There's stillness; tranquility that lingers-spreads-as light passes through windows, refracts in corners and lands between the tips of his fingers...and nothing creeps into the room but a low whisper of air, sliding under the door.
 
Sirius waits.

Palms flat against the desk, fingers spread, looking at the way the sun crinkles around his knuckles, spreading between his forefinger and thumb and burrowing into the soft grain of the wood. The clock ticks, loudly, and when he glances up he sees only ten minutes have passed, though it seems like hours since Remus had leaned over, lips so close to his ear, warm breath nudging the lobe and whispered, "Don't touch yourself. Don't move. I'm going to the Ministry. I'll be back later."

So Sirius waits.

Feet flat on the floor, in Remus' chair, at Remus' desk. Sirius thinks about how Remus was sitting there, in this chair, earlier that morning, drinking a mug of tea and reading the Daily Prophet. Remus had looked up at him as Sirius stumbled into the room, eyes still half-lidded with sleep.

"Do you have anything important to do today?"

Sirius licked his lips, saw the heat in Remus' eyes. "No," he said slowly.

Remus nodded. "The tea is set out for you in the kitchen. Mind you, it's weak. I used what little leaves were left in the canister, and now we're completely out." One eyebrow arched up. "Did you neglect to go to the market yesterday?"

Sirius had said nothing, but his lip curved up on one side. "Must have, Remus," he remarked, before turning and walking out of the room.

Remus found him rummaging through the cabinets, struggling to find a mug, and slid one arm around his waist.

"No excuses this time, Padfoot?" was murmured into his ear, and Sirius shuddered; dropped his head forward and leaned into the solid body behind him.

"I…forgot…" and there were slender fingers, so calm, gliding under his shirt, over his chest. Touches so light, matching the whisper that accompanied them.

"Come with me."

***

The clock shows an hour has passed. The morning sun is higher now, filtering into the room and playing over the shelves. He doesn't notice the twitch in his thigh, or how the muscles in his arms are tight. He just sees dust catching in the rays, and thinks of Remus.

The way Remus just takes over the room when he's sitting here, in this chair, at this desk…wears the objects like they are meant for him, made for him, and when Sirius walks in, fetching Remus' tea or a new quill, he sometimes leans over the desk, and Remus somehow smells like ink and sunlight over dusty books.

Late at night, when Sirius curves one leg over Remus and nuzzles into his neck, his tongue is shocked with a bit of lemon, and underneath just the faint, sweet tinge of clean skin.

Remus smells like a sultry summer nights breeze, and he tastes like every kind of sin.

For this, Sirius waits.

***

It had been in the spring of their sixth year when Remus walked up to Sirius, took him by the arm, and hauled him into their room. Sirius remembers looking around for James and Peter, even though he knew James was off with Lily down by the edges of the Forbidden Forest, and Peter was practicing with the Quidditch team.

Seven years ago, but for Sirius, it was yesterday.

Remus had been annoyed, as usual, over something Sirius had said or done, and although that part of the memory is fuzzy, what *isn't* is the fact that Remus began yelling at him.

"What will it take to get through that rattletrap of empty space you call a brain?" Remus' hands were clenched in tight fists by his side, exasperation written across his forehead.

Sirius eyes narrowed. "Why don't you take me over your knee if I'm so bloody naughty, then?" he suggested pissily.

Remus let out a cursed mutter, but the corners of his mouth twitched and, only half-joking, shoved Sirius hard against the bed and slapped him firmly.

On his ass.

And the sound that escaped Sirius could not have been classified in a category of pain.  When Remus did it again, and again, his hand sharp and fingers spread, the muffled moans Sirius was throwing into the pillow turned low and needy, and behind him, Remus was panting.

Remus collapsed on top of Sirius, rolling off on his side and tugging his fingers through Sirius' hair, his eyes offering embarrassment and apology. Sirius had grinned, too wickedly perhaps, because Remus glared and then crushed his lips against Sirius' so hard their teeth clacked together, and hands began fumbling, and by the time the sun was lowering into their room, lips were bruised and swollen and no part of their bodies had been left untouched by fingers or tongues.

When James and Peter came tumbling through the door, Remus and Sirius were on their respective beds, sharing a private smile.

***

Spread between his flattened hands is a roll of parchment, pressed smooth, and to his left, a quill, casually hanging ever so precariously on the edge of the desk.

"Don't read it. Not when I leave. Not until noon, when I'll be walking down the halls of the Ministry, going to lunch with Peter. Then…then you can read it. Aloud."

And the words had been said in such a low tone that Sirius knew he wouldn't, not until the clock, hanging next to the window, struck the high twinkle of noon.

He's sat here before, waiting. So many times now, that he's memorized all the books on the shelves-every title, every author, the order Remus has them placed…so meticulously, even though Sirius still hasn't figured out the system. He knows each cover, can recite in his head each one based on the color of the spines.

When he runs his eyes over the shelves, he's startled. They're…rearranged. Out of order, and a small grin plays at his lips. He's forced to start at the top shelf, far left, tilts his head slightly to read the sideways lettering on each one, and begins to catalog the new placement.

The time passes more quickly.

