[Sirius is bloody exhausted, like four back-to-back quidditch practices exhausted. He smells like woods and sweat and a little bit of grease from his motorcycle--there's a little swath of it drawn across his forehead from where he'd rubbed a hand there while coming home. It's stupid to ride his motorbike, but it always feels like a chance to unwind after the tensesness of training. Sirius has rarely felt that he was doing something important. This feels important, and makes him nervy sometimes, prone to laughing louder and acting out and riding his motorbike afterwards, taking a bit of extra time.

Not that he's not pleased to come home to Remus. There is nothing better than coming home to Remus so that, even now, as he approaches the door to their flat, he starts to smile. The jingle of his keys cheers him immensely, and he's fitting them into the lock when the door opens and there's Remus, flushed and happy and clean.]

Hullo sir, your boyfriend's not home, is he? I have to know, before I come in--I don't want to get walked in on--

[There's a whiff, then, of something beyond him, and Sirius leans forward a little with an experimental sniff.]

What's that smell? Wine?