The brandy did it every time. It looked so innocuous reflecting light in its amber liquid but Remus knew better. Even a sniff was enough to send him reeling every time.

He swished it in its glass, the meniscus raising and lowering at the edges. He put it to his lips and took a sip. It had been a while and it burned all the way down. He closed his eyes and he remembered.

He remembered the first time they made love, in a room in the Leaky Cauldron. They were terrified; terrified of getting caught, of being awful, of coming too soon.

He remembered the sweltering August heat and the deafening silence lying around them like a blanket as Sirius entered him for the first time. He remembered bursts of pain and then blinding pleasure as Sirius touched him just there.

He remembered awkward rhythms and wishing desperately that Sirius would just come already because he didn't know how much more he could take of this, the pain and pleasure becoming far too much.

But more than this, he remembered the moment when they got it just right and staring into Sirius' too bright gray eyes, he knew with startling clarity that this was the man he loved and would always love more than any other.

Remus sighed as he set down the glass on the table beside him. That, he mused, was just the problem. He had always loved Sirius just a little too much.