Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Remus Lupin doesn’t tend to think of himself as a complainer, not really. He finds people who always find something to pick apart quite exhausting, actually, and it’s perhaps only by the fear of becoming that person he manages to keep his mouth shut half the time. His New Year's resolution was to be more optimistic- granted it’s currently November and closer to the next new year, but still. He likes to think he has made some progress. A few prime examples- not turning around and yelling at the guy who sits behind him in his philosophy class, who’s had a stuffed nose for the majority of the past two weeks and apparently has no idea how to blow said nose, take Mucinex, or simply shut the fuck up. Not arguing with his neighbor over the honestly awful (as in, who-gave-the-singer-the-right-to-perform level awful) music he was playing at an ungodly hour last week. Or biting his tongue when the editor at the official-but-somehow-unofficial school newspaper lectured him about the importance of submitting pieces on time, but it wasn’t even Remus’s story to begin with, he’d volunteered to help a colleague with it when they got sick but was given the wrong deadline on accident. You’re a stuck-up asshole who needs to mind your own business is what he thinks, but he keeps that one inside. All in all, Remus tries to reign in his natural pessimism and be less woe-is-me on a daily basis.

He will not, however, grin and bear the frankly egregious request given to him by one Lily Evans, on a Monday morning no less.

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on Remus, please?”

“Lily, I love you, but you’d have more luck if you asked me to cut off my arm.”

“Remus.”

Remus groans, finally sitting up in bed, reaching blindly for his alarm clock to check the time. (Could and should he just use his cell phone, that he’s currently talking on? Yes. Will he? No). “Lily, it is eight in the morning, it is Monday, and you’re asking me a pretty awful favor. If you were expecting a good mood you should’ve waited until at least ten and brought me coffee.”

Lily huffs on the other line, and Remus can practically see the eye roll, hear the dissatisfied brushing of her hair off her shoulder. “It’s not like I’m thrilled about this either. My stupid roommate-” she says in a louder voice, and a faint groan of protest comes from who Remus can assume to be Marlene filters in through the background. “Infected me with whatever’s been going around campus. I feel like death, Remus, honestly.”

Remus grimaces because admittedly, Lily does sound pretty awful. There’s a slight scratch to her voice, and she’s sniffing every five seconds (a pet peeve of Remus’s he’s having a hard time not bringing up), not to mention the fact she hasn’t lectured him for still being asleep at what Remus deems a reasonable hour but what Lily calls wasting daylight. “Ah, I’m sorry, shame on Marlene then”, Remus says, figuring he must be on speaker when an indignant ‘hey!’ resounds from the background. “That sucks, I’ll drop off some tea or soup later if you want”.

“Thanks, Remus, you really are the sweetest. Truly my best friend in the whole wide world, the epitome of a gentleman, the model of an upstanding citizen.”

“Lils?”

“Yeah?”

“No.”

“Remus!” Comes the indignant response, and with a sigh, Remus hoists himself out of bed, figuring if he’s going to be yelled at he might as well be semi-alert. “It’s not that big of a deal, really. You go, you take pictures, pretend to be interested, and leave. You don’t have to do any of the writing, talk to anyone, or do anything besides point the lens at the court and press a button. It won’t be miserable, I promise-” Lily is starting to ramble now, working herself into a tizzy that Remus knows can go on for an impressive amount of time unless interrupted.

“Lils?”

“Yeah?”

“...You owe me,” Remus relents, running a hand over his face, deciding the happy exclamation and exhale of relief from Lily makes it somewhat worth it.

“Thank you, Remus, I really do appreciate you-” Lily starts before Remus cuts her off with a hum and dismissive wave of his hand that she can’t see through the phone (shocker), but he’s sure his bookshelf appreciates.

“It’s fine Lily, I’m just dramatic when I’m half asleep, you know this.” He says absentmindedly, rummaging through his stack of textbooks and notebooks on his desk. It’s only a half lie, really- he is dramatic when he’s half asleep, but no amount of rest could make him hate this favor any less. However, Remus does want to be a good friend and doesn’t want Lily to feel bad. He’s also incredibly uncomfortable with being apologized to, or any verbal acknowledgement of relationships, even platonic ones. He’s the kind of person to write someone a long and sappy card on their birthday only to avoid all eye contact when the friend reads it, and profusely deny said card's existence if ever questioned about it. After an amount of searching that should prompt Remus to straighten up his desk (it won’t), he locates his pocket notebook that he uses to scribble down due dates, important events, and other things that would be lost in the jungle that is his Notes app. “Right, so what’re the specifics? How long am I in for?”

