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February 23rd, 2005 - Full Moon
Sirius wakes to hands.
Big hands, skating up his legs, grabbing at his thighs, slipping under his pyjama shorts to squeeze his arse. Hands that know him far too well; hands that he knows like the back of his.
He groans, still half-drowned in sleep, and tries to turn over, but he doesn’t get very far. The hands circle his hips and tighten their grip, hold him there against the mattress. Then, there’s a mouth – rough, scratchy with a few days’ worth of stubble – that places a soft, soft kiss on the small of his back, pulling a sound from deep inside his throat.
“Moony,” Sirius whines, voice thick and dragged up from sleep.
“Shhh,” Moony says against his skin, hot breath raising goosebumps that scatter and spread all over Sirius’ body.
Then fingers that hook into the elastic of Sirius’ pyjama shorts and pull them down slow slow slowly, followed by kisses worshiping his skin. Sirius smiles into the pillowcase and relaxes into the touch, going heavy, being held.
He knew that’s how this would go.
That’s how this always goes.
“I’m going to take a nap, so I’ll be well rested for tonight,” is what he said a couple of hours ago, after washing the lunch dishes and putting the food away. It’s what he always says, every full moon day, like routine.
And, like routine, Remus hummed back at him from the sofa. He didn’t look up to meet Sirius’ eyes. The quiet and the distance and the avoidance are all part of the routine too. That’s how Remus always gets in the mornings leading up to the full: progressively quieter, more distant, further away as the fullest of nights edges closer.
Sirius is used to it. He leans into it, plays into it. He knows that as the afternoon drags on and the sun sinks lower, the latent pull of the moon on his man grows stronger, pulsing under his skin, becoming impossible to ignore. In the mornings, Remus swallows it down and hides it under the carpet like badly swept dust, ashamed of it, hating it, not wanting it to be there. No matter how many times Sirius tells him it’s okay – that he likes it – Remus will always fight the wolf for as long as he can.
Until he can’t anymore – one of Sirius’ favourite parts of the cycle.
With the pyjama shorts shoved out of the way, the hands return; skating up his thighs again, scratching, squeezing his arse, thumbs pulling the cheeks apart and opening him up. It always takes a moment, a pause, a handful of shaky breaths while Sirius lies there and waits in anticipation. He often wonders what Remus is thinking as he stares, as he groans. And then as he touches, one tentative finger at first, like he’s studying the way Sirius’ hole tightens and quivers in response to the teasing around his rim. And then as he licks, buries his whole face into Sirius all at once, with no warning, no easing in, knocking the breath clean out of Sirius’ lungs.
Sirius grabs fistfulls of the pillowcase, of the sheets, of anything close enough to hold onto, and he moans, toes curling, back arching into the touch.
If there’s a word for Remus as the wolf takes over, it’s this: hungry. Starving, greedy, ravenous – and Sirius will lie here and be his meal for as many moons as Remus will have him. There had been so many already; young and old, in love and in distrust, in war and in peace. Together and apart.
Sirius doesn’t let himself think about those last ones anymore. There were too many of them, stretched out too long, and he’s beaten himself bloody over it already. Forgiving himself didn’t come easily at first, but it does now, with age and with time.
With the reminder that he’s still here, and that this matters too.
Remus inserts two spit slick fingers inside of him. Not one than the other – just two, both at once. Sirius keens and bites down hard on the pillow beneath him. The intrusion burns, and he loves it. At other times, other moons, Remus is careful. He’s hesitant, he’s thoughtful to the point of restraint. Not today – today he takes what he wants, what is his, and Sirius’ cock twitches and leaks against the mattress, staining the white sheets as he arches and gives and lets himself be held open.
Sirius wants to beg. Wants to say more and please and I want, I need, oh God, I’m ready, fuck me. The words are crowding his mouth, pressing against his teeth, at the tip of his tongue ready to come out–
But full moons, as he’s learnt, are not about the I’s or the me’s. They’re not about wanting or asking or demanding anything at all. They’re about giving up, submitting – much like Padfoot rolling onto his back, belly bare, and letting Moony sniff him, like he does without fail, after every transformation.
As the wolf takes over, what Remus needs is Sirius pliant and obedient and docile. He needs him open and vulnerable, laid out and willing, giving in to him without boundaries and without questions. He needs Sirius to lie there and take it and not say a single word about it.
