Chapter Text
As their fights always went, Remus and Tonks did not speak to each other for the whole day. Not aloud, that is. They were speaking to each other in many different, non-verbal ways— be it Tonks rolling her eyes when Remus walked into their bedroom that night, or him deliberately leaving the toothpaste cap open the next morning to piss her off— they always had their own language of anger, spoken or not.
Remus had never known if that made their relationship stronger or worse.
Today, he knows it's the latter.
“Honestly, you two act like children,” Hope says at one point for about the umpteenth time that day, shaking her head at the retreating figure of Tonks and turning to Remus, looking like the image of exhaustion, “It’s tiring.”
Remus looks up from his coffee, feigning confusion. “Maine kya kiya?”
But Hope doesn’t answer him, choosing instead to walk away shaking her head, muttering something along the lines of how on earth she puts up with the two of them. “Par maine kya kiya??” Remus repeats again, this time genuinely confused.
So, the day goes about like that, silent insults traded amongst the two of them that dissipate into smiles once Teddy comes running into the room, leaving Hope rubbing circles into her temples every two seconds until it’s time to go (or for Remus to be dragged) to the masquerade ball.
Remus is sitting in their home office, pouring over a whiteboard where he’s drawing several Xs representing players and several haphazard lines to represent potential plays they could make in the games. He hasn’t left that table for hours. His job is the only bit of sanity he has left, so he’s desperate not to lose it.
Remus is biting his nails until Tonks opens the door. He looks up from the board momentarily to find her completely ready to go in a long purple gown that compliments her hair, her mauve hair falling in loose waves down to her shoulders— but what’s even more noticeable to Remus is her cheery demeanour. It makes him crinkle his brow immediately. Odd. She walks into the room and sighs slightly. “You’re still not ready yet?”
Remus deadpans. “I told you I didn’t want to go.”
“Right— and I told you that we were both going.”
“You can’t make me, I’m a grown adult.”
“You sure don’t act like one,” she mutters under her breath.
Remus raises his eyebrows, “As if you haven’t been deliberately doing things to piss me off for the past day too. Not exactly peak adult behaviour. Besides,” he narrows his eyes, “You’re not my mother.”
“I know. Thankfully, your mother is good and alive for that.” Remus’ nostrils flare.
“Tonks—”
“No. That’s it—” she declares, with an air of finality, “Nope. I refuse to let your sour attitude ruin today. This is the first time in a while that we’re going out somewhere as a couple. And going we are. C’mon,” she says forcefully, making her way around the table, grimacing at the loose papers that were strewn about the floor. She reaches her hand out, “Up you go.”
Remus stares between her and her hand. A moment of silence passes them before she falters, ever so slightly. “Remus, please. I’m tired of fighting all the time. Can we not have one night out together, hm? Like old times?” She tries to meet his gaze, which has now conveniently dropped to the floor.
He sighs, feeling the fight go out of him. After years and years of fighting over the pettiest things, Remus doesn’t think he’s ever heard his wife ever say the word please to him. It almost feels cruel to entertain the idea of staying home. “You’re actually saying please?” he asks, just for the sake of saying something to fill the silence.
Her face relaxes a bit. They were back in familiar territory again. “Yes, Remus. I am actually saying the word please. I am requesting that you please act like my husband for one night.”
One second more of a pause passes before he takes hold of his cane from where it's leaning against his chair and hauls himself up, giving Tonks a tight-lipped smile as he walks out of the study and into their room without another word. If she’s hurt by his dismissal of her hand, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she excitedly follows behind him and flings open the door to their walk-in closet, and Remus swerves to the side quickly to avoid it flying in his face, and begins to sift through Remus’ side of the closet.
She finally finds the perfect thing for him, signified by an ‘Aha!’ that makes Remus jump out of his skin. She spins around with the suit held carefully in her outstretched arms, and Remus’ heart clenches ever so slightly as he realizes that it's his wedding reception suit.
It’s a simple black suit, with smooth fabric that fits his figure snugly and a matching black vest under it. It’s nothing special; pretty basic, yet Remus still vividly remembers wearing it with pride. He wonders where that feeling has gone now. Or if it had even really been there in the first place.