There’s the faint sound of shifting on the other line, before Lily’s voice comes through, slightly louder but no less scratchy. “It’s the season opener, Penn State versus Binghamton- oh shut up, it’s a real college. Game starts at 3:30, but you should be there by 1:45- I don’t make the rules, don’t shoot the messenger. The coaches know someone from the Collegian is coming, so there's not gonna be an issue there. Um- just get good action shots, if all else fails watch their captains- 27 and 3, they’re usually an interesting duo, so get some good media from them. You don’t have to take notes or anything like that, I think Gideon’s got someone else on the article and interviews and such-”

“You think or you know?”

“Remus.”

“It’s a question, Lily.”

“It gives the same energy as asking a teacher if you can use the bathroom and they go ‘I don’t know, can you? Don’t you mean may I?’ Just so… pretentious.”

“Ironic, isn’t it? How the word pretentious sounds pretentious.” Remus muses, snapping his notebook shut and tossing it onto the bed, stretching as he pads into the bathroom. After a quick once over in the mirror (not much can be done, he determines), he runs the water to brush his teeth, figuring the impending lecture Lily will give him for the backsass will give him the time.

“Just… behave yourself, alright? Don’t let it be known that you’re overly unenthusiastic to be there. Keep the side eyes and sarcastic comments to yourself, don’t talk to strangers, if someone creepy comes up to you yell ‘you’re not my mommy or daddy’, etcetera etcetera” Lily grumbles, taking on the borderline motherly tone she usually does with anyone in the vicinity she deems irresponsible (read: everyone). Remus rolls his eyes, briefly entertaining thoughts of mutiny before spitting in the sink and splashing water around in a vague attempt to uphold some level of cleanliness before reentering the bedroom.

“You know, for a person asking a favor you’ve got quite a lot of jokes.”

“For a person who needs to be somewhere at 1:45, you’re doing a lot of talking and not a lot of schedule rearranging,”

“I don’t have any classes today, or else I would be protesting with much more vigor, believe me. Besides, you’re doing the majority of the talking. We’ve talked about the rambling Lils, brevity is of the essence.” This triggers an annoyed groan, which causes Remus to grin. It’s an inside joke between them, something that occurred their freshman year when they met. They had the same English class, and at one point the professor said “Brevity is of the essence” concerning emails and other class inquiries, causing some random girl in the class to turn and ask her friend what ‘bread-ity’ was and if bread would be a good smelling essential oil for the dorm. Remus, who sat behind the girl and her friend, looked up with a horrified look at the same time Lily, who sat in front of the two girls, turned around in disbelief. This sparked their bond and spurred Lily to sit next to Remus the next class, beginning their friendship which is still going strong into Junior year. So, brevity is of the essence became a phrase that one of them uses to take the piss out of the other, letting them know that they need to stop and listen to themselves before they say something too stupid.

“You’re a comedian, really.”

“I try.”

“Text me if you need anything, alright?”

“Will do Lils. Get some sleep, okay? I’ll drop off some soup for you and Marlene after the game, provided I survive.”

“You’re a saint, Rem.”

“Yeah yeah, you can thank me by recuperating. Talk to you soon.”

“Alright, talk to you later, thanks again”. With that, the line goes dead, and Remus shuts his phone off, tossing it onto his bed next to his notebook, quickly following suit and letting gravity pull him down into the sheets. He does an awkward sort of shimmy to get comfortable, his bed not particularly well suited for a taller-than-average college student with a penchant for flopping and hoping for the best.

He’s not sure how he gets himself into these situations, honestly. I mean, if you wanted to get analytical about it, it’s his fault for having parents who enabled his early onset obsession with literature- something that somehow morphed into being an English major at Penn State and a student writer at the Daily Collegian, Penn’s unofficial student-run news source. But really, it’s his loyalty to his best friend that got him into this specific situation, that is photographing the Penn State men’s basketball team’s season opener against whatever ridiculously named college Lily had said, despite his ever-persisting hatred for athletic activity. That he knows the source of, but it’s a longer story that he doesn’t feel like paying a therapist to hear. Lily, however, is an incredibly dear friend, the kind of friend that has made Remus contemplate her being his best woman or something at his wedding a lieu of a best man, given his lack of particularly close male friends. That might get a bit complicated if he ends up marrying a woman though, so maybe some different phrasing. But then again assuming he’ll ever get married is presumptuous, so this particular version in his train of thought has led to nothing. Groomsmen party aside, he’s willing to do her a favor and take pictures at the basketball game when she’s sick, because that’s what friends do, even if one of them is a sarcastic bastard who hates being near sports fans.

