Hot As An Oven
by Victoria P.

"And then on Harry's birthday (which the Dursleys had completely ignored) he had received four superb birthday cakes, one each from Ron, Hermione, Hagrid, and Sirius." - Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, page 28 (US hardback)

When Remus opens the door, Sirius is standing there as though he isn't the most wanted man in England. His hair is still a mess, and he's still wearing that atrocious beard, but his eyes are bright and his hands tanned.


"Hello," Remus replies, attempting to appear unfazed. "I thought you were supposed to be in Tahiti."

"Bermuda, actually. Can I come in or are you just going to stand there blinking at me?"

"Oh, of course." Remus steps aside and Sirius brushes past him into the flat. He doesn't smell like a sewer anymore either, but like sun and sand and freedom. Remus is annoyed at his body's response to the fleeting touch of Sirius's body against it. He closes the door, locks it and then turns and leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Sirius grins wide, teeth white amidst the dark mass of his beard. "Harry's birthday is tomorrow."


"I wanted to bake him a cake, but I don't know how."

Remus blinks again and starts laughing. "You flew all the way back from Tahiti--"


"--Bermuda, risking dementors and God knows what else, to bake a cake?"

Sirius grins sheepishly. "Um, yes?"

"You couldn't have bought a cake at a bake shop? Or stolen one, if you've no money?"

"Professor Lupin! Stealing is immoral and wrong," Sirius says, attempting to sound stern and failing because he's begun to laugh.

"That never stopped you before." Remus smiles as he says it. It feels good to smile, to laugh like this, with Sirius. As if the past thirteen years have been a bad dream from which he's just now waking.

Sirius paces the hallway, which feels even smaller than it actually is, because Sirius is too big, too energetic, to be contained in a small space. He always has been, and even Azkaban has not changed that.

"I have my reasons," he says, abruptly, and though his eyes dim a little, the smile lingers.

Remus nods. "Of course you do.

"Can you help me?"

"Molly Weasley would have been a better choice--" Sirius frowns at him. "Or not." He's the only one, aside from Dumbledore and the children, who knows the whole truth; he's the only safe haven for Sirius, outside of Dumbledore's office. That's the only reason Sirius has come to him on this mad adventure. Nothing more. If he keeps repeating it, perhaps his heart will stop racing.

"I can try, but I'll have to go to the grocery. I don't generally keep cake mix on hand. Why don't you have a shave while I'm gone?"

Sirius strokes his chin, looking hurt. "You don't like the beard?"

"You look like Hagrid," Remus answers, working very hard to keep a straight face.


"Yes." The pause stretches into awkwardness, and Remus is reminded of how much time has passed, how long it's been since they were comfortable with each other, that the past isn't a horrible dream, but a tragic reality. "Well, then. The bathroom is the first door on the right. I'll be back shortly."

When he returns, after a hurried dash through the local Muggle grocery for cake mix and frosting, he finds Buckbeak ensconced in his living room and Sirius sitting at the kitchen table, staring at eggs, flour, butter and sugar arrayed before him, as if he were playing an edible game of chess. One of Remus's mother's old cookbooks is splayed open to a page stained with the residue of cakes baked long ago.

Sirius is clean-shaven, his jaw and cheeks pale compared with the rest of him, and his hair is clipped shorter than Remus ever remembers seeing it. It suits the sharp planes and angles of his face. Even gaunt and emaciated, there is a stark beauty to Sirius.

Remus realizes he's been staring, so he clears his throat and Sirius jumps.

"Oh. Remus. It's you."

"And who else would it be?" he asks with a smile that's only slightly nervous, removing the box of cake mix, the tub of frosting and the bottle of vegetable oil from the paper sack.

Sirius snorts. "What is that?"

"Cake mix."

"We're not giving Harry a cake out of a box."

Remus leans over Sirius's shoulder to look at the recipe he's chosen, trying to ignore the scent of his own soap and shaving cream on Sirius's skin. Seven-layer chocolate cake. Ah yes, his mother had used to make it for his birthday when he was younger. It was an all-day affair, but then, his mother hadn't liked using magic when she baked.

"Sirius, you used to burn water, and the apex of my cooking skills is a decent spaghetti and meatballs, when I'm lucky. I don't think we can manage a seven-layer cake from scratch. Not even with magic," he says when Sirius opens his mouth to argue.

