrying an ugly old satchel, with the strap across his chest.
“Why that bag? What have you taken with you that you couldn’t shrink and fit in pockets?”
“Nothing much.” Remus doesn’t turn to look at him. “Only cards. Like last year. I could’ve used the shrinking spell. But this is for something I’ll pick on the way. Here’s the gate.”
They’ve been in these gardens before, sometimes walking the dog, Moony’s own Padfoot. Now Moony heads straight to where Pads has been lifting his leg against tree trunks just for the fun of marking this as his territory. Last time in his human form, Sirius admired the leaves in their newly-emerged warm colours, which Moony has taught him to appreciate. Now the branches are bare except for… something Moony’s set out to pick.
“Cherries?” Sirius finds it hard to focus when noticing that the frigid drizzle is starting to resemble sleet.
“No, crab apples.” Moony’s collected a handful of these tiny pale red fruit from the lowest branches and he’s now shoving them into his satchel.
“What d’you want them for? Haven’t they gone bad, frozen?”
Moony grabs one more apple and bites into it greedily. “Bitter,” he says with a humorous grin, “but edible – for others, too, I hope, after I’ve cooked them with…”
He reaches for the higher branches, and his thin wrist is exposed from under the corduroy sleeve and the frayed cuff of his sweatshirt. Sirius can’t bear to watch him and turns away from the sight, which reminds him of how cold he was himself on Christmas night three years ago when fleeing…
Better help his Moony and be done with this foolishness soon. Taller, Sirius gets hold of a few clusters of crab apples easily. They feel chilled like ice.
Passing the fruit to Moony, he gets a chance to touch his hands, colder than his own. He squeezes them briefly, glancing around. An old couple in mackintoshes has stopped to stare at them, obviously disapproving of what they are doing, even before detecting anything they might consider indecent.
“Let’s get to Grim and ride him to Lily’s now.” Sirius heads back for the north gate.
Remus follows, silent, but once out on the street, he turns to the right. “We can walk along the river. I want to pass by Tower Hill. You know, the trees I need are rare in central London, but there are these two places just on our way.”
Sirius sighs, trudging behind him, and the sigh turns into singing. “It’ll be lonely this Christmas, lonely and cold.”
Remus swirls around, and continues his walk, now backwards, responding, “Cold, so cold, without you to hold.”
Unable to resist the invitation in Moony’s voice, Sirius lets his hand reach out, but he turns the caress into a teasing tap on the shoulder. “You’re it!”
He passes and dashes ahead, eastward. Now he knows where to lead his Moony – how to get to Tower Hill. His heavy boots beat the pavement, and Moony’s steps follow, soft like a fairy’s.
At the entrance to Blackfriars underground station, Sirius leaps back and pushes Remus in. “Come on. I know you don’t mind a crowd where you end up leaning against people.”
He knows Remus loves it. And he himself has hated it, but now they must get in from the cold, and there is one person he is dying to touch. He’s got a few tickets in his pocket, and he’s not listening to Remus’s objections.
Here they are, rattling through a few stations. He’s noticed a tight enough spot between the end of a bench and a man hiding behind a newspaper. As he’s pushed Remus to sit down next to the man, some absurd feeling of fear on his Moony’s behalf or perhaps jealousy disturbs his enjoyment of sensing the body from shoulder to foot against his side and even the warm breath on his neck.
When heading out at Tower Hill station, edging their way through the crowd, they keep jostling each other, laughing as if they truly were children playing tag. Up in the rainy wind, Remus is serious again.
“Thanks for that ride, too,” he says, turning around to orient himself before striding to Tower Hill Garden.
This time Sirius can immediately recognise the tree Remus is interested in, one of their favourites at Hogwarts. He hurries to help gather dense clusters of bright red berries. When teaching him to pay attention to the differences between species, Remus used to make him taste anything that was edible, even haws from the hedges, but warned him to leave these berries untouched.
This memory makes Sirius stop with his hands full. “You said rowan berries were for the birds.”
“For those who need this food in the winter.” Moony looks at him with a trembly smile. “These berries are the last resort.”
His Moony, who loves beauty and food, and made him realise that sometimes in nature these two are the same thing… His Moony’s lips look pale, blue, compared with the red of the berries. And in the wide, intense eyes Sirius sees such hunger which can’t be concealed any longer, and he senses a shared need for their mouths to touch. Rashly, Sirius stumbles closer, collides with Remus and manages a clumsy, disguised kiss.
As James’s tickling tongue leaves her ear and starts travelling down her neck, Lily can hear birdsong from the stairwell. She’s barely begun to struggle up from the depths of the bean bag chair and the passionate embrace, when the warbling is replaced with a familiar melody. It’s a song by her old favourite, Queen… Yes, You’re My Best Friend.
