They are a lovely and wild sixteen, running through fields in ways that romance novel writers sigh and ramble on with their pens about, and they are free and grinning at sixteen. Sirius has bought a motorbike, somehow, and Remus has bought pads for every conceivable area of his skin, and Sirius has stripped them off him so that they can feel the wind threading its fingers through their hair.

Summer, 1976, and the air runs dry around the contours of their bodies and Remus' hands clench tight onto Sirius' jacketed waist and smooth gentle circles onto his abdomen through his T-shirt, but not his jacket, even as they laugh and whoop and jubilate.

Once, Remus' foot slips off the bike to hang into space and even though they are hurtling down a country road, even though they are not even in the sky, Sirius' heart stands still in his chest for exactly 2.7 seconds. Then Remus rights himself and grins and grins and grins and if he wouldn't die from it, Sirius could turn around and kiss him messy and hard right now, this very moment.

There isn't any radio, so Remus brings a ramshackle old portable one with them, and they sing along while the motorbike hurtles through the sky and road and back to the sky, sing along to the Beatles even though they are a decade young, and to the Ramones and David Bowie and Queen even though Remus hates Queen so much, but they don't even care.

Their smiles are breaking down walls and through time and space and their cheeks, and when middle aged-men yell out their car windows at them they laugh and laugh, because these men cannot possibly understand what it is like to be high without any reason or substance to make them.

They drive so far they don't know where they are any more, and they have to find a payphone, and Prongs cannot even understand what it is they are saying through the spurts and giggles that burst out of them, because they are sixteen and they are free and they are alive.

And at night, in the quiet hours, they nuzzle prayers into one another's throats in the dark and hope that tomorrow won't ever get any better than this. Remus traces poems onto Sirius' arms and thighs, and his handwriting must be terrible because he can't see anything, and Sirius says he loves him because they are sixteen and life already feels like it might be passing them by.