It’s an odd sort of a feeling—almost like he’s looking at a different part of his life where he was happier, better, content. The part of his life that felt like a distant dream with the gentle sound of chimes in the wind, far, far away from the dissonant chords of melancholy that are his life right now. Yet one thing is for sure— he still feels like his heart has fallen into his stomach as he stares at the suit with wide eyes. “I had this altered a while ago for you,” Tonks' smile momentarily falters. “Do you not like it?”
Remus snaps out of his trance. He silently takes it out of her hands, running his hands over the smooth fabric. “Nope. It’s great.” And with that, he walks into the bathroom and shuts the door.
—
Sirius is running late.
More like he and his husband are running late, actually. “Gideon!” Sirius yells, for the fifth time in ten minutes, as he fixes the cufflinks on his dress shirt, “Hurry up, we’re running late!”
“Mmf,” comes a muffled sound from their bedroom.
Sirius pokes his head out of the bathroom. To his utter dread, his husband is lying face flat on their bed, clad in his suit for the evening. He strides over to him and yanks him up straight. “Gideon! This is your own party we’re going to be late for!”
Gideon regards him with a sleepy smile. “You look wonderful, love.”
He stiffens briefly, ever-so-slightly, before getting himself together. “That’s very sweet, I appreciate it. But you know what I would appreciate more?”
Gideon continues to regard him with the same smile. “What?”
Sirius grabs his ankles and pulls. “Is if you could get—” he grunts as Gideon grumbles, “—out of bed so we can get there on time!”
Gideon seems amused at his efforts to get him out of bed before he nearly goes tumbling off and yelps. He grumbles one last time and hops out of bed, striding over to the mirror and straightening his tie as though he hadn’t been whinging about ‘two more minutes’ only seconds ago. The transition has Sirius shocked for a second before he realizes that this is exactly who he married. This is his husband.
Gideon Prewitt, the chameleon.
It was one of the many things that he did and still does admire about him. If there was anything this man was good at, it was getting his shit together. Sirius remembers a time when it was one of the many things that made him proud to be his husband and feels a punch in the gut when he realizes the past tense of that statement.
Gideon deserves someone who could get their shit together long enough to learn how to love him again. To be a good husband again. He feels something akin to sorrow and guilt pool in his stomach.
“Ready to go, love?” Gideon asks, at the door all ready to go with the boxes he needs to bring in his hands.
There it was, that word again. His bane.
Sirius nods, smiling the best he can, as he slips on his shoes.
—
The venue for this party is huge. It is a banquet hall, which has a large ballroom made even larger by raising a couple of dividers. It comes as no shock to Sirius when he finds out that they (or his uncle, rather) have rented all three ballrooms. If there was anything his uncle Alphard was good at, it was extravagance and outdoing himself.
There are hired party workers everywhere, putting up all sorts of (heart-shaped? Sirius’ eyebrows scrunch at this) decorations, even though it is nowhere near February. Alphard is actually one of them, tongue sticking out and one eye open as he carefully attempts to place a glass heart atop a tree (this perplexes Sirius even more) from his precarious position on a ladder.
Truth be told, neither Sirius, nor Gideon (who stares just as confusedly at Alphard’s circus act as he) have any clue why this party is being held, or why it’s held on the exact same day every year. Neither of their birthdays was coming up, really. Sirius’ is all the way in November, and Gideon’s is a spring birthday. No anniversaries, death or otherwise. Sirius always thought that his uncle had just chosen the most random day and used it as an excuse to party.
Sirius comes under the ladder and holds it in place, worriedly looking at his uncle’s foot’s placement on the very last rung of the ladder. “Ah,” he says, half in satisfaction at finally placing the glass heart in place and half at seeing the pair of them, “there you two are. Been waiting for you boys for ages!”
“Just thankful you weren’t waiting for us in the hospital instead,” Sirius mumbles to his back.