“Padfoot whistles better than he sings,” James acknowledges.
And Pads is always considerate enough to announce his arrival with a melody she likes. The imitation of birds means that he and Remus are signalling to each other. She strides to the door, undoing the sealing charm, and opens the Muggle lock.
Sirius leaps out of Remus’s arms and looks at her sheepishly, licking his lips. “You were quick. Good. It’s freezing out there.”
She stands aside to let her dear pair of canines step in. “I know. You must have got cold, riding your Grim.”
“No, we’re fine,” Remus replies, but his mumbling betrays that if Sirius dared kiss him behind the door, it hasn’t been enough to warm up his face. “We walked. From Tower Hill station.”
“On days like this it would be nicer for guests if I had a Floo connection. But you know, Alice preferred a Muggle flat, exotic for her. Anyway, she’s already gone home for Christmas, and it’s just the five of us to celebrate together.”
She wants to make it clear to Sirius that there’s no need for restraint. They all know that these two are lovers besides friends. But Sirius is still not comfortable with any caresses when anyone’s watching.
He and Remus are not taking off their jackets, just hollering their hellos to James and to Peter, who’s crouching on the hearthrug.
“Wormtail’s only now lighting a fire.” Lily reaches to unwind Remus’s pretty scarf, wondering how she could make up for interrupting the intimate moment. “I think it’s still warmest in the kitchen.”
“That’s just where I’d like to go first, after offering you this,” Remus says, digging into a satchel made of cheap, cracking vinyl.
Now he’s holding a cluster of rowan berries on his left palm. As he points his wand at it, Lily’s eyes stray to his knuckles, which are raw, reddened. And she’s taken unawares when he presents to her a delicate berry wreath, one she’d be happy to decorate her door with.
“A crown for the queen of the Marauders,” Sirius exclaims, taking the wreath and lifting it on her head.
“Oh, you charming puppies! Thank you.”
“Lily, listen.” Remus whispers, stretching his satchel wider open for her to see in. “I decided to pick a lot of berries and some crab apples, too. It would be a shame to let them go wasted. I could cook them into jam if… Could you spare some sugar?”
She’s startled by the way he words it, as if begging. He seldom asks for anything in any way.
“Oh, you really know how to make…? And of course, I’ve got a lot.” Now she remembers to whisper. “What a wonderful idea. You know, it could be a gift from you to everyone. Sirius can help you, and the rest of us will stay away from the kitchen, so it’ll be a surprise.”
Yes, this is just where Remus wants to be. As soon as Lily’s closed the kitchen door, he pushes Sirius against it, pulls open the zipper of his biker jacket and wraps his arms around him under the leather, pressing tight for the warmth he’s sorely missed. Burying his cold face in the thick black mane, he breathes in the luxurious sandalwood scent, then sighs out his bliss.
“You smell beautiful,” he says with his lips brushing Sirius’s neck. “You’re all beautiful. I love how you touched me even out there.”
It is truly amazing how his Pads, who used to – fittingly and heartbreakingly – define himself as a stray, has continued to gradually shed his old fears. Now Remus no longer needs to wait for permission before caressing him. But that requires complete privacy.
“In here I…” Sirius starts, sliding a hand into Remus’s back pocket.
Remus silences him by kissing his lips, then breaks the kiss so as to say with a teasing smile, “We’ll have time for more while the berries and crab apples are simmering.”
Sirius groans. Perhaps he’s praised Remus for patience with the stray exactly because he’s impatient himself whenever he’s set his heart on something.
Having reluctantly disentangled himself from Sirius, Remus lifts the strap over his head and empties the satchel onto the counter. “Help me, this won’t take more than a minute. Just wash the fruit and remove the stems. No need to peel or core the crab apples.”
Fortunately Remus has cooked here with Lily and knows where to find a big saucepan, and how to use this Muggle stove, which works with gas, anyway, and can be lit with a wand. To speed things up, he sets some water to boil immediately and starts adding fruit as they get cleaned.
He’s practised patience all his life, or the life he can remember, since he was five – waiting for days of health. The delay makes any satisfaction just sweeter. Sweet…
He hurries to rummage the cupboards for the sugar, even though it’s going to be needed only after the simmering and the draining. Yes, this mundane craving now is new and hard to bear. Tomorrow finally he’ll be home, and dad will heap mutton bangers and mash on his plate. He hasn’t and he won’t let them – anyone – know and worry and think he’s not independent. Luckily his parents don’t expect shop-bought gifts.