So Sirius does. He takes a nap after lunch and he lies on his stomach, and he waits for the hands and the mouth, and the fingers and the tongue. For the cock that pushes into him and almost splits him open, at the same time too much and not enough. For the burn and the pleasure that blooms underneath it, growing slowly but spreading and spreading until it takes over everything else.
Until all there’s is Remus’ body over him, and the animal sounds that he makes as he fucks and fucks and takes what is his, however he wants it.
Sirius cries out and comes, writhing and shaking and slick with sweat, soiling the sheets – and Remus doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking him, relentless and unsated.
Sirius knows that the moon won’t be rising for a few hours yet.
February 24th, 2005 - Waning Gibbous
The late afternoon sun is shining faintly through the curtains when Remus finally wakes.
With the Wolfsbane potion, the transformations aren’t as gruesome as they used to be when they were younger, but they still take it out of him. His body still tears itself apart and stitches itself back together, twice in the same night. The potion doesn't spare him that.
Sirius watches him cross the living room, slippers scraping along the floor, a groove carved deep between his eyebrows, his mouth pushing forward, sullen.
“I made you tea. It’s under a stasis charm on the counter,” Sirius says – low, nearly a whisper.
Remus doesn’t look up. He goes to the counter, reaches for the teapot, pours himself a cup, then drinks and winces.
“Fucking stasis charm. Makes everything taste foul–” he mutters, rough and bitter, spitting the tea back into the cup before dumping it into the sink.
Sirius could take it personally. He did, every month, for years. And what that leads to, he learnt it the hard way, are long miserable arguments that circle and circle and never go anywhere. What that leads to is more distance, and more resentment, and less understanding.
If there's a word to define Remus as the wolf gives out, it's this: grumpy.
It sounds ridiculous, phrased like that. But Sirius is glad that now, after all those years, he understands it. That now he knows that the moon works on Remus the exact same way it works on the sea. The wolf inside of him moves like the tide. It swells, it crests on the full moon, and then it doesn’t just vanish when he transforms back. It pulls away slowly, waning day after day after day.
In the first days after the full, it's still there, still strong. Only now it’s surging through a body that’s sore and heavy and wrung-out. It leaves Remus irritable, short-tempered. Annoyed at everything. If it’s not the stasis charm, then it’s the taste of the tea, or the brightness of the lights. The heat, the cold, the wind, the sound of Sirius breathing.
After he learnt not to take it personally, Sirius spent a few years trying to fix it. Running himself ragged trying to make everything just right, walking on eggshells, smoothing corners, softening edges – anything to avoid setting Remus off.
Of course, that annoyed Remus even more, and it left Sirius feeling frustrated and unappreciated.
So, now, he doesn’t do that anymore.
Now, he just sits on the couch and reads his book. Waits for the energy to bleed off and dissipate at its own pace. It will only be a few more days.
“I’m sorry,” Remus drops down beside him eventually, reaching for Sirius's thigh. “I’m being an arse.”
Of course he does, because wolf or no wolf, moon or no moon, Remus is still Remus. Kind and soft and considerate.
Sirius places his hand on top of Remus’ and gives it a squeeze.
“It’s alright,” he says – because it is.
March 4th, 2005 - Waning Crescent
As the moon wanes, Remus’ eyes soften – so do all his edges.
At dinner, he watches Sirius like he’s something rare. Wide brown eyes, kind and open, following Sirius’ movements. His hands find excuses to touch him reverently at every chance he gets; fingers brushing, knuckles grazing. Sirius clears their plates and moves to the sink, and suddenly Remus is there too, arms sliding around Sirius’ waist from behind, a kiss pressing into the nape of his neck. Then another, and another. Remus hums, low and content, and his palm slides under Sirius’ shirt, broad and warm against Sirius’ stomach.
“Leave it,” He whispers the words into Sirius's skin. “I’ll do them later.”
Sirius smiles to himself, soaping a plate then rinsing it clean.
“You won’t. And then you’ll be all grumpy in the morning–”
“I won’t,” Remus whines, pulling Sirius closer, forcing him to turn around. “We can just charm them clean.”
“You hate cleaning charms,” Sirius points out.
Remus sighs as he reaches out to grab a tea towel, then gently takes Sirius’ hands and dries them carefully.