“What was that?” Alphard asks, straining his ears, “Oh, I wouldn’t have ended up in the hospital, beta. I have wonderful balance.” He pats his knees as if to emphasize this, trying and failing to hide the wince of sudden pain he feels through his knees at the pat.
“You could’ve been seriously hurt, mama.” Gideon chimes in, and Sirius shoots him a thankful smile.
“Well, I wouldn’t have had to if you had come earlier. You two are the only ones I trust with that star apart from myself.”
“Speaking of that,” Sirius begins, adjusting a bow on a table as they walk by, “are you ever going to tell us why you host these parties every year?”
Alphard shrugs, a motion as grand as him, “Why do you need to know? Just enjoy the party, Sirius,” he says, nudging Sirius and Gideon with his shoulders, and doing some sort of a dance with his shoulders, as though there is music playing somewhere in the distance.
“One of these days he’s going to get himself into a coma while ‘having fun’, I just know it,” Sirius says, shaking his head.
“At least he’d go out having fun,” Gideon replies, and Sirius shoots him a look. “What?”
“Why on earth would you say something like that?”
“I was only joking, darling.”
Sirius stares right ahead of him.“He’s the only family I have. I’d prefer it if you didn’t joke about that.”
“He’s the only family I have too, Sirius. We’re in the same boat here.” At this, he risks a glance at Gideon. He still has the light-hearted, easy-going demeanour that was so effortlessly Gideon Prewitt. But in his eyes, there’s an indescribable emotion—almost pleading, as though asking him to understand. “I’m worried for him too. The jokes just help me feel better about it.” With that, he walks away.
—
“So,” Tonks says, staring at the ceiling of their car, “are you going to get out first or should I?”
“Whatever you want.”
Tonks huffs. “Grow up for a second, will you?”
“You first.”
“Remus.”
“Tonks.”
The car door suddenly slams open, and Tonks steps out. Remus follows not long after, not wanting to ruin the evening just yet. After managing to put Teddy to sleep—a feat that took half an hour—and one very long, grudge-filled, drive (not for a couple of squabbles over them losing their way) later, Remus and Tonks finally make it to the hall. As they walk towards the hall, Tonks wordlessly hands him a mask, and slips on her own, a glittering deep purple to match her hair and dress.
His is a simple black one to match his simple black outfit.
He sighs and slips it on.
The hall is huge. Bigger than Remus thought it would be. There are red carpets leading up to the venue, and golden poles that give the entire place a Hollywood sort of feel. Inside the hall, there are security guards at the doors, and workers that collect people’s tickets in exchange for a cinema ticket-like thing, that Remus notices people are giving to photographers and posing in front of cameras like the happy-go-lucky people they are.
In perhaps a rather selfish thought, Remus really hopes Tonks doesn’t notice that relatively large photo booth. The idea makes his stomach turn.
To his dismay, however, she does notice. She also notices how his face has strung itself into a look of pure loathing at the same, and perhaps, Remus thinks, this is exactly why she drags him to the booth with a look of enthusiasm that contrasts his look of disdain.
“One couple photo, please,” she hands the photographer their golden ticket.
She stares between her outstretched hand and the look on Remus’ face that has definitely managed to leave a couple of lines on his face. “Uhm,” the photographer says, setting down her plate of bhel puri, “Are you sure both of you want to get it done…?”
“Yes,” Tonks says rather firmly, wagging the ticket in front of her.
“‘Right then. Just stand right there for me.” Remus and Tonks follow the photographer’s instructions, standing in front of the camera and awkwardly smiling (if it can even be called that). The photographer sighs. “You two are married aren’t you?” They share a confused nod. “Well then act like it, for God’s sake.”
Tonks reaches one arm around his side, and he stiffens before he realizes that he should probably do the same, promptly moving to rest his right arm around her waist. Her other hand tentatively finds itself on top of the hand that holds his cane up straight. The same awkward smiles etch themselves onto their faces, and Remus quickly realizes that Tonks didn’t want this either—this awkward, stiffened posing, a stark reminder of how disconnected and disjointed they were as a couple,—and can feel the regret seeping into her as the camera flashes white and forever captures the moment.
