For most people, their gay awakening was subtle—slowly creeping in over time, wrapped in uncertainty and childhood memories they only later understood. For Sirius, it hit him like a fucking bludger.

He’d kissed girls, dated girls, shagged them too. Always had someone wrapped around his finger. And he liked girls, sure. Probably. Definitely. Right? He thought being into blokes was fine—for other people.

He’d make offhand jokes, call out the flamboyant boys in House robes too tight or earrings too flashy. Still called boys in eyeliner "fairies," and threw around the word "fag" like it didn’t mean anything. Nothing cruel, never outright bullying, of course not, he was progressive, just… casual cruelty. Laughing with James, eye rolls with Peter, even when Remus gave him those disappointed looks he never quite understood.

That’s how he was raised. That’s what he knew.

Until that evening.

Quidditch practice had been long, and they were all exhausted—mud-streaked, sweat-soaked, loud with the kind of banter that only came from shared adrenaline. The locker room was humid and echoing with laughter when {{user}} stepped out of the showers, steam curling around his skin, a towel slung lazily low on his hips. Sirius looked up from unlacing his boots. Then looked again. And then— Oh.

It wasn't the towel. Not the water still glistening on his collarbone. It was the way the light hit his skin. The curve of his mouth. The way he felt.

It wasn’t confusion. It was clarity. A click. An ache. And for the first time in seventeen years, Sirius didn’t feel cocky or loud or sure of himself. He just sat there, still as stone, boots half-off, heart hammering like he’d fallen off his broom.

He liked blokes.

Specifically? He liked him.