Here it is, a heavy jar. When he opens the lid, some sugar spills onto his palm. Really, he didn’t mean it, but now he’s brought the palm up to his mouth…
“What’s this?” Sirius can’t have noticed as he’s marvelling at Lily’s electric toaster.
Remus wipes the counter next to the jar with the side of a hand, which he licks covertly before replying, “It’s for toasting slices of bread.”
“Let’s try it!” Having tossed the rest of the cleaned berries into the saucepan, Sirius reaches for Remus’s shoulder and squeezes it hard, without looking at him but into the open cupboard instead.
Is he suspecting something? And Remus is dizzy – perhaps because of the sudden jolt given by the sugar. He won’t be able to keep his cool if he tries to protest, and he pretends to hardly notice what Sirius is up to.
“There’s a lot of bread,” Sirius says, fiddling with the Muggle gadget. “You place a slice here, I guess.”
Remus pours some extra water out of the saucepan, then stares down at the steaming surface. If he’s blushing, it can be explained by the heat. Now there’s a good boil, and it’s time to turn down the gas flame so as to achieve gentle simmering. The bitter odour is suddenly joined by a delicious scent, then by a burnt smell, and Remus turns to see two dark brown slices pop up from the toaster.
“When the jam’s ready, we can all spread some on toast. So it’s important to experiment now. But we shouldn’t let these slices go wasted. They are edible.” Sirius takes a bite of a slice, handing the other to Remus.
And Remus stuffs his slice in with all the satisfaction there’s time for. “The simmering time is only twenty minutes,” he says when his mouth is still blissfully filled with warm bread. “Now let’s continue our experiments in taming the stray.”
Feeling giddy, he stumbles against Sirius and walks him backwards to the small kitchen table.
“Warm enough now to take off some clothes?” he continues. “You are. So hot.”
He pushes the leather jacket back from the shoulders and rubs his palms over the fine wool of the jumper, then slips a hand under the hem. But so as to reach bare skin, he needs to untuck the shirt, and he starts to open the belt.
Sirius shifts aside, clearly still not comfortable with being undressed. But while he’s falling to sit on a chair, he pulls down the zipper on Remus’s jacket.
Now he’s untying the knot in the shoelace Remus uses for a belt. Having lifted the hem of the sweatshirt up, he’s already trailing some of the oldest scars with his lips, and Remus focuses on imagining that they’re not there – that the skin on his chest is beautiful, healthy, worth such passionate caresses. And as Sirius opens the buttons on his jeans, he dares hope for a new treat.
“Yes, Pads, touch…” But he remembers to replace the pleading with a question. “D’you want to touch me?”
Sirius tilts his head back enough for Remus to see the long, slender fingers slide inside his fly and take out the cock, which is – perhaps because he’s been so cold and felt so drained – only starting to harden. Slow, soft strokes awaken his lust, and he grips Sirius’s hair, reaching his thumbs to rub the temples. They stare into each other’s eyes, and Sirius’s are gleaming, their grey lit almost silvery. Are there tears? Is this too much? Sirius jerks his head, but no, it’s only to bend it towards Remus’s crotch.
Oh! Remus can’t help moaning. The tip of his cock is touched extremely gently by the tongue, then by the lips. It’s a sweet torment to wait for the firm pressure of Sirius’s mouth to encircle his hard-on.
Just as it is now to stay still and allow Sirius to control the movement, so slow, tentative. He knows… No, he doesn’t want to think now about why it’s taken so long before Sirius even tried if he could possibly enjoy this. But the lips also withdraw slowly, without any sign of disgust, and return for a moment to kiss what’s leaking at the tip.
Sirius has bared his own hard-on, and it’s irresistibly handsome. Remus looks up from it to meet Sirius’s eyes again, and lifting his fingers in front of his mouth, mimics licking and rubbing. Sirius shakes his head, with lips forming perhaps the words: another time. And Remus nods with a genuine smile.
To no surprise, Sirius pats his thighs, and Remus settles astride on his lap, seeking support from the back of the chair and kissing Sirius’s mouth, savouring the taste which proves what Sirius has now wanted to do for the very first time. Their cocks rub together, and almost immediately, once again, with the fresh and familiar pleasure of reaching a new, shared home, they’re coming at the same time.
There’s a knock on the door. “It’s been half an hour. We’re coming in for gift-giving.” It’s James warning them.
Chortling, Remus gets up, and Sirius performs the Scouring Charms before they hurriedly close their flies.
And Peter announces, “Early Christmas presents for everyone,” striding into the kitchen, having already started dealing out identical winter-weather-themed advent calendars.