“Come to bed with me.”
Sirius opens his mouth to say it’s too early. To say that he still wants to finish washing up and make them both a cuppa, and then he wants to keep looking at those books, those ones he borrowed from Arthur Weasley about enhancing Muggle engines with magic. That after years under Hagrid’s care, his bike is not doing as great as it once was, and that he feels like he’s this close to figuring out what’s wrong with the flying charm. That he planned to focus on that tonight.
But.
When he looks up, Remus is looking at him that way only he can. Up through his lashes, even though he’s always been a couple of inches taller. Soft and pleading, like a stray dog – wolf, actually – left out in the rain.
Sirius knows what he needs, what he’s silently asking for.
Instead of answering, Sirius lets the tea towel drop and tangles his fingers through Remus’ hair, pulling him close into a kiss that is deep and unrestrained from the start. Remus melts immediately, hands clutching at Sirius, small sounds spilling from his throat as he presses closer, closer.
“Yeah, alright. Let’s go to bed,” Sirius whispers against his mouth, guiding Remus backwards, step by slow step, towards their bedroom without ever breaking their kiss.
It breaks only when they hit the edge of the bed and Remus falls back onto it, seated, looking up properly at Sirius. And those eyes. Merlin, those eyes. Sirius smiles down at him – all teeth and all hunger.
He can be prey when Remus needs him to be, but he knows how to be predator too.
He reaches down, pulls Remus’ soft jumper over his head and tosses it aside, then pushes Remus back gently, a palm flat against his chest, so he falls onto the mattress. A split second later, Sirius is all over him – devouring his mouth, hands pinning both of Remus’ wrists together above his head.
Remus moans and wraps his legs around Sirius’ body, and his eyes say more and please and now, but Sirius takes his time. Skates his hand down Remus’ arms, feeling him squirm when the touch gets close to his armpits. Kisses down his neck, takes an earlobe into his mouth, bites down his shoulder as his fingers trace a path down Remus’ chest, a path he knows by heart. Counting his ribs, making sure they’re still there.
Soon, the rest of Remus’ clothes are on the floor beside his jumper, and Sirius is on his knees between Remus’ legs. He takes him wholly into his mouth, one hand skating up his chest to tease at a nipple while the other finds its way down, one finger circling, teasing at Remus’ entrance.
Remus whines something that could be please, or could just be a choked-out moan, and Sirius pulls out slowly, Remus’ cock slipping from his mouth with a wet sound.
“Shhh,” he places small kisses along Remus's hip, his thigh. “I’ll take care of you. Always do, don’t I?”
Then it’s a whispered lube spell, and one finger that soon becomes two. Sirius watches Remus’ body respond, shuddering at the pleasure, straining and tensing and then melting loose. All those sounds, so desperate and unguarded, shoot through Sirius like electricity, making his own cock stir up. Watching Remus – always so guarded, always so composed – coming apart so vulnerably on his fingers – there’s nothing like it, it never gets old.
One of his favourite parts of this cycle.
If there’s one word for Remus as the moon shrinks in the sky, it’s this: clingy. Needy. Wanting. Pleading. And Sirius takes him, every time. Cares for him, holds him through it, would never let him go.
Remus props himself up on his elbows, watches what Sirius is doing with hazy, half-lidded eyes.
“I love you.”
He whispers it, half-moan, half-confession, then reaches down and cups Sirius’ cheek, then tangles his fingers in Sirius’ hair.
Sirius smiles up at him – he’s still hungry.
“Come for me, baby,” He says with a soft kiss on the inside of Remus’ thigh. “Come on my fingers.”
Sirius takes Remus back into his mouth, bobbing his head in time with the curl of his fingers, finding that spot inside Remus that makes his whole body tremble, makes his sounds climb higher and thinner.
Remus comes, holding Sirius' hair gently – like he wants to pull, but wouldn’t dare to – and Sirius swallows him down, every drop, every pulse.
After, Sirius climbs up the bed and gathers Remus into his arms. He’s boneless, breathing hard, face buried in the crook of Sirius’ neck as Sirius runs his fingers through his hair, presses a kiss to his temple. Remus makes a small, satisfied sound, almost a purr, and looks up at Sirius– Oh, those big brown eyes.