With good reason. Remus thinks, huffing to himself and rolling onto his stomach as if anyone is around to care about his inner plights. College students are already obnoxious, whose idea it was to stick a bunch in a glorified gym where the entire atmosphere depends on ten guys with a ball.

With a long-suffering sigh, he pushes himself up, figuring pajama pants and a “Who is John Galt?” tee shirt that Lily got him for his birthday freshman year isn’t the attire he should wear to a sporting event at a school that's athletic commitment embarrasses him. After checking about five different weather apps, googling if basketball gyms (courts? arenas? ) get stuffy (spoiler alert- they do), and opening his window an excessive amount of times to stick his arm out and check the wind, Remus gives up and resigns himself to wearing layers to combat the November chill and sweaty gym, accepting that he’ll probably need some adjustments. The result of his deliberation is light wash jeans, a vintage Nittany Lions tee shirt that used to be his dad’s under a Penn State crew neck, with his black jacket to top it off. And of course, the bag with his camera and all the other crap he’ll be needing. After breakfast, essay revisions, and a painful analysis of the most recent segment of “Middlemarch” he’s read, Remus deems it time to go, looking around for his shoes.

Remus’s apartment is small- a kitchenette, a table covered in books, papers, and other things that don’t belong, a couch in the corner surrounded by built-in bookshelves is what the main space consists of, a small bedroom off to the side with enough room for a desk, bed, nightstand, and another shelf, the final spaces being a small bathroom and closet. Remus is perfectly fine with this arrangement- it’s close to campus, the rent is cheap and payable between his jobs at the Pattee and Paterno Library (one library two names, gets confusing), and as a TA (regrettably, student writers at the Daily Collegian only get paid in academic validation, something Remus values less and less the closer he gets to graduation), and he doesn’t need that much space. If he needs a change of scenery, he’ll go to Lily and Marlene’s, a library, a coffee shop, or a park if he's feeling particularly Rory-Gilmore-esque (he draws the line at claiming student trees and poor decision-making skills). Bottom line, he’s content.

A long and arduous five minutes of searching ensues before Remus locates his Converse (underneath an umbrella), ties them, grabs his bag, and sets off. Locking his door, headphones are immediately on- today is not a “nature is a wonder, allow me to frolic through campus and smell the sunshine” day, no, today is a “find bus, board bus, ride bus, do shit, go home” day. A day that must be aided by some level of Bowie to even be remotely salvageable. Remus’s mission is briefly updated when some random girl stops him on the staircase to ask if he knows what apartment her boyfriend is in, he does not, and therefore continues on his trek to the bus stop. The bus is (miraculously) on time, and Remus texts Lily that all is well, not expecting a text until her fever-induced nap wears off. After what feels like an eternity, due to the guy behind Remus tapping his foot on the back of his seat every thirty seconds (something he bites his tongue about), he arrives at the stop closest to the Bryce Jordan Center, where the game’s going to be played. One sandwich from a coffee shop he walked by on the way later, Remus finds himself in front of the stadium, texting Lily that he’s made it. It’s a habit, induced by years of an overprotective but sweet and well-meaning mother fussing over his whereabouts constantly. It’s not like his mom would give a shit about his being at a basketball stadium now- well, actually, she might, but Remus worked hard on getting his mother to not text him twenty thousand times a day over the past few years, and he doesn't feel like reopening that can of worms before he has to go fulfill one of his arguably most frustrating assignments yet. So, he tends to text Lily when he’s arriving or departing somewhere, given they usually have plans or updates that revolve around that sort of thing. A quick ‘made it alive’ text later, Remus is looking up at the stadium’s structure, wondering how much it cost and imagining all the better ways the money could be spent. You’re telling me there’s no other way this school could spend this money? Remus thinks to himself, before deciding no amount of hating is going to delay the inevitable.