The photographer gives them their picture, and Tonks quickly puts the picture in her coat pocket, thanking the photographer and exclaiming that the picture will definitely end up framed somewhere in their home. Remus internally scoffs at this, knowing damn well that that picture would most likely find itself at the bottom of some box in their closet, far far away from any form of a picture frame. It wouldn’t fit her idea of a picture-perfect family, he thinks.
That, however, doesn’t stop her from introducing themselves as a couple to everyone that she talks to.
“Have you met my husband? This is Remus,” she says to the lovely women that they meet first, who stand with their arms around each other.
“Remus, love, why don’t you come say hello?” she says to him while in conversation with a rather elegant-looking man, turning back to him, “This is my husband.”
Eventually, he has had enough, and finds himself slowly slipping away from her, into a quiet corner. Tonks stops him before he can, though. “Remus, where on earth are you going?” she asks, her brows furrowing, heels click-clacking behind him.
He doesn’t stop walking. “Too tired of people for now. Plus my legs hurt, so I need to sit for a bit.”
Tonks’ face relaxes a bit, though she still looks uneasy.“Alright, well come back later, will you?”
“Why?” he scoffs, plopping down on a rather fancy lounge and resting his cane beside him. “So you can make us seem like a picture-perfect couple to more people that you don’t even remember the names of?”
Tonks steps back slightly, hurt flashing across her face. Remus searches her face for any amount of acknowledgment that what he said was true. Just as he thinks he finds it, she’s opening her mouth to retort before Remus can even regret anything he said. “What, would you rather me lie? Hm?” She steps closer to him. “Or ignore your existence overall?”
Remus knows what he wants to say. He wants to tell her that in some twisted, sick way, yes, he would much rather her not acknowledge their marriage at all. Much rather she not continue to lie and make them appear to be some illusion of a couple plucked straight from a book. And he almost does, too. His mouth almost gets the better of him. But Tonks speaks first.
“You know what I think you are?”
“Ohhh enlighten me, why don’t you—”
“I think you’re a coward.” She makes sure to emphasize the last word.
Remus’ gaze turns hard, and this time his mouth does get the better of him. “Better than being a liar.”
Tonk’s face turns from determined and blazing to void of emotion. She turns to walk away and spares a glance at him over her shoulder. “See you in a bit.”
Remus throws his head back against the couch, sighing and throwing his mask off, suddenly feeling suffocated by it.
Thud. An awfully familiar man with long dark hair pulled into a man bun collapses on the couch beside him, obviously fuming.
Maybe his night won’t be so disastrous after all.
—
Sirius’ night has been disastrous so far. Well, it wasn’t at the beginning. In fact, at the start, he was quite enjoying himself. He’s always enjoyed these parties, the intermingling of people, the buzz of joy, sloshing of drinks as people began to lose themselves more and more.
But then came his least favourite (used to be his favourite) part. The part when people’s movements would come to a slow, and become more intimate as they magically began to gravitate towards their partners and lovingly gaze into their eyes. The part when Gideon would reach his arm out and pull him in for a slow dance, his eyes full of nothing but love, and Sirius would attempt to inconspicuously brush his arm off with an uncomfortable smile. Gideon would try again, this time opting for his hand instead. He would brush this off too, and typically Gideon would silently retreat back into himself, finding a friend of his to dance with, acting like everything is okay, the Gideon Prewitt way.
But this day, he can’t take it. “Hold my hand, Sirius,” he says simply, his hand outstretched, as though Sirius is a whiny child who refuses to hold his mother’s hand at the mall. Something akin to irritation flares up like a forest fire in him, and he attempts to tamp it down.
Sirius pretends not to hear what he said, swaying along to the notes of the violin on his own and cupping his ear as though straining himself to be able to hear. “What?”
Gideon takes his hand and places it in his. “Hold my hand, please.” He gently pulls him into his arms, gently swaying, and Sirius doesn’t move. Not an inch. He stands as stiff as a board, suddenly feeling very suffocated and nauseated. Every muscle in his body has been pulled taut, almost on instinct. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him, and very suddenly feels sick.
