Author's Notes: Please give me some feedback on what you think of this one.† Itís far more Ė domestic than almost anything else Iíve ever written, but Iím rather proud of it.† This was written for Rhysenn in exchange for a delicious PoA screencap.


By Darkangel Rose


They made the agreement early on: Sirius cooks and Remus washes up.

Mountains of dirty dishes, some Caribbean spice spilt orange-red on a white tile floor.† Sirius is the creative one: his hands are always moving, doing, adding, making.† He spills ingredients and breaks cups and spoons but his smile is crazyhappy, so ready to laugh.

Remus always loves the dishes: scallops in lemon and garlic, pepper chicken with some red soup Sirius invented, duck cooked in brandy with plums on the side that stain Siriusí lips a sadistic maroon.

Remus clears away the chaotic dishes while Sirius lounges in his seat, concentrating on digesting.

Remus loves the feeling of soap and burning-hot tap water on his hands, the satisfaction of seeing the endless masses of glass and silver and thin porcelain becoming clean and sparkling.† Perfect, pure, clean, stainless, empty.† His hands are always numb from the water, always washing slowly and surely, because he knows that in time they will be flawless.† He is not smiling, just tranquil.

Sirius tries to distract him sometimes.† A kiss on the curve of his neck, arms around his waist, press up against him from the back and sway to the music that always plays in Siriusí head.† Remus keeps washing.

A nip on the earlobe, then, and the blood rushes to Remusí face as if on cue.† He shudders, blushes, but stays resolute.† Sirius has come to expect this.† He knows Remus too well.† His hands are always moving, always teasing up the front of Remusí shirt to whisper across scarred skin and sweat.† Remus canít help but rock back, Sirius knows it: he knows to grind his hips against Remus and to slip his left hand just then down the front of Remusí trousers.† Always the left, never the right: Siriusí right-hand nails are longer from guitar and he knows that Remus is sensitive to pain.

Sirius is the creative one.† He storkes slow, easy, creates a bud of desire in the pit of Remusí stomach that blossoms brighter and brighter untilÖ

A gasp, then silence.† The mouthed whisper of Siriusí name.† The black-haired one was surprised the first time: Remus is always so quiet when he comes, so still.

Sirius leans them forward, his hands are beneath the scalding water for a second and then they are clean.† He returns to his seat to lounge, gazing lovingly at the back of Remusí head.

Remus washes glass cups, tiny delicate silver spoons.† Perfect, pure, clean, stainless, empty.

And, perhaps, he is smiling just a little.

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