Thieves Like Us
"I don't love you," Remus says, lips sliding along the skin on the inside of Sirius's thigh.
"That's fine," Sirius gasps, as Remus licks the head of his cock. "I don't--" he never finishes the sentence, because Remus's mouth is hot and wet. Remus can do things with his tongue that make Sirius consider the existence of God.
Sirius comes with his cock in Remus's mouth, his hands in Remus's hair, and when he's capable of thinking again, realizes it doesn't matter what Remus says because he does what he does. Sirius has always thought words were overrated, anyway.
"I don't love you," Remus says, thick, hard cock sliding into Sirius's arse, long fingers grasping his hips in an unbreakable grip, teeth nipping the sensitive flesh where neck meets shoulder.
Sirius thrusts back against him, desperate and aching for more. Remus fucks him hard and fast, one hand sliding over his hip to curl around his cock, jacking him roughly until there is nothing in the world but the stroke of hand and cock, nothing but Remus all around and inside him.
Love is the last thing on his mind as he comes, because love is complicated, and they are not. They're not in love, and they're both fine with that.
After, Remus packs up Sirius's flat, which had almost felt like home, since he'd spent more time in Sirius's bed than his own.
Whenever he finds a photograph of Sirius, he whispers, "I don't love you."
Remus is a consummate liar; sometimes he even believes himself. It becomes easier as the years pass, until he believes it often enough not to have to say it
Then one muggy July morning, he unrolls his newspaper and finds himself face-to-face with a photograph of Sirius.
His heart stops for a moment, but his fear has nothing to do with his physical safety, or Harry's. Sirius's eyes are wild, unfathomable in the photo, and they stare right at him.
"I don't love you," he says, the sound startling in the early-morning silence of his flat.
That afternoon, when Dumbledore owls, asking him to teach at Hogwarts, he accepts.
"I don't love you," Remus insists, even as Sirius fucks him, his legs wrapped around Sirius's waist, Sirius's hand stroking his cock.
Sirius finds the words familiar, comforting -- he'd probably be more shocked if Remus said he did.
"Of course you don't," he answers hoarsely, his body hungry for Remus's after being denied for so long.
They're thinner, greyer, slightly slower, but the thrust of hip and tongue, the slick slide of skin on skin, the sensation of Remus encompassing him, is still the best thing Sirius has ever felt, and no words, said or unsaid, can change that.
Remus doesn't cry when Sirius falls. At first, he has too much else to do, and then he finds it hard to believe, Sirius's sudden absence even more shocking the second time. He was there, and now he's not.
The bed they shared still smells of him, the pillows hold the indentation of his head, waiting with the patience of objects for his return.
Remus is making tea when the truth of what's happened finally penetrates; Tonks finds him standing at the kitchen sink, his hands lacerated, burned and shaking.
"I loved him," he says, voice thick and hoarse.
"Of course you did," Tonks replies.
"I never--" He can't look at her, can't tell her the truth any more than he could Sirius.
"He knew."
"But I--"
"He knew," she repeats firmly, and Remus almost believes her.