Jealous Of Your Cigarette
Sirius tastes of cigarettes and firewhisky when Remus kisses him.
It is a long-forgotten taste, yet entirely familiar, even after all this time.
Remus gave up smoking after James and Lily died, and craved nicotine like he craved the feel of Sirius's skin sliding against his, Sirius's mouth on his cock, Sirius's body spread beneath him, waiting to be fucked.
He lived without those vices for thirteen years, finding that drinking and anonymous sex could satisfy his desire without reminding him of the past he was trying to forget.
The past that is here and now, pushing him back against the door to the bedroom they don't officially share, because Molly believes if they don't talk about it, maybe no one will notice and she won't have to acknowledge it's true. They are always very quiet and they always lock the door, because the twin terrors of Mrs. Black and Kreacher are enough to make even strong men quail.
Sirius kisses him hungrily -- all their kisses, all their fucking, everything has a sense urgency it used to lack. Remus can't believe Sirius has returned, and Sirius can't believe Remus still wants him.
Sirius tastes of fags because Remus buys them for him. Smoking reminds Sirius of happier days, and he's taken it up again with a vengeance. There is little else for him to do on the long days and nights he spends locked away in the haunted house of his childhood.
When he breaks the kiss, Remus says, "It's good to see you doing something useful with that mouth."
Sirius takes that as a challenge. Remus's robes are soon in disarray, and Sirius kneels before him, unzipping Remus's trousers with his teeth.
Remus holds still, growling his approval when his trousers and boxers are pushed down over his hips and Sirius strokes his cock with long, skilled fingers, trailing kisses over his belly, nipping at the sensitive flesh of his hip. Remus tips his head back, gasping, as Sirius licks and sucks at him, sliding soft, chapped lips down his shaft.
The wet warmth of his mouth makes Remus groan and squirm in pleasure, Sirius's heat a welcome contrast to the cold wood at his back.
Sirius takes his time, teasing with lips, teeth and tongue. Fire burns along Remus's nerves, making him desperate; he tangles his hands in Sirius's hair, loving the feel of it, like silk against his skin.
He thrusts, trying to keep his eyes open so he can watch Sirius's face, engrave it in his memory, replacing what he tried so long to forget. And then he's coming hot and hard. Sirius swallows it all down, licking his lips when he's done.
Remus slides down the door so their faces are level, and kisses him. He tastes himself now, mingled with cigarettes and firewhisky and the sweet flavor of Sirius's tongue.
This is what he misses when he goes away, this is why he tries to remember everything, every sound, touch, taste, texture -- anything that he can associate with Sirius now, he craves. Though he's happy enough to let Sirius smoke for the both of them.
They spend almost a year together, not near enough time to begin making up for all the years they lost, and then Sirius is taken from him again, for good.
That night, and every night for the week after, Remus drinks himself into oblivion. When he finds Sirius's cigarettes, he tucks them into his coat pocket and forgets about them, until he is waiting with Arthur, Molly, Tonks and Moody at King's Cross for Harry.
They all fidget and no one will look at him, no one can bear to admit what it is he's lost. He leans against the wall and finds, to his surprise, the pack of fags in his pocket.
He takes one out and runs it beneath his nose, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. He can almost imagine Sirius is there with him.
He sticks the cigarette in his mouth and surreptitiously lights it with his wand.
Last time, he wanted to forget Sirius and everything about him.
This time, he wants only to remember.