After a moment or two, he wordlessly shrugs off his arms and mumbles something about needing some air. Where he goes wrong though is assuming that Gideon would not follow him. Mere seconds later Sirius feels a hand grab him and halt him in his tracks.
He feels the ghost of a hand menacingly linger over the back of his neck, a presence like an old friend.
“Stop. Stop, Sirius.” his husband says. “I know you’re not sick. Stop lying to me, please.”
Sirius feels the forest fire rage up in him again. “I’m not lying. I’m about to hurl. Please let go of my hand.”
“Sirius, what do you think I am? Dumb?”
The question catches him off guard. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Answer the question.”
“It’s a rhetorical question. You answer it.”
“Why’ve you always gotta be so smart about everything?”
At this point, Sirius’ patience is at its limit. The hand grips the back of his neck. “I’m an English major. You knew who you were marrying when you married me.”
Gideon lets out a chuckle, dejected. “That’s the catch, though, isn’t it? I didn’t. I didn’t know what I was getting into when I married you. I don’t know what changed or what happened. Why you refuse to dance with me or why you play sick every time you have to so much come near me.”
Sirius swallows his tears. He can’t cry. Not now. “I don’t know why.” Lie. Or half one, at least. But Gideon can’t handle the truth. He knows that. “I don’t play sick. I don’t know what comes over me. I just can’t handle it when anyone gets close to me anymore. Please. Listen to me. I’m not playing sick—”
“Bullshit,” Gideon says, this time cold and disbelieving. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
Sirius stumbles back, ever so slightly. Gideon might as well have slapped him. He frantically searches his eyes for a moment, wishing he’d take it back—wishing he’d say he didn’t mean it, but he doesn’t. Gideon means it. He breathes, in and out. The hand at the back of his neck digs its nails into his skin. His wedding band suddenly feels cold. “You know what,” he says, grabbing his hand and tugging him towards the doors to the hall. “Let’s talk about this. Five minutes, c’mon. Our guests aren’t going to miss us for five minutes.”
“Let me go,” Gideon says, yanking his hand out of his. “I don’t want to talk about anything. We’re ending this discussion. There’s nothing to talk about.” He turns to walk away, swiping angry tears from his face.
Sirius barks out a laugh, high-pitched in disbelief. “So that’s it,” he shouts, his voice their dress-shoed footsteps angrily clacking against the tile and echoing off the walls, “you’re just going to walk away?” Gideon ignores him, already in his routine of fixing himself up again; cuff-links, then suit coat, then hair. “You can’t just do this, Gid.” Perhaps it's the old childhood nickname that stops him, dead in his tracks. “You can’t accuse me of three thousand different things and then not even hear me out. It’s not fair.”
Gideon’s voice comes out controlled and practiced. Like he’s speaking to a guest and not his husband. “Y’know what’s not fair? You shutting me out. Pushing me away. That's what’s not fair.”
“You’re not letting me let you in!” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration coursing through his veins. “I’m trying to tell you. I’m trying to explain to you. I have no clue why I feel this sick around you—”
“Oh, great.” Gideon says, a perfect-practiced smile all ready to go on his face. “All I needed was you to confirm it.” He walks away, fixing his tie. Perhaps ready to pretend to some more people.
Sirius looks after his retreating figure in shock, attempting to piece together what just happened. When he does, he feels a burst of anger go through him, raging and raw.
He takes off, angrily walking anywhere his feet will take him, and putting his hair up into a man bun, until he finds a lounge chair and plops down on it.
It takes a beat, maybe two of silence for him to realize the presence behind him. Golden-brown-haired and golden-eyed, stubbled, beautiful, and positively infuriating.
His night was about to get so much worse.
—
Remus watches in amusement as Sirius takes in his presence beside him. His face goes from shocked, to frustrated, to brooding in the span of two moments, all while not looking at him.
“Mad, are you?“ Remus tsks. “Not any good for you, y’know that?” The words from long ago echo between the two of them.
Sirius snaps his neck in his direction, stormy grey replaced with a muddled steel grey. Remus’ playful smirk drops, ever so slightly. He’d know that feeling in his eyes anywhere. Like the back of his own hand. He clears his throat and looks away. “Y‘know, I’m mad right now too. At my wife, actually.”
