Remus's threat that Sirius would eat his words seemed idle, un-enforceable, nothing more than breath lost in the air. So he'd thought nothing of it when he saw Remus naked, spread eagle on the bed, and covered in chocolate . . . until he saw that the chocolate squiggles were not squiggles. They were letters and words forming all the horrible things Sirius had ever said to Remus: Your life is as boring as your books. Can't you just buy a new coat?
Sirius's tongue died in his mouth. How'd he been so horrible?
Remus blinked and said, "I said you'd have to eat them."
"I didn't . . . I mean, I didn't mean, you know . . ."
He scanned over more things he'd said, blaming Remus for his own tiredness after a full moon, teasing him about his virginity.
"Padfoot." Remus closed his eyes and Sirius felt magic thicken the air. The squiggles shifted, Remus twitching with the movement. "Tickles," he explained.
When the squiggles stopped moving the words said: I love you. You taste like an autumn sunset. Are you wearing pants?
Remus grinned. "I told you I'd make you eat your words."
Sirius leaned over Remus, mouth watering in anticipation. "These words, I'll eat."