"But Moony--"

It's all Remus can do not to give in when Sirius tries to wheedle him. He thought he'd never hear it again -- the nickname in that cajoling voice -- and it's so amazing that Sirius is here, that he's free, and innocent, that Remus wants to give him whatever he asks for.

"Do you know how to use a mixer?" he asks abruptly, more for his own benefit than for Sirius's. If there's one thing he's learned in the past thirteen years, it's that it is unwise to get one's hopes up. Even if his best hope, his least expected and most secret wish, has been granted. Perhaps especially because of that.


"Or a double boiler?"

"What?" The baffled look on Sirius's face is priceless.

Remus reaches out and snaps the cookbook shut.

"Betty Crocker was good enough for Lily. It's good enough for you."

"Us," Sirius says as if it's a foregone conclusion, that they are an 'us.' Remus has to swallow hard, his chest tightening.

With a wave of his wand, Remus banishes everything they don't need back to the appropriate cabinets and pulls out a large mixing bowl and an old rotary beater, as well as two round, shallow cake pans.

Sirius leans back in his chair, arms folded over his chest, and watches, bemused. Remus notices he's wearing Muggle clothes -- a familiar white t-shirt shirt that's been washed almost to transparency, and faded jeans with holes at the knees and fraying cuffs. His feet are bare, and tanned.

Sirius doesn't meet his eyes when he says, "Hope you don't mind I borrowed some clothes. They don't wear much in paradise, and my robes are decidedly... ragged."

"My clothes are your clothes," Remus replies, saddened by the fact that Sirius feels the need to ask, and also that Sirius actually fits into his clothes with room to spare.

Before the silence can become awkward again, Remus pushes the cake pans toward Sirius. "Here," he says. "Grease and flour them."

"Grease and--" Sirius frowns in puzzlement, and Remus considers the odds of that look becoming permanent, given how often Sirius has worn it in the past ten minutes alone. "What?"

"And you were going to bake my mother's famous seven-layer cake?" Remus says dryly, raising an eyebrow. "Take the butter and rub it around there until the pan's slick," Sirius's brows shoot up, "then sprinkle it with flour, so the cake won't stick."

Sirius, instead of using a knife like a normal person would, picks up the stick of butter and begins greasing the first pan.

Remus busies himself with beating the eggs and tries not to watch the way Sirius's long fingers curl around the softening butter. He tries not to imagine them against his skin, sliding easily up and down his--

"Bit messy, isn't it?" Sirius says, interrupting his fantasy.

Remus's voice is husky when he says, "Most people use a knife or fork."


Sirius finishes greasing the pans and stands, moving closer to Remus. Remus's hands shake slightly when he pours the oil into the bowl. He hopes Sirius doesn't notice. It's been years. He's over this. Damn the man for having this effect on him, even after all this time.

Sirius shadows his every move around the kitchen, grinning.

"Git," Remus says affectionately. "You're in my way." But Sirius doesn't back off, and Remus doesn't really want him to.

Remus pours the batter into the pans and slides them into the oven, setting the timer. Then he turns back to the bowl, the sides of which are still covered in cake mix. He raises the spatula to his mouth.

"The best thing about baking," he says, grinning, "is licking the bowl clean." And then he runs his tongue along the chocolate-coated plastic, enjoying the sweet, creamy taste of the batter. Sirius's gaze is focused on his mouth, and Remus feels the heat of it throughout his body. "What?" he asks, feeling self-conscious.

"You have a little on your cheek," Sirius answers roughly. He dabs at Remus's face with his thumb, then puts it in his mouth, cheeks hollowing as he sucks the chocolate off.

Remus stops breathing and can only stare at him, this broken, beautiful man standing barefoot in his kitchen.

Sirius removes his thumb from his mouth with a soft wet sound, and says uncertainly, "Remus?"

Remus takes Sirius's hand, and is glad to realize he's not the only one trembling as he raises it to his own mouth.

"You missed a spot," he says hoarsely, and licks at the callused skin, tasting salt and chocolate, butter and soap. Tasting Sirius.

He hears Sirius gasp, and then they are kissing, wet, sloppy and awkward, as if they have never kissed before. Their noses bump and their teeth clash, and they stumble against each other and into the table.