He's only on the third shelf, middle of the row, and it's not until the seventh chime that he turns his head, sharply, and sees two thin wires nestled on top of one another, pointing north.

He lowers his head.
        
"Dear Sirius," he begins aloud, and rolls his eyes slightly. "You're sitting there, for me, while I'm at the Ministry thinking of you. I'm waiting, too. Waiting for the clock here to strike in five more hours and I won't bother with the floo, because I'm going to Apparate in front of you before the fifth chime has finished its echo."

Sirius shifts slightly in the chair, and clears his throat before continuing. "When I arrive, you're going to look at me, and not smile, but stare. Your hands are going to twitch because I'll be pulling my sweater over my head and dropping my trousers and you won't be able to touch me.

I'll walk behind you, lean over you, brush my fingers through yours on the desk and trace my tongue over the skin behind your ear…slide down the side of your neck with my lips and suck my way across your collarbone. And you won't move. You won't turn your head or close your eyes. You'll stare, straight ahead, and I'll put my hands on your hips and then…only then will you be able to stand up. Your muscles will protest, but it's of no matter, because I'm going to bend you over the desk…"

Sirius has to stop reading, because his voice has suddenly become husky and he's having difficulty forming the words when his throat is so very dry.

It's some time later when he's finished reading the letter. He's damn proud that his trousers are still dry; moreso because somewhere between Remus talking about slowly tracing his fingers along the inside of Sirius' thighs and entering him with a quick thrust, there was a mandate that he not come.

The clock strikes three.

Sirius waits for five.

***

He's organized the new book filing system in his head. Looks at his fingers, so white against the deep walnut wood, and thanks Remus for offering him that small token-he's never told Remus he knows where each book is placed, and yet.

The clock says he has ten more minutes to wait. Excruciatingly long minutes, where a dusky haze settles into the room as winter sun fades and tricks the air in the room into becoming heavy. The wood under his fingers is warm, but he doesn't feel it anymore. The fifth chime has barely even begun to ring when Remus…is there.

Sirius doesn't lick his lips when Remus peels his sweater off and tosses it to the floor. He doesn't swallow as Remus latches his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and holds his gaze as they follow the sweater.

Sirius waits until Remus is completely naked, standing across the room. Then he blinks, a slow descent of eyelids and lashes and he only opens them when something softly grazes the back of his neck.

A slip of tongue behind his ear, fingers ghost over his and then he's being hauled up, the chair kicked away. He's bent over the desk, face so close to the parchment of the letter the words are blurred.

"Did you like my present?" and Sirius isn't sure if Remus means the letter or the books, but there's that tongue again, careless against his skin, teasing shivers from his whole body. Sirius whimpers, tries to answer but only comes out with a half choke. Remus laughs gently, his hands pressing into Sirius' sides, running over his hips and around to cup his ass.

"I missed you," Remus confesses. "I want to hear you, Sirius…read the letter to me."

Sirius pulls up slightly, resting on his forearms, and he's shaking. Remus tenderly brushes his hair back, out of his eyes, smoothing a hand over the curve of Sirius' head. Remus folds himself over Sirius, exhales slowly. "Tell me what I'm going to do to you."

If Sirius wasn't panting so heavily, he might be able to recite the entire letter in one breath. Begins to read, the sentences punctuated by Remus moving his hands over Sirius' body, heating his skin and landing impossibly tender kisses on his neck, his back, tongue swirling in patterns that Remus creates at random, painting him in moving strokes of wetness and warmth.  

For every sentence Sirius reads, Remus complies in return with action, and when Sirius is more than halfway through, Remus has two fingers inside him.

The words are slurring together, and Sirius is choking his way down the page, so when the words 'fuck' and 'inside' and 'tight' and 'hot' stumble their way out of his mouth, Remus is moving in him. There is a moment when Sirius blindly scratches the wood of the desk and just tries to move and ride with Remus, but a stinging cuff sets him to reading again.  

By the time he's gasped out 'Love you always', Remus has one hand wrapped around his cock, murmuring in his ear not to come, and Sirius prays he won't. It's fast, and hot, and Remus is covering him completely, thrusting and moaning and Sirius just holds on.

For every time they've done this, in every room in the flat, for so many nights that stretched into morning, it seems to Sirius to always be new…different. It makes him think of that afternoon at Hogwarts, when that first slap of Remus' hand against him had him hard and begging in under an hour.  

And now it's needy and desperate and when Remus says 'come for me' Sirius cries out his name and slumps over the desk, words and parchment swimming before his eyes as the pleasure hits him, and Remus is pulsing inside him, nipping the skin of his neck with teeth, soothing the bites with quick kisses.   

They're both panting and exhausted, and when Remus gathers Sirius in his arms, turns him around and runs a finger across Sirius' forehead, down to trace the curve of his cheek and outlines his lips, Sirius smiles.

***

Remus is waiting in bed when Sirius comes out of the bathroom, crawls in beside him, leaning over to turn off the lamp. They're silent, except for the slide of skin against skin as Remus winds around Sirius, legs tangling and hands finding each other under the sheets. Remus presses a kiss into Sirius' hair, and murmurs his goodnight.   

"We don't have any tea for the morning," Sirius whispers, and the arms surrounding him tighten as he feels the grin against his neck.