Midnight. The chimes of the clock tower can just be heard from a street only a quarter mile away, where an ornate bench sits below a dull orange streetlamp, opposite the delivery entrance of a small delicatessen. It is here that two men meet – walking casually towards each other to converge in a firm handshake before sinking simultaneously onto the bench, one allowing himself a small sigh as he leans back and closes his eyes.
“Remus?” the other asks, extending a hand clasped around a bottle of Firewhiskey.
The man named Remus opens his eyes and grunts, leaning forwards again to take the bottle and swig heavily from it. He passes it back and looks out over the rooftops visible from their vantage point over the city. It is a night like any other. He feels the nudge of the bottle against his arm again, and the two men continue to shuffle the alcohol between them as they both watch the lights sprawled below.
There is an effortless silence that settles around them as they sit together, simply enjoying the sensation of company and familiarity. They are so very used to each other that neither of them notices (or mentions, at least) that one of them is taking longer drafts of whiskey than the other, or one is sporting a new scar from a recent struggle.
Years of knowing each other and months of this same routine allow the two friends to know without asking that neither of them is brimming with good news, nor at the point of breakdown. All they are is together, because that is all that they need this time.
There have been plenty of occasions before when the need was direr. It has been months since the last time, but neither of them has forgotten, because neither wishes to forget the places they have been together, and what they have fought through. As if sharing this very thought between them, their eyes meet quite naturally, and both smile.
“Did you see your godson today, Sirius? I was informed only a few days ago that he’s already showing interest in wands, and is getting into all sorts of trouble with them,” Remus remarks, a glint of humour in his eye.
The comment is met with a bark of laughter before Sirius nods, his face transformed by a grin. “He’s a true Marauder in the making, I tell you.”
“I don’t doubt it for a second,” Remus agrees, smiling and tipping the Firewhiskey to his lips again.
“And what about you? A busy day today?” inquires Sirius, turning his head to face his friend.
Suddenly, Remus is distant. He doesn’t reply, but lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a longer draft this time. Sirius drops his head, knowing that it is always best to wait before forcing an answer out of Remus.
This is how it has always been between them, for as long as either can remember. They share things that no-one else knows or would even care to ask: quirks, dreams, struggles and fears. For both of them, this is what makes their friendships completely unique, and very simple. They can talk about anything, and it is not uncomfortable; they can talk about nothing, and it is not useless.
At the very beginning, it had been Sirius who had needed somebody, and Remus that had provided himself as that person. Sirius’ problems were more overt, and therefore more immediately dealt with. His family, in particular, had been a constant source of anguish over the years until he had finally exploded into action and fled their company; taking only what he had acquired himself and leaving all reminders of his roots behind. Remus had been there through the nights when Sirius attempted to hide his cares from his three closest friends, and had slowly shown him that he could trust again, despite all the past lessons that had taught him not to.
They fought, too, as they were both too stubborn to bend to the will of the other, and refused to believe in anything but what they thought themselves. It was a battle, in many ways, to make it through those times, but neither of them had let go. They both understood their shared need for the other – the need that assured they never broke apart throughout all the years.
It had only been in more recent years that Remus – so prone to hiding his own problems away from those who might care – had finally begun to let Sirius care for him. Yet it was perfectly natural, and everything seemed to fall into place as they reversed roles from week to week and month to month, until they reached a time when both knew the other so well that no more words were needed.
And then they had been pulled apart – the War taking them to places on opposite ends of the country, forcing them into disguise and making midnight the only safe time of the day. It was difficult for both to ignore the ache of where the other had been. Yet through it all, they had held on to each other, keeping themselves alive with the knowledge that they were not alone, and somehow, they would close the distance between themselves sooner or later.
So when their work against Lord Voldemort had brought them to the same city, both had been overjoyed. They themselves were changed by the hardships around them, but their friendship has stayed intact, and some of that childhood buoyancy had been brought back in their moment of reunion. They had clasped each other to their chests, savouring the knowledge that they could remain together in London from now on, after the long months of separation.
And so they continued as they had done, splitting off to fulfil their positions in the Order, but never straying far enough to prevent their reunion at midnight, on a small street with just one lamppost over one bench.
Their minds full of the colours of the past, Sirius and Remus pass the Firewhiskey between them a few times before realising it has been drained, and setting it aside on the pavement. Their silence is accompanied by token sighs; punctuated occasionally with snatches of conversation – some mindless, and some serious.
Finally, the clock tower chimes three times, and they both slowly rise from the bench and stare in opposite directions, over the other’s shoulder, to where they know they must return. A beat of regret pulses between them as they realise it will be another day before they meet up again, but it is soon neutralised by the sense of the habitual, and the thought of the next night.
They part with an embrace that speaks of the past – of laughter echoing through years of troubles forced upon them. It is a reminiscence, or a longing, for a time just a decade before, when they would not have understood difficulty at all. They close the space between them with shared memories, and the knowledge of where they have been.
But it’s an embrace that also promises a future; a reassurance that they will both be here tomorrow, and night after, and the night after that. It is a vow that there will be days, weeks, months and years beyond this.
And as the two men hold onto each other, they know that they are holding onto that self-same promise – of companionship, of constant solace, and of growing old.