“Alright, you’re going to be fine. In and out, short and painless,” Remus mutters to himself, adjusting the strap of his bag. After a quick contemplation about the consequences of simply not going in, Remus takes a deep breath, walking up the path towards the complex, resigning himself to a few hours of misery, but consoling himself with the idea that he can lord this over Lily’s head for the rest of time.

Chapter Text

White. All Sirius can see is white. An expanse- no, a sea of white, stretching across his eyelids, burning a hole in his vision, ingraining itself in the back of his mind. There’s quiet, simply Sirius and his thoughts, the rest of the world a dull roar. It’s nice like this, he thinks.

Maybe being dead isn’t that bad after all.

“What the fuck are you doing down there?”

Sirius’s existential spiral is quickly interrupted by a face materializing above him, a familiar and annoying one at that, looking down at him with an expression of confusion and mild curiosity.

Fantastic.

With a sigh, he heaves himself to a sitting position on the bench, abandoning his quest of staring at the white locker room ceiling in favor of glaring at James, who’s just yanked his headphones off his ears and is holding them hostage with an accusing expression.

“You’re moping again.”

“Are not.”

“Are too.”

“Since when are you the moping police?”

“Since when do you stare at the ceiling for ten minutes- don’t even, I was watching you- if you’re not thinking of some sort of woe-is-me dramatic speech,” James says, crossing his arms over his chest. In an effort to force eye contact, he kicks the bench Sirius is sitting on, earning himself a glare.

“Don’t interrupt my pre-game ritual Potter.”

“Oh come on, since when is this your pre-game ritual?”

“It- well, it could be! I’m switching it up. Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results is the definition of insanity, a wise man once said that to me.”

“I said that about you going out to drink and expecting not to be hungover,” James protests, but a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He’s never able to stay too firm with Sirius, especially not on game days- or as Sirius has taken to calling them, Jame-days, because they never fail to put his best friend in an astonishingly good mood. “Alright then, fine, I’ll humor you. What is this new ritual you’re developing, pray tell?”

“Well,” Sirius starts, standing up from the bench as James sits down, beginning to pace up and down the short stretch of lockers as if he’s giving a TED Talk. “To start the junior season off strong, I wanted to create a new ritual, one that captures the essence of what this year is really about, you know?” James nods, folding his hands in his lap and fixing Sirius with an expression of mock seriousness. “And this year? It’s about the soul-crushing shift into adulthood.” Sirius declares triumphantly, pausing his pacing to strike a Founding Father-esque pose in front of Jame’s bench. James, to his credit, seems to be narrowly avoiding an eyeroll.

“Really? Last night I seem to remember you were in very good spirits,” James remarks, raising his eyebrows and biting back a shit-eating grin. Sirius heavily debates the merits of ending his best friend right here and now. Last night had been November 3rd, Sirius’s birthday, and by the grace of some god above, there had been no practice- a lapse that no one quite understood nor dared question. So, what do James and Sirius, as responsible Division One athletes, decide to do?

Go out and get shitfaced, of course. You don’t turn 21 and become legally allowed to drink every Sunday you know. Not like they went to an actual bar- James doesn’t turn 21 until March, and the fake IDs are currently MIA, so to the usual underground operation they went, doing everything their coach explicitly warned them not to. Was it fun? Yes. Did Sirius absolutely hate himself this morning when he woke up on the floor of his and James’ apartment with a headache that could split his head in two? Fuck yes.

“That’s not the point. I’m twenty-one now James. It’s time to face facts. I know you are enjoying your youth over there, but how can I enjoy my life when the threat of adulthood is just around the corner, huh?”

“And this relates to you staring at the ceiling?...”

“I’m getting there, don’t get your panties in a twist. My point is that the whole stretching and karaoke and snacks is fun and all, but junior year is a year of- excuse the pun- seriousness. So, I’ve decided to find a more mature pre-game routine.”

“And that’s rotting on a bacteria-covered bench and feeling sorry for yourself? Are you sure you’re not just hungover?”

“No, Jamie, I’m a serious athlete now, this is a season for focus.”

“I have gummy worms in my duffle.”

Sirius Black is a weak man when tempted with gelatin. He and James end up in their normal spot in the locker room, bench in the back corner, singing along to “Ridin’” by Chamillionaire while stretching out. Mid rendition of “My Heart Will Go On”, the voice of Elijah Wood rings out from within the locker room.