Remus leans against the sturdy wood, glad for the support, and pulls back, gasping, laughing. He feels as though the air in his lungs has been replaced by fine champagne, bubbly and light and dizzying.

"Remus?" Sirius asks again, eyes intent on Remus's face.

"Sirius," he answers. "Yes."

The kiss is slower this time, deeper and less clumsy. He explores Sirius's mouth with his tongue, shivers at the feel of Sirius's tongue sliding against his. He breathes Sirius in, headier even than the finest champagne, his hands cupping Sirius's face gently, relearning the arch of his brow and the curve of his cheek, the fine, strong bones even Azkaban could not wither.

Sirius breaks the kiss, sliding his lips up Remus's jaw and Remus clutches at him.

"Remus," Sirius gasps in his ear.

"Please," Remus says, turning to press their foreheads together. "Let me know when I should stop."

"Never," Sirius breathes against Remus's lips. "Never stop."

Sirius kisses him, lips soft and warm, hands sliding along his shoulders and neck, then down his chest to unbutton his shirt. Remus draws a shuddering breath at the feel of Sirius's fingers against his bare skin, thinks his heart may burst from this simple touch. He could die here, happily, just kissing Sirius. He doesn't know how much time passes, doesn't care, drowning in the taste and feel of Sirius.

He nibbles at Sirius's lips, at his jaw, kisses his way down over the strong column of Sirius's neck, nipping lightly at the fluttering pulse, licking the sweat from the hollow of his throat. Sirius grunts, his breathing ragged, his hands pushing Remus's shirt off.

"Wait," Remus says, and again, "wait."

"Don't want to," Sirius answers, and Remus laughs.

"Just let me--" Sirius's mouth covers his, cutting him off. He twists, shrugging the shirt off without breaking the kiss.

"Ah," Sirius says when they come up for breath, pulling his t-shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. "You have a plan."

"Something like that," he answers wryly, undoing the buttons on Sirius's jeans and shoving them down. Sirius steps out of them and kicks them under the table. He is thin, but no longer as skeletal as he was that night in the Shack. And, Remus notes with amusement, he has no tan lines. "They really don't wear much in paradise."

"What? Oh." Sirius grins roguishly at him. "I'm quite a local favorite, you know."

Remus raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

Sirius laughs heartily. "No, not really. No need to be jealous. Buckbeak and I hide all day. Now, this plan of yours--" Remus wraps a hand around Sirius's cock and begins stroking. "Oh, this is a good plan, Moony. Best plan I've heard in a while. I like this plan."

Remus places kisses at the corner of Sirius's smiling mouth. "I thought you might."

"What about you, though?" Sirius replies, undoing Remus's flies and pushing down his jeans and boxers.

"Ah," Remus says, eyes fluttering closed as Sirius's hand curls around him. "Always concerned with your friends. Always liked that about you."

"Mmm," Sirius murmurs into his mouth, "like everything about you."

They thrust against each other, talking now in kisses and gasps, touches and licks, instead of words. Remus's whole body is humming and the tension is almost unbearable. The feel of Sirius's hard, slick cock in his hand, the firm stroke of Sirius's fingers along his cock, the way Sirius's hips buck and his tongue brushes over Remus's...

Sirius groans and shudders in his arms, spilling himself over Remus's hand and their bodies, his mouth hot and wet against Remus's neck.

As many times as he's seen Sirius in this position, Remus never fails to be transfixed, amazed, at the sight for one breathless, endless instant before he is swept away by his own orgasm. The hot, wild wave of pleasure surges through him and he comes hard, sucking Sirius's tongue into his mouth, hands tightening on Sirius's hips as the world whites out for a moment.

He leans back, thankful for the support of the sturdy oak table, and Sirius slumps against him, burying his face in Remus's neck, still shaking.

Remus wraps his arms around Sirius, presses kisses to his sweaty hair and damp forehead, murmuring soothing nonsense sounds.

He loses track of time again, doesn't care that there is a bit of a breeze blowing through the kitchen window, or that they are going to be unpleasantly sticky if they don't clean up soon. Sirius is here and Sirius is his, and Remus can't really think much beyond that at the moment, and he doesn't really want to.