Sirius peers at his. “I know what it is, even though the pictures aren’t moving. I’d say it’s rather a late present.”
“It’s a real treat for tonight,” Remus says, actually happy that Peter must have got the calendars for a reduced price. “We can open as many as twenty-one paper windows. Thank you, Wormy. I’ve got only one picture for each of you.”
Having found his satchel on the floor, Remus reaches in the side pocket for the aquarelle cards he’s managed to paint thanks to the excessive amounts of art materials presented to him by Sirius. He doesn’t listen closely enough to hear who mutters, who exclaims their thanks, but Lily succeeds in even hugging him when he’s already turned to move the saucepan from the stove.
“You’ve got a cotton cloth for the draining?” he asks her. “The jam will be a gift for everyone, the sweetest part of it is from Lily. And a lot of the fruit picked by Pads.”
“I can also burn more toast for spreading it on,” Sirius adds, digging small flat packages from the breast pocket of his jacket. “Besides, I got some music for you – good music, on records, which you can always listen to here on Lily’s player.”
When the shrinking spell breaks, Remus is holding the unwrapped present with the back cover of the record sleeve up, and his eyes happen to catch the song title “Our House”.
“Yours is from a secondhand shop.” Sirius’s voice is tender. “That’s where you find the best things. I was actually looking for this band’s first album, and this second one, from 1970, doesn’t have the song… you know, with ‘I am sorry’.”
“I know.” The song Lily was singing and making them learn soon after the Willow Incident. “This one looks at least as good. Promising.”
Sirius is bending so close to examine the list of songs that Remus’s lips manage to touch his chin.
There’s a smacking sound of a kiss, and Remus looks up to see James cupping mittened hands around Lily’s face.
“You’ve taken so much trouble. I’ve got only drinks for all of you,” James is saying.
“I’ve got the same gift for everyone, too.” Lily’s come over to Sirius and Remus, and to Remus she hands a cotton cloth for the jam as well as a pair of thick mittens with a pattern of stars, to Sirius a pair with crescent moons. “And it was no trouble. You know, mum tried in vain to teach me to knit neatly when I was ten. But now it works like a charm.”
“Thank you,” Remus says. “This deserves a group hug.” A sub-group hug of the three of them.
Sirius disentangles himself first, but smiles, only a bit embarrassed.
As Remus is finding a bowl and laying the cloth over it, Lily starts to sing, “On the first day of Christmas/ My best friend gave to me/ A portrait of my best friend.”
“How can that make sense?” Peter, of course, protests.
“We’re all best friends, aren’t we?” Lily explains.
“Yes, a great song to practise – and make new!” And Sirius makes up a verse. “On the second day of Christmas/ My best friend gave to me/ Two knitted mittens...”
Lily joins him for, “And a portrait of my best friend.”
“Ha!” says James, and he sings, “On the third day of Christmas/ My best friend gave to me/ Three off-key songs/ Two knitted mittens/ And a portrait of my best friend.”
Peter’s ready to accept the song. “On the fourth day of Christmas/ My best friend gave to me/ Four Butterbeers/ Three off-key songs/ Two knitted mittens/ And a portrait of my best friend.”
Remus has tipped the pulpy fruit and liquid onto the cloth and gathered the edges. Now he’s lifting a chair – the one which he and Sirius used – onto the table, and he realises that what he wants to add fits perfectly in the next verse with its partly slower rhythm. “On the fifth day of Christmas/ My best friend gave to me/ Five stolen kisses/ Four Butterbeers/ Three off-key songs/ Two knitted mittens/ And a portrait of my best friend.”
By the time the rowan-and-crab-apple juice is dripping into the bowl through the cloth suspended from the chair, and they’re all sitting around the table, on chairs conjured by Lily, and drinking, not only four Butterbeers, the song is completed in their fervent disharmony.
“On the twelfth day of Christmas/ My best friend gave to me/ Twelve happy moments/ Eleven old calendars/ Ten slices a-burning/ Nine jarfuls of jam/ Eight pounds of berries/ Seven pounds of sugar/ Six Quidditch stories/ Five stolen kisses/ Four Butterbeers/ Three off-key songs/ Two knitted mittens/ And a portrait of my best friends.”
Notes: Sirius practises singing Lonely This Christmas, by the English glam rock band Mud, and wizards’ (or perhaps non-human and part-human magical creatures’) version of the traditional Christmas song God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Together the five friends make their version of another traditional song, The Twelve Days of Christmas. The 1970 album with Our House is Déjà Vu by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, and the song with the phrase “I am sorry” is Suite: Judy Blue Eyes, included in the 1969 album titled Crosby, Stills & Nash.
