And Sirius had just looked at him. They were eating breakfast together, that they'd cooked separately (Sirius, toast; Remus, bangers-- neither of them knew who made the tea) and neither had said anything since they got up. Remus had woken first, and left Sirius where he was in bed, huddled as close to the wall and as far from Remus as he could manage. And Remus had left him there, hoping Sirius might stay there for the rest of the day.
"You haven't seen the paper," said Remus. It wasn't a question, because he hadn't let Sirius see it yet. It was a flat statement, but Remus wasn't sure what he was stating. He wasn't sure what he wanted Sirius to know.
His tea was too strong, and too milky, but he drank it anyway. Sirius didn't answer.
"But did you see Lily's letter, yesterday?" Remus asked, because that, he didn't know. The post had been sitting on the table when he'd gotten home the night before, and the seal on Lily's letter had been broken, but that no longer indicated anything. Once it might have meant that Sirius had read it, but now all it meant was that someone had. But there was no way of telling who that someone was, when Sirius wasn't speaking. When the words "private post" had no meaning.
Sirius crunched his toast. There was too much butter on it, Remus thought; they were supposed to be rationing. But ideas beginning in ration- had never really applied to Sirius.
"Peter wanted to get together tonight." Remus was looking at Sirius over the rim of his cup. Sirius' eyes were so dull they almost looked grey, but his face was flush and his hair un-brushed. It was a look that had become all too familiar to Remus, but he still didn't understand it: he didn't know if it was exhaustion or exertion, because Sirius wore it at all times. Sometimes he wondered if even Sirius understood it, what he was feeling.
"For old time's sake," Remus added. Sirius didn't even react. Remus put down his cup. Sirius had finished his toast and was staring at his plate. Remus knew his own breakfast was too cold to eat, so he wouldn't bother. He said, "I don't want you to go outside today."
Sirius looked at him. It was the first time he'd done it since they last slept together (slept, Remus thinks, because they weren't making love and they weren't fucking, and in a way he wasn't even sure they were having sex-- and in a way he didn't even remember), but the look in his eyes hadn't changed since then. Remus didn't think it had ever changed.
"Why?" Sirius asked. His voice was low and rough, as if he was afraid of straining it too much. As if he was afraid of actually having to say something. "Are you afraid of what I might do?"
Remus looked away. "No," he said. "I'm afraid of what someone else might do." But he was mostly afraid that Sirius might not have even been listening.