The timer rings, making them both jump out of the doze they've fallen into.

Sirius stares at him wide-eyed. "What--"

"The cake. Oh shit, the cake." Remus runs a hand through his hair, trying to shake off his drowsiness and think.

"Fuck." Sirius just stands there, swearing. He's never been much good in the kitchen.

Remus grabs his wand from his jeans pocket and cleans himself and Sirius up, then pulls the jeans on and motions for Sirius to do the same. Nudity and ovens don't mix.

Sirius hovers as he opens the oven. "Don't burn yourself, Remus. And don't burn the cake."

"Yes, Sirius. I'm on top of it." Remus gestures toward the china cabinet. "Accio racks." The cooling racks clatter onto the table.

"Not the table!" Sirius says. "We just had sex on that table!"

Remus points his wand at the offending table. "Scourgify."

"Remus." Sirius looks at him as if he's run mad. "It's for Harry."

Remus sighs. "I'm sure Harry will have no idea that we were naked while his cake was baking." He really, truly hopes Harry has no idea what his godfather and former professor just got up to together, and will be getting up to again shortly, if Remus has his way. But he moves the racks to the draining board anyway, and then takes the cake pans out of the oven.

"What now?"

"Now, we wait for it to cool," Remus answers.

"I hate waiting." Sirius sounds for all the world as though he's still sixteen when he says it, and Remus bites his lip so he doesn't laugh.

"I know." Remus reads the back of the cake box one last time before binning it, then picks up the tub of frosting and opens it. It's warm and creamy and smells of chocolate. He dips a finger in, unable to resist.

"I really hate waiting." Sirius begins pacing the small kitchen. "Are you sure there isn't anything we could do?"

Remus looks at his chocolate-covered finger, at Sirius, bare-chested and beautiful, and comes to a decision.

"I'm sure we'll think of something," he replies, slipping his finger into his mouth and sucking ostentatiously. The slight plasticky texture of the frosting is overwhelmed by the cheap chocolate taste, but Remus is focused on how Sirius is staring at him now with predatory heat in his eyes, rather than on his disappointment with the latest and greatest Muggle baking goods.

He waves his wand at the cake layers and murmurs a cooling charm.

"Come on," he says, not bothering to disguise the huskiness in his voice. "Let's frost the cake."

They work well together, and quickly. Now when Sirius shadows him, Remus leans into it, wanting to store up these small touches, add new memories to those he's hoarded all these years, because he knows Sirius will be leaving when it grows dark, to go back to Bermuda, where it's safe.

Where he can lounge naked on a beach all day.

"What?" Sirius asks.

"What?" Remus answers, startled.

"I asked you first. You're staring at me like --" he stops and laughs, not the happy laugh of a few minutes ago, but the harsh bark of someone who knows what he's saying isn't funny.

"I was just wondering-- no, never mind."

"Remus." Sirius's voice is not teasing now, but demanding an answer.

Remus busies himself with smoothing frosting over the sides of the cake, now two layers high with a layer of frosting in between. He can feel Sirius's eyes on him. "Bermuda is nice this time of year."

"Yes." Sirius looks puzzled, but Remus can see him figure it out. "It's not safe, Remus. You know that."

"I know. I was just--" Remus laughs wistfully, gestures with the spatula he's using to frost the cake.

"I know," Sirius answers, dropping a kiss on the nape of his neck. While Remus is thus distracted, Sirius makes a grab for Remus's wand, and points it at the cake. Blue icing pours from the tip, spelling out 'Happy Birthday, Harry!' in curlicued script. "Ha!" Sirius says triumphantly. "I remembered that one. Lily taught me and James that spell for your seventeenth birthday."

Remus nods, though it was actually Peter's seventeenth birthday. If Sirius wants to indulge in revisionist history, Remus won't stop him.

"Cake's done, and it's not even near dark yet," Sirius continues, as Remus quickly cleans up. "And there's still almost half a container of frosting left." His lips curl into a wicked grin, which Remus returns, feeling heat sparking along his skin.

Remus presses a quick kiss to Sirius's lips. "Don't worry, Sirius. I have no intention of letting it go to waste."

With the tub of chocolate frosting in his hand, he drags Sirius into the bedroom, determined to make the most of the frosting -- and the time -- they have left.


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