“You haven’t–” He starts to say, a bit slurry, reaching up Sirius’ thigh, but Sirius stops him.
“We have all night,” he whispers into Remus’ hair.
March 10th, 2005 - New Moon
Sirius knows it’s a new moon.
He knows it because he’s learnt the moon cycles by heart. Doesn’t even need to look at a calendar anymore, doesn’t need to count the days and memorise them to know what to expect. He used to do that, when they were younger. But as the years passed, and he lived cycle after cycle after cycle with Remus – as his friend, his pack, his lover, his mate – his body started beating to the same drum too.
Sirius knows it’s a new moon, because he’s learnt the moon cycles by heart – knows them in his skin, now. In his bones.
But even if he didn’t, he’d know just by looking at Remus.
He sits by the window, a book open in his lap, but his eyes never meet the page. Sirius has been watching him for a while now, and all he does is stare out at the morning sun hitting the overgrown plants in their garden, the light falling weak across his face, too pale to bring any warmth.
And the air around him – it looks blue.
Sirius remembers the first time he noticed it, they couldn’t have been more than thirteen. It felt confusing, trying to explain it to himself, but it’s true. It’s always there on the new moons, a blue hue circling Remus like his melancholy is something physical, spreading through the room. A fog that makes everything quieter and softer and blurred at the edges.
If there’s a word to describe Remus as the moon fades from the sky, it’s this: lacking. Absent. Like a part of him is missing. As much as Remus hates the wolf, when it’s completely gone, the gap it leaves is too big to fill.
At all the other phases, Sirius has learnt to sit back and let Remus be, but the new moon is always the worst. And this god forsaken year, the moon had the nerve to go new on Remus’ birthday, of all days.
No one should feel this sad on their birthday, especially not Moony.
“Hey,” Sirius crosses the room, sits on the arm of Remus’ chair and leans down to press a kiss to his forehead. “What are you reading there?”
Remus startles at the touch, then lets out a soft chuckle and closes the book without marking the page. “Oh, it's nothing, It's just–” he shakes his head, tilting up to look at Sirius. His eyes look tired, older than they should be. “How did the flying charm go? Did you fix it?”
Sirius sighs, combs Remus’ greying hair back and away from his eyes with his fingers. “I thought I had it, but… Going to take me a few more tries, I think.”
“I’m sorry,” Remus’ mouth does something that might be a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“It’s alright,” Sirius keeps his hand in Remus’ hair. “I’d rather spend my time with you today anyway.”
Remus snorts. “Please. I’m no good company.”
“Don’t.” Sirius’ voice comes out firmer than he meant to, so he softens it, brushes his knuckles along Remus’ cheekbone. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Remus deflects, looking away from Sirius – back out the window.
“You’re not a burden, Remus.”
“I didn’t say I was–”
“But you were thinking it.” Sirius slides off the arm of the chair and kneels in front of him, so Remus has to look at him. “I know you, I know what a day like this does to you, and I know all the awful things you tell yourself in there.”
Remus sighs, and his jaw tightens. “It’s just– I’m getting older and this–” He gestures vaguely at himself, “--isn’t going to get any easier. The transformations, the recovery time, my bloody joints… I’m forty-five today, and I feel so, so tired. What’s it going to be like in ten years? Twenty? You–” His voice catches. “You’ve been through hell and back, Sirius, and you survived all of it. Is it really fair to ask you to waste the rest of your good years looking after a bitter old werewolf who can’t even–”
“Stop.” Sirius takes both of Remus’ hands and holds them tight. “Just– Just stop. We’ve had this conversation before, yeah? So many times. You think I don’t know what I signed up for? After the war, after losing you and getting you back… you think I’m going to walk away just because you have some bad days?”
Remus looks down at their joined hands and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“They’re not just some bad days–”
“I don’t care.” The words come out fierce, if a little cracked. “I love you through all of them. Bad days, worse days. New moons and full moons, I’m in. For all of it, like I’ve always been–” Sirius squeezes Remus’ hands tighter. “Look at me, please.”
Remus lifts his eyes, meets Sirius’ gaze.
“You’re not a burden, Moony. You’re mine. And I’m not going anywhere.”
For a long moment, Remus just holds his gaze, jaw still tight. And then, something shifts in him. It’s subtle, but Sirius can always tell. His shoulders drop, and the hard line in his mouth softens. A twinkle is born in his eyes, and his hands squeeze Sirius’ back, gently.