A few moments later, his face pokes in through the door, fixed in a grimace as James fails to hit a high note. “Potter, Black!- Jesus, is someone dying back here? Shut up and come up to the court, junior captains are still captains. And as captains, you need to set examples, not lurk in secluded corners and eat…” Elijah trails off for a moment, picking up a discarded wrapper. “Bags of ‘Trolli Sour-Brite Octopus’ gummies.” He finishes, shooting them an unimpressed look.

“I’m coping with the agonies of my age,” Sirius says gravely, pulling his warm-up quarter zip over his head, narrowly avoiding James’ hand, which has become increasingly more animated as he reaches the climax of his musical misstep.

“Oh, right, happy late birthday- James, I swear to god- spent a quiet night preparing for the season opener I assume?”

“Of course, you know us.” Comes the muffled response, Sirius’s hair flipped over his eyes as he re-emerges from a twist of navy fabric, giving him the appearance of a particularly shaggy dog. A quick brush with his hands fixes the black strands to Sirius’s satisfaction, not caring about Elijah’s disapproving sigh. Sirius’s hair is nearly down to his shoulders now, and usually frames his face in a way that used to make his mother stare disapprovingly and makes girls wonder what on earth he does to get that much volume. He appreciates one more than the other; take a wild guess which.

“Mhm, I’m sure,” Elijah grunts, giving Sirius a once-over. “Hair up Black, we don’t want anyone pulling on your pigtails- James Potter I will have you running suicides for a week if you don’t shut up.”

James reluctantly pauses his Spotify, cutting the dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” short. “Come on Eli, raising morale is good for the team.”

“Intact eardrums are good for the team, Potter- and Black, either tie it up, push it back, or let me give you the number of a decent barber.”

Sirius rolls his eyes, flipping Elijah off. He’s aware his hair may be a bit impractical, and he tolerates the constant jibes about it, but like hell he’s cutting it. He likes his hair, so he snatches the navy Under Armour headband James slingshots at him mid-air. Maybe he spends a bit too much time on it, sure, to the point that his bathroom counter is littered with different pomades and products, but hey, let a guy have something.

After another stern warning to be upstairs in ten minutes, “or else”, Wood disappears through the doorway he came in through, leaving James and Sirius to grab their crap and head up.

Six and a half minutes of shoe-tying, bag packing, hair fixing, and buffoonery later (this being Sirius chasing James around with a sock from deep in his bag, because honestly if James refuses to clean out his shit someone has to teach him a lesson), James and Sirius are, indeed, on their way upstairs.

Deeply engaged in a discussion about the morals of neglected laundry (‘Come on Sirius, it’s my clothes, as long as I have things to wear it’s fine’ ‘Dude, I live with you, maybe you can’t smell it but I can, and it’s a violation of my human rights’), Sirius doesn’t notice Elijah’s looming presence at the bench until he quite literally runs into him, prompting an unimpressed glare.

“Head in the game Black, be alert”.

“Game doesn’t start for another century,” Sirius mutters, fully aware he sounds about five years old. And while yes, he can recognize he’s being dramatic, he still feels wronged. Their head coach- a foreboding old guy who’s technically Coach Alastor (like dude, whose name is Alastor), but everyone calls Moody- had implemented a new policy this upcoming season that left Sirius wondering who he’d been in a past life to deserve this.

The new policy being the subject of captains- Moody had always run the team with two captains, both seniors. Something about building a community, giving the players a say, blah. However, somewhere along the lines between the end of last season and the start of this preseason, he’d gotten a brilliant idea. Four captains, because everyone knows that the more captains, the better the team will perform. Obviously. Like, come on, the Titanic wouldn’t have sunk if there’d been two, three extra dudes at the wheel.

But that aside.

Elijah (bless his overly passionate heart) and Frank Longbottom (a nice guy who balances out Elijah’s Tanya Harding vibes) are the senior captains, and who are the junior captains?

Sirius Black and James Potter, of course.

Which means that in addition to having to plan things and coordinate student sections and a bunch of boring stuff that Sirius is admittedly horrendous at, he’s somehow managed to get himself directly under Elijah’s command. Like, if there was a food chain diagram for Penn State Men's Basketball, it would be Moody, then Hooch and Binns, then Frank and Elijah, then Sirius and James, then the rest of the team, and then, of course, freshmen.

