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Summary
After the end of the first war, Remus goes to New Orleans to forget.
Sirius turned his head, then, and fixed Remus with a look, cool and sharp and half-in-shadow. One corner of his mouth curled, and one eyebrow cocked, as if to say, I see you, Moony. Trying not to look.
It had taken until the end of sixth year before he could let himself think about why it was so hard to keep his eyes to himself. The back of Sirius's long graceful neck in detentions, the trail of black hairs down his stomach when his shirt lifted as he stretched. There was something mythical about him, chiseled and marble-white like an ancient statue; something remote in the same way too. Remus wanted to touch him—in the way one wants to touch a fine work of art. In the way one almost wants to rend it with his hands and eat it.
God, Remus had thought. Something else wrong with me. Something else I can never let anyone find out.