Sirius stands, pulling Remus up with him. “Come on.”
“What–?”
“Just come here,” he nods towards the middle of the living room, already crossing to their old record player.
Sirius flips through their collection until he finds what he’s looking for. He places the record on the player and drops the needle, and the music starts playing. It’s slow at first, almost like the song itself is finding its feet.
He turns back to Remus, holding out his hand. “Dance with me.”
Remus blinks at him, still standing by his armchair. “You’re taking the piss.”
“I’m not,” Sirius grins. “Dance with me, Moony.”
“Sirius, I–” Remus stammers, but he’s almost smiling now. “We haven’t danced since– Merlin, I don’t even remember.”
“Since before–” Sirius pauses, shakes his head. “You know why I chose this song.”
Bowie is singing now.
He says ‘News had just come over, we had five years left to cry in’.
“Because it’s what we danced to, out on the terrace, on your twenty-first,” Remus says quietly.
Sirius nods. “And I was so afraid of losing you. Bowie kept singing about having five years, and I think I knew in my heart we wouldn’t even have that. But– But I got you back, and we’ve had so much more time since then. We still have so much more time. So–” He reaches out, takes Remus’ hand and pulls him close, both arms wrapping around his shoulders. “Dance with me.”
Remus breathes out, something shaky like relief, and lets himself be held. He hugs Sirius by the waist, rests his forehead against the top of Sirius’ head, and they sway. Barely moving, just rocking gently in place as Bowie sings about boys, toys, electric irons and TV’s, and Sirius thinks back to the last time they stood like this – so many years ago, so many losses ago. When they were young and whole and terrified of the future, but couldn’t have imagined, even in their worst nightmares, just how brutal it would be. The song builds, it gets faster, louder; David Bowie screams the lyrics – but they just keep swaying in place, dancing to their own beat.
‘Your face, your race, the way that you talk. I kiss you, you’re beautiful, I want you to walk,’ Bowie sings, and Sirius thinks about them, now. About growing old together, and what a gift it is, when so many people – better people, more deserving people – never made it this far.
He lifts his head from where it’s been resting on Remus’ chest and looks up at him – and he could swear to know that Remus is thinking just the same.
Remus brings one hand up to Sirius’ face, cupping his cheek. Then, he slowly leans down and kisses him on the mouth, soft and chaste and so so sweet.
“I love you so much,” he whispers, hot breath against Sirius’ face. “I’m sorry for–”
Sirius doesn’t let him finish. Shakes his head and whispers back. “You love me so much, let’s leave it at that.”
Remus huffs out a breath, his mouth curving up at the edges, but doesn’t push it.
The song fades in the background until the needle lifts, leaving them still swaying together in the quiet. Sirius notices, suddenly, that around them, that blue haze has thinned. It’s not gone, but it looks lighter now, like morning fog beginning to burn off.
“Harry said he’d come round with Ginny and the baby for dinner today, for my birthday,” Remus says quietly, still holding Sirius close. “And I should be happy about that– I am happy about that– but–”
“Don’t worry,” Sirius cuts him off gently, waits for Remus to meet his eyes. “I told them to come at the weekend instead.”
Remus blinks. He finally stops swaying, but keeps holding Sirius close. “You did?”
“Yeah. Sent them an owl this morning, said you weren’t feeling well and that we should do Sunday lunch instead,” Sirius shrugs, reaching out to touch Remus’ hair. “You’ll be feeling better by then. Ginny sent back about a thousand well-wishes and Harry said to tell you happy birthday, and not to worry about it.”
Remus looks relieved. “How did you know?”
“I always know,” Sirius winks up at him. “It’s just us today.”
Remus closes his eyes and leans into Sirius’ touch. “So, can we just… stay here for a bit? Like this?”
Sirius lays his head against Remus’ chest again, holding him close, listening to his heartbeat. “We can stay here as long as you want.”
March 13th, 2005 - Waxing Crescent
By Sunday, Remus really is feeling better.
Sirius wakes to cool, empty sheets beside him, a familiar absence as the moon waxes and Remus starts regaining his energy. He barely even sleeps late at this stage. Sirius goes to the loo, makes himself a cuppa, and Remus is still nowhere to be seen. It’s only about twenty minutes later, when Sirius is sitting at the kitchen table with the Daily Prophet in hand, that Remus appears in the doorway.