Which meant that Sirius and James are required to be a part of Elijah’s borderline obsessive (mild exaggeration) and psychologically fucked up (major exaggeration) rituals. One of which is apparently dragging his ass up to the court before Moody even shows up to set things up, or- you know what, Sirius has no idea what they’re really meant to be doing, he usually lets Frank deal with Elijah’s stunts.

Speaking of which.

“Hey, where’s Frank? Don’t tell me, he disrespected your lucky laces, so you killed him and left the body in the ice bath.”

That comment gets a snicker from James and a sigh from Elijah, so in Sirius’s book it’s a win.

“No one’s been murdered. Yet” Elijah mutters, throwing a pointed side eye to Sirius and James. “Frank’s talking to the photographer the Collegian sent over, I asked them to send their staff early to this season’s games.” Just as Sirius makes a mental note to talk to the poor soul and assure them they don’t have to always arrive a lifetime in advance, James perks up.

“The Collegian photographer? Is it Evans? Lily. Lily Evans. Is it Lily Evans?”

“Unless Lily is a guy’s name I’m gonna say no. The guy’s really tall, I asked him if he played basketball and he looked at me funny. What a waste”. With the wistful sigh Elijah let out, Sirius would’ve thought that the only use height had in this world was to determine your place on a basketball team. To be honest, it’s probably the only thing Elijah thinks it’s good for.

“They’re in the lobby of the- oh, wait, there they are.” Elijah points to the corner of the court, where Frank has materialized seemingly out of nowhere (realistically from the side door), talking behind him to-

Shit.

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

If Elijah and James hadn’t been there, Sirius might've been convinced he’d died and was in some form of heaven or Nirvana or whatever.

Because this guy.

No, this fucking work of art that’s walking a step or two behind Frank.

First off, Oliver was right. He’s fucking tall. Sirius is immediately bombarded by the thought that he’d like to climb Mr. Hot Photographer like a tree, but tries to brush it out of his head because really Sirius, are you so horny you’re trying to jump some poor photographer you’ve only been looking at for three milliseconds?

But also, yes, yes he is. Because this mystery guy is listening intently to Frank and nodding along and he has the kind of face that makes you know he is taking in every word you say, and Sirius is ninety-nine percent sure he needs that face between his legs, like, yesterday. He’s tan, a miracle for anyone on the East Coast during the fall, with freckles that Sirius can see even from across the basketball court. He’s got curly hair that looks like he’s just rolled out of bed (he can roll out of my bed any day, Sirius thinks), but he’s wearing clothes that actually go together, the absolute whore of a man dressed in jeans and a navy crewneck, and he looks like he stepped out of a Pinterest board titled “hot guys” that Sirius may or may not have had in middle school.

He was horribly repressed.

And- oh no no that’s eye contact they’re making eye contact be cool Sirius be cool this is the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen but-

“Yeah, so mostly you can just hang around here until people show up. You can… take pictures of the empty court, I guess?” Frank finishes, looking around as though something interesting to photograph would magically appear. “James, Sirius, c’mere really quickly”.

Shit.

Shit.

Move Sirius, just follow James and walk forwards you’re a division one athlete you can put one foot in front of the other don’t stare at him just look at Frank but don’t make it look like you’re avoiding eye contact, just look at his camera bag or something- wait no that’s too close to his hips and that’s too close to his crotch and Sirius you CAN’T look at his crotch this early into meeting him and-

“Remus, these are Sirius and James, junior captains. Sirius and James, this is Remus, he’s down from the Collegian for the opener,” Frank says, gesturing between where James and Sirius stop and where Mr. Hot Photographer- Remus- has been standing and observing the overall lack of interesting things to photograph. James, ever the social butterfly, slaps on a grin and tries to dap him up, looking like he belongs on the cover of the “Welcome to Penn State” information pamphlet.

“I’m James, good to meet you man,” James says, thumping Remus on the back.

“Remus, likewise”, Remus says, accepting James’s frat-bro-esque greeting with the expression of someone who is not used to the enthusiasm of Sirius’s best friend and is also not used to having to dap people up. His hand goes back against the strap of his camera bag, while his mouth settles into one of those thin smiles you’d make when you see your classmate across the aisle in the grocery store but don’t feel like going to say hi, so you awkwardly wave like dads at a soccer game.

It’s pretty.

Really pretty.