Sirius doesn’t say anything, and the silence between the two stretches for an agonizing amount of time. Finally, Sirius sighs, giving him a side-eye. “You don’t have to do this whole awkward therapy session thing. Quite frankly,” he says, slapping his thighs as he stands to get up, “I’m not interested.”
Remus’ brows crinkle. Therapy session? “The hell are you talking about?”
“This,” he says, waving his hand wildly between the two of them. Remus’ eye catches the wedding band on his hand moving slightly up his finger, leaving a slightly lighter brown patch of skin where it probably once was. “‘I’m mad.’ ‘Oh, jolly good, so am I! Let’s bond over it together.’ I’m not interested.”
Remus can’t help but let a chuckle escape him. “Jolly good?”
Sirius’ eyes narrow. “I’m mocking you. That’s what I think you sound like.”
Now Remus is just curious. “You think I… speak with a high-pitched posh British accent?”
“You do still have a bit of an accent.”
“Yeah, well it’s not posh, is it?” He’s adamant now.
“That bit’s just me calling you a snob.” He taps Remus’ legs to ask him to move over a bit. To Remus’ surprise, he does. Sirius plops down, pulls his legs in, and sits crisscrossed. Remus regards him for a second or two. Sirius burns with the anger of the gods, and where normally this would’ve made a person look scary, and erratic, it makes him look blazing and beautiful. Like the furious orange of the sun as it shines its last fighting rays of light before setting into the horizon. His eyes seem to be a direct contrast to this. The anger in them is ice cold. Enough to freeze a man in his tracks, like an ice-cold tundra. It is the only thing that keeps him grounded at that moment.
“Why’re they grey?” Remus asks, just for something to fill the silence.
“What?”
He points. “Your eyes. They’re grey. Never seen that before.”
“Oh,” he says, like he didn’t expect a question like that, “yeah, it's some rare thing. Have a younger brother, he has them too. Never really met anyone else with them.”
“Right.”
There’s a long stretch of silence. Neither knows what to say. “Being married is annoying.”
Sirius snorts. “That’s the first thing you thought of saying?”
“Well I don’t think you disagree.”
Sirius’ momentary smile dissipates, and somewhere deep-down Remus hates being the cause of its disappearance. “I don’t.”
Another beat of silence. Remus fidgets with the strap of his cane with his left hand and suddenly finds the ceiling very interesting.
“My wife purposely leaves wet towels on our bed the days after we fight just to piss me off.”
“My husband refuses to have a genuine talk about anything. He is a child in a man’s body.”
Remus’ lip twitches ever so slightly. “My wife is the world’s biggest known hypocrite.”
“My husband is a perfectionist. Painfully so.”
“Lovely. So is mine.”
“Wish they could just understand us, don’t you?” Remus spares him a glance. Sirius leans forward on his arm, cheek in his hand, propped up on his thigh. His onyx locks cascade to the side. His face is void of emotion. Tired, even.
Remus pauses for a second. “Yeah. But I guess I don’t really much either.” It’s the first time he’s ever spoken those words aloud. For years, without another person to understand him, he was content in his own little bubble, warding off the blame of any fault in their marriage to Tonks. But Sirius had set his whole world off the scale. Finally, for once, Remus didn’t feel alone in his marital issues; there was someone who understood him. Who related. Which is the only reason he decides to say, “I never really try all that much. I don’t know how.”
Sirius looks at him with an inquisitive tilt of his head, and regards him for a couple seconds before looking at the floor. “Oddly enough, I get it.” There’s a somber mirth to his voice, as though the state of their marriages is so sad it’s almost laughable.
“Well, that makes two of us, then.” This time when Remus smiles, he feels something akin to companionship. Like maybe, just maybe, the little light at the end of the tunnel isn’t a figment of his imagination. Maybe he will make it. Maybe it’ll be Sirius that he walks through it with, guiding each other to the happiness that supposedly awaits them in their marriages.
Maybe. Just maybe.