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When Remus walks into the apartment, instantly he can tell something is off. All of the lights are off expect for the one coming from the hallway, and the whole apartment kind of smells like burnt cheese and salt. He tries to imagine what Sirius could have possibly been doing to create such a smell but ultimately can’t (and doesn’t want to), so he moves on through the living room, through the mess of blankets and sweatshirts and half eaten soup towards the bedroom.
“Sirius?” he calls out.
There’s a groan, and ugly, deep, guttural groan, followed by a higher pitched whine, and Remus wonders why he even answered Sirius’ texts in the first place. He almost doesn’t want to go into the bedroom, but he figures, he’s here, and Sirius knows he’s here, so he can’t really dip out. And besides, what kind of boyfriend is he if he dips out?
There’s no light on in the room, but Remus can see from the pale light pouring in from the hall that Sirius is buried somewhere beneath too many blankets. He can see the tip of one of his toes and the top of his head poking out but everything else is hidden away underneath faux fur and fleece.
“Padfoot,” Remus says. It’s more serious this time around. He’s genuinely concerned at this point.
Another groan, and all he does is peek up a little, but now Remus can see Sirius’ eyes, so at least it’s an improvement.
“Are you alright?”
“Sick,” Sirius grumbles.
“Why so many blankets? And why are there sweatshirts all out in the living room?”
“Fever,” Sirius responds. His voice is low and scratchier than usual.
“Okay, but why so many?”
“I have a fever. Pay attention.” Remus walks over to the bed and flicks on the night light. Sirius hisses. Like, actually hisses like some kind of vampire or something. Yeah. Remus really regrets not dipping out. He plucks each blanket off of Sirius until he’s got just one left to cover him. “Nooo,” he whines. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to give you a bath. You smell like death and laying in your own sweat isn’t healthy. You’ll feel better.” When he reaches for the last blanket, Sirius swats his hands away and grips each of the corners with all of his appendages, somehow. “What?” Remus asks.
“Nooo,” Sirius says again. “I’m naked.”
“I’ve seen you naked before,” Remus reminds him. Sirius just shakes his head. “I don’t know if you’re disagreeing or just being silly but I know you’re definitely wrong.”
“S’cold,” Sirius says.
“That’s why I’m about to bathe you. C’mon. I’ll even carry your gross little snotty ass to the bathroom.”
“M’not that snotty. And I’m not that gross. I have the Flu, not Yellow Fever. But yes. Carry me, you fucking buffoon.”
Remus glances to the bedside table, eyes the NyQuil. “It’s the medicine talking,” he murmurs to himself, knowing very well it is not. Regardless, he scoops Sirius up, blanket and all (ignoring the sluggish murmur of strong. So strong. When did you get so strong, Moony? ) and takes him to the bathroom. He sets Sirius on the counter and runs the bath until it’s warm. It fills up soon enough.
“Go on,” he says, “or did you want me to put you in the tub too?” He’s joking, but he will if he needs to. Sirius just sniffs and slides of the counter. He shivers when he lets his blanket drop, the cool air hitting his heated, clammy skin, flushed red and sticky. And for a moment he just stands there, naked, with his arms by his sides like some teenage girl waiting to be ravished in a silly coming of age movie, except more snotty and masculine and less sexual and hot (although, Remus will admit, even as sick as a dog, Sirius Black never fails to be pretty).
Sirius dips a toe in the water, sighing reverently, like that one little hint of warmth is enough to warm him for an eternity. Remus can’t help but smile.
“Is it alright?” he asks, but Sirius climbing in and sliding down until the tip of his nose touches the water is proof enough that it is. He hums anyway, nodding, hair falling into the water, which Remus tsks at. “Padfoot, you’re going to get even sicker if you get your hair all wet. You’re already sick as a dog.”
Sirius pauses. Looks at Remus, his eyes narrowed. “Was that-- was that a fucking joke.” It’s not a question. Remus bites his tongue to stop from laughing, realizing his mistake. He regains composure quickly, shaking his head.
“It’s an expression, Sirius. Now, let me put it up and wash you, hmm?”
Once Sirius’ hair is up in a bun, Remus pours a liberal amount of soap in his hands and goes about washing Sirius clean. He starts with his back, rubbing his thumbs into the tense muscle of Sirius’ shoulders, down his arms, his armpits, chest. Sirius hums contently when Remus fills up a cup and washes the soap off.
“You’ll have to get down there. I’m your boyfriend, but I’m not doing that.”
“Moony,” Sirius says. It’s tired and sluggish, nearly a slur but not quite there yet. He’s looking at Remus like he’s what makes the sun rise in the morning. Remus hums at him. He’s not expecting it when Sirius reaches out a hand and cups his cheek, still wet, so it drips on Remus’ trousers, but he can’t be mad when Sirius is looking at him like that. “You’re so pretty, Moony,” he says, absolutely delusional from too much NyQuil and no sleep, tracing his thumb over the scar just under Remus’ lip, and he would feel self conscious if it weren’t for the fact that Sirius looks at him with so much admiration there’s no mistaking it for anything else. “So pretty,” he whispers, like he’s trying to understand how it’s even possible.
Usually, Remus would shake his head and say something self-deprecating that Sirius would be mad at him about, but he can’t. Not right now. It’s not possible. So he just smiles. Sirius smiles back.
“You’re loopy, puppy. Hurry on now and wash up, so I can get you back in bed.”
When he steps out of the bath, he drips all over the bath mat because he’s too impatient to wait for Remus to get his towel. Remus dries his hair with a hair-dryer (“A hair-what?” Sirius asks incredulously, poking at the device with a single digit. “Muggle things, Sirius. Clearly you know what this is because you have it in your bathroom.” “I thought it was an air-blower. To blow away dust and stuff.” “An air-blower?”), making him waddle out into the bedroom so he can find him some clothing and dress him. Sirius watches tiredly as Remus changes too, and normally he would call him out for being greasy but he’s had a tiring day and all he wants to do is curl up next Sirius and kiss him silly, regardless of the consequences.
In fact, he does slip into bed next to Sirius, underneath all of the blankets which he knows will make him too hot, especially with an overheated Sirius next to him.
“What are you doing, Remus?” Sirius asks. His eyes are just slightly open, the cool washcloth that Remus had wet for him sagging down on his forehead; Remus reaches up and fixes it.
“I want to lay with you, is that so bad?” Remus asks.
“But I’m ill,” Sirius tells him.
“Trust me, puppy, I know.” Sirius open his mouth again to speak but Remus stops him, kissing him softly. The angle is awkward and Sirius kind of tastes like saltines and cough syrup but Remus can’t lie and say it isn’t enjoyable.
“Moony,” Sirius says, deadly serious, eyebrows furrowed and everything. “I’ll get you ill. I don’t want to give you the Flu.”
“So be it,” Remus says. He doesn’t want to get sick, per se, but he does want to kiss Sirius again, so if he has to get sick from it, he’s willing.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Sirius tells him, but kisses him again anyways.
(And in the morning, when Remus wakes up in a cold sweat sneezing and coughing, Sirius is looking at him with a face that screams I told you so, idiot. Remus can’t help but agree, but if this means he gets to stay the whole day with Sirius, being miserable, it’s all well worth it).