He’s really pretty, with his freckles and his eyes that Sirius certainly needs to take a closer look because what the fuck (Are they green? Brown? Hazel? How are his lashes so long??).
And shit, he’s looking at Sirius now, which makes sense because James said hi first and-

“I’m Sirius- like the star, not the adjective." Sirius what the fuck why would you say that now is not the time to start bringing up astronomy. And yet Remus actually smiles, revealing a row of straight teeth with slightly pronounced canines (Sirius suppresses many thoughts about those teeth in his neck), and shakes his hand. Fuck he’s tall, and his handshake is strong, palms slightly rough with callouses and, as Sirius notes, little scars that dot the back of his hand and disappear at the cuff of his crewneck.

“I’m Remus, like the moon and the myth”, he says, voice low with something close to amusement- but not like he’s laughing at Sirius. Like they’re sharing a secret, an inside joke that only they get to make as members of the Unusual Name Club. Remus’s voice is nice, deep, and steady, and now that Sirius is really listening to it, tinged with some sort of subtle blink-and-you ’ll-miss-it accent.

“You don’t have to come this early in the future, Elijah’s just… enthusiastic.” Ah, yes, James. James is still here. They’re standing in the middle of a Penn State basketball court, not Aphrodite’s court. Thank God for the reality check though. Sirius was three seconds away from asking Remus where he’s from, if he’s single, and if it hurt when he fell from heaven.

Remus shifts the strap of his black shoulder bag, shifting back on his heels and looking around the gym. “That’s… good to know. For future reference”. His eyes settle on a folding bench set up in the corner for media. “I’ll set up over there, yeah? Unpack my shit and all that”.

“Alright man, we’ll leave you to it”.

God bless James Potter and his ability to address everyone like he’s Troy Bolton and they are, in fact, all in this together.

With a quick nod and a smile, Remus heads off to his aforementioned bench, already fiddling with the clasps on his bag. Sirius don’t look at his ass or his hands or his back or fuck definitely not his shoulders, it’d be totally out of line to imagine how broad they’d be under his sweatshirt and scraping your nails down them-

“Sirius?”

His head whips back to James, who’s looking at him worriedly. “What?”

“You with me, space cadet?”

“Fuck you,” Sirius mutters, turning to walk back to the bench they’d dumped their warm-up duffles on, choosing to not let James’ shit-eating grin. “You’re not funny”.

And yet James seems undeterred by this, jogging up behind his best friend to fall into step, lowering his voice slightly. “The pressure of the opener getting to you? You’ve gotta remember, ‘Everything negative; pressure, challenges, is an opportunity for-’”

“I swear to God Potter, if you quote Kobe Bryant at me I will put cyanide in your Gatorade”.

The two reach their bench, where Sirius takes a deep breath, drinking his water like he can wash all thoughts about Remus probably-has-a-stupidly-attractive-last-name away.

“You good man? Don’t let Wood get to you, it’s gonna be an easy W tonight, and it’s not like if we lose the paper’s gonna be too harsh on us, we’re literally their team. The worst that’ll happen is they’ll say some shit like ‘oh, after a tough fight our lions fell’, Remus will take a picture, and-”

“James.” Sirius stops him, muttering beneath his breath while pointedly refusing to turn around, because he knows if Remus is in his line of sight, he’s gonna stare, and when James inevitably notices it he’s done for. “It’s not about the game.”

James hesitates, looking around before lowering his voice. “Is it about your mom? I know she told you to call her for your birthday, but you don’t have to, man. What’s she gonna do if you don’t, get on a plane to beat your ass?”

“It’s not- it’s not that, okay?”

“Then what the fuck is it?”

Usually, the silence of the basketball court before a game, save for James’s prattling and Elijah practicing free throws, brings a sense of calm to Sirius.

Now, all it does is highlight the sounds of zippers and buckles from the boy in the corner unpacking his camera.

“Just- I’ll tell you later, alright? If we win”.

James studies Sirius’s face the best he can, analyzing. He doesn’t seem upset, or panicked, or like he’s gonna try to hang himself from the basketball hoop, so he just sighs and claps Sirius on the back.

“Whatever you say, bro. I’ll hold you to that, alright? You play better when you’ve got something to prove, so do me a favor and turn… whatever this is into buckets, yeah?”

Sirius sneaks a glance over his shoulder. Yep, Remus is still there and stupidly attractive, messing with his camera.

“Yeah”.

Jesus Christ, he’s fucked.