They play games like this sometimes, lying in bed in some nameless town in Spain or France or wherever the Order has sent them last, Sirius curled at the end of the bed where he sleeps when he's a dog and Remus's toes touching Sirius stomach only when he stretches and spreads them – digit from digit from digit. They play a game where Remus lights a cigarette and holds it out in front of him by the end and sees how long he can hold it before fear of getting burned makes him crush out on the bedside table – they leave black burn marks and ash in every hotel they visit.

It can take hours when done right, and they'll watch, unspeaking, as the cigarette sends up curving snakes of smoke, signals that Sirius wishes he knew how to translate. And when the embers burn to close to fingertips or when Remus gets bored of holding the cigarette, he'll toss the pack to Sirius, wordlessly saying It's your turn now.

And Sirius will, as Sirius always does, let the pack go by him and hit the floor, and he'll grab Remus by the elbow, which has always been just the right size and shape for Sirius's hand, and pull him down to the end of the bed and then pull of all his clothes and bite him on the scar the werewolf left so long ago. Then they'll fuck for hours, much longer than a cigarette can burn, on the end of the bed where Sirius sleeps when he's a dog, and Remus's fingers will leave bruise on the his chest, like purple ribs on the outside of his skin. And when they're done, they'll put their clothes back on and wait and wait. For another game. For the world to end. For something.

It is, in the end, better than trying to talk to each other.