He’s fully dressed in Muggle denim, garden sheers in hand.
“Oh good, you’re finally up,” he says, and plants a kiss on Sirius’ cheek, sweat-damp and enthusiastic. Then he keeps moving, tidying up the kitchen. “I’ve already trimmed the hedges, but we’ve got to do a grocery run and fix the wobbly leg on the dining room table before Harry and Ginny get here.”
Sirius makes a face and wipes his cheek with the back of his hand.
“Morning to you too,” he mutters, putting his paper down.
“Oh and this tap–” Remus gestures at the sink while filling a glass. “It’s been dripping for weeks, I keep meaning to sort it.” He gulps the water down in one go, throat working. Then, still catching his breath, he continues. “And I want to clean out the spare room properly, it’s full of rubbish and Ginny will certainly need somewhere to put little Jamie down for a nap.”
“Sure, love.”
“Also–” Remus puts his empty glass down, words tumbling over themselves. “I’ve been thinking. We should definitely repaint the hallway. It’s looking shabby. What d’you think? Maybe a nice sage green? Or something quieter, if you'd rather–”
“Moony,” Sirius can’t help but grin. “It’s nine in the morning. We’d need a Time-Turner to manage getting groceries, cooking lunch, clearing out the spare bedroom, fixing the garden – and the kitchen tap, and the dining table – and painting the hallway before Harry and Ginny get here. Unless you’ve got one…”
“Well,” Remus runs a hand through his hair, looking almost sheepish as he appears to slow down for a second. The flush on his cheeks spreads. “We don't have to do everything today. I just– I started thinking about it, and made a list. Well, three lists, actually.” He grabs a couple pieces of parchment that Sirius hadn’t even noticed were sitting on the kitchen counter, and holds them up like evidence. “One’s for the groceries, another for repairs, and one for–”
“Of course you did.”
“Don’t laugh at me!” Remus swats him with his precious lists, but he’s smiling, pink cheeked and alive and here.
“Alright, alright,” Sirius stands, crosses the small distance between them. “Show me these lists then.”
“Right,” Remus smooths the parchment out, eager. “First, we’ve got to go to the grocers. I’d like to go while it’s still early, it’s less crowded. I want to make that roast recipe Molly taught me – you know the one, with the rosemary and the potatoes?” Sirius eyes skim the list where Remus’ finger is pointing: lamb, rosemary sprigs, red potatoes, carrots… “Oh, and I also added custard because I wanted to do a trifle. Do you think we have time for a trifle?”
Sirius sighs and looks up from the careful handwriting. He takes in the colour returned to Remus’ face, the way he stands taller now, finally inhabiting his body again after days of merely haunting it. There’s light in his eyes, and relief washes through Sirius like it’s a physical thing, warming up his whole body. The new moon can be crueler than the full, sometimes. He’s watched Remus disappear in self-hatred and resurface more times than he can count, but the fear he feels never dulls – neither does the gratitude once it’s over.
“We have time for whatever you want," he says softly, and leans in to kiss the corner of Remus's mouth.
He tastes salt and sweat and the particular sweetness of having him back, once more.
March 22nd, 2005 - Waxing Gibbous
Remus sits in his armchair, eyes fixed on the book in his lap. His shoulders are tense, his jaw is tight, his mouth is set on a straight line. It’s like he’s straining his body even by being still.
The quiet had returned a few days ago. This is not the blue melancholy of the new moon, it’s quite different. It’s forced containment, it’s restraint. It’s the wolf rising again, swelling beneath Remus’ skin, and Remus doing his best to keep it locked away and hidden tight, for as long as he can.
He’s a dam holding back a flood.
“I’m going to take a nap,” Sirius says, stretching.
Remus doesn’t look up, he just hums in agreement, his eyes never leaving the page.
In the bedroom, Sirius strips off his work clothes, his jeans stained with oil from the bike, shirt smelling like grease and sweat. He tosses them in the hamper and pulls on his pajama bottoms, then climbs into the bed. It’s bright outside, afternoon light filtering through the curtains; still, he closes his eyes and falls asleep almost instantly.
And then–
Sirius wakes to hands.