Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

October, 1986.

The first time Remus sees James in five years, he’s lying in a hospital bed. The brightness from above burns his eyes as he opens them, light bouncing on the pristine white of the walls, making him wince as everything blurs for a moment. Reality weighs down on him after that. Everything hurts, and he doesn’t really understand what is going on. 

His first instinct is to sit down, not counting on the immediate set of hands pushing him back, rough and strong yet caring, even in these circumstances. The whine in protest comes when he recognises the face as his eyes close. 

There had been a snarl, and a four-legged creature. A mix of fur and fangs and—blood. So much of it. Everywhere. He really thought he was done for at last. 

There had been a desperate crawl to the nearest hint of civilization in a helpless attempt to save himself. Muggle town, he thought it was. Not any real trace of magic anywhere near, right? No rich smell of it flooding his nose.

Not like he cared by then, his eyes were already fluttering shut, heavy and wet and stupidly stubborn still. 

So this is how it ends, he remembers thinking. In the middle of nowhere and alone. No pretty grin. No chance of seeing the silky black hair accompanying it. Fuck, how could he be so stupid? All that pride, and what for? Panting, trying to stop the bleeding with his hand and failing miserably. Coughing and tasting the known mix of spit and yet more fucking blood. 

‘Hey, is there someone we can call?’ A voice had asked as if he could really make up any of the words, the tone imperative and nervous, giving orders to somebody Remus couldn’t see. 

His lips had moved, though, mumbling something that did not reach his ears as his head throbbed painfully, everything turning black. 

When he wakes up the second time, it’s easier. Remus rubs his eyes as he tries to make sense of the situation once more.

James is sitting on a chair next to him. James Potter. Five years later sitting on a chair next to him. It’s inevitable the way his mind wanders, having seen this exact same scene before in a different place, with a subtle squeeze of his arm and a smile. ‘They’ll be here any moment now, they’re getting breakfast for you.’ 

There’s no hint of any reassuring smile this time. Brown eyes almost bordering on hazel but-not-quite find him between red, puffy edges. First thing Remus notices is the creasing lines around them and the fact he has a small scar above his ear now. 

That’s new. 

He tries to sit down until the sharp sting in his middle stops him, Remus gasps faintly just as James gets up in a heartbeat, stopping him once again. “No, you cannot sit down yet—”

But there’s no time for greetings in situations like these, he should’ve known. 

“Why are you here?” Remus cuts off, irritated. This cannot be good. All efforts not to be tracked down gone in an instant, all spells used in pursuit of anonymity broken as if it was nothing. As if this hadn’t been exactly what he had hoped to avoid. 

“You asked for me,” is the response, as if it was natural. As if it was the only answer. Brows furrowed, lips forming a straight line, James never knew how to hide his emotions. He remembers, now.

“That was a mistake,” he declares. The illumination is still hard on his sight, too bright to even let him think in peace. 

“Remus, please—”

“No,” Remus exclaims, falling into the pillow. “Don’t do this to me. Not right now, please leave. Please, please leave.” He puts his hands over his eyes for a second. This has got to be a dream, this cannot be happening.

"If you could just hear me out—"

As if on cue, the door opens. 

Remus barely has time to prepare before he hears a gasp, dividing the atmosphere as if with a knife, ginger hair as vibrant and bright as when he last saw it that last rainy night still at Hogwarts. Same place where it all ended—where it had once begun. 

“You’re awake…”

And if seeing James after all these years is a piercing pain, Lily is like a sword through his chest; lacerating, impossible to ignore. As he locks eyes with her, a tear falls down her cheek, her lip starts trembling. In a second she is rushing to his side, firmly gripping his hand even if he tries taking it away.

“Remus…” she starts muttering, and he can’t take it. He turns around, not bearing the hurt on her face—the pity as she takes him in. Remus knows how he looks, he knows he has way more scars than the last time they saw him. He knows he has lines around his eyes too, the way his cheekbones stand sharper, hollower in a certain starved fashion he has come to get accustomed to. 

He has been homeless. He’s felt the cold, unforgiving stones hurting his back with only a heating charm to keep alive. He’s slept on alleys, asked for money, spent nights at some nasty, slimy inn. Spent nights at strangers beds, panting and clutching as he closed his eyes just to feel a warm bed in between places every once in a while. For the last five years he’s been asking himself the same questions over and over, replaying the same situations in his head; questions he doesn’t really wanna know the answers to and things about the past he cannot change.

He has been strong. Cried only when he was too drunk to even move, slurred words and names he wouldn’t dare to speak out loud while sober. Some of them permeated in forgiveness, some of anger, some of love—some forgotten the next morning as he puked on a public bin, never noticing the judging looks of ongoing passersby. 

When he focuses on her again, the stream is inevitable; she hugs him as her shoulders tremble, her breath hitches as she murmurs,“you almost died.” She squeezes him a bit more. “You almost died and we weren’t there, how do you expect us to live with that? How do you expect him to live with that?” 

And him.

Him being the reason he left, him, lying next to Remus when they used to share a bed, whispering words about the future he cannot recall now. Blue that could brighten up a room, same blue he witnessed changing, faith turned scepticism; uncertainty. Him being the only conversation he cannot bear to have—but has to in fear he won’t be ready if someone else walks out that door. 

“Is… is he here?” It’s difficult to even mumble it, like a heavy knot in his throat, piling up on the list of shit he’s already enduring.

“No, we advised against it, we um…” Lily trails off, a silent exchange with James then they are talking at the same time.

“He’s on babysitting duty.” 

“We had to stop him.”

Lily sighs, a reproach evident when she squints at her husband. “I know you might not want to hear this, but he was the first out the door when we got the patronus. James had to enforce the apparating wards around the house, he kept begging to be let out, it was really bad.”

That almost makes him squirm, skin prickling. “You’re right, I don’t wanna hear it.”

She doesn’t stop, always relentless; a quality she obviously still carries with her. "Remus, we were really worried, when we got the message it said you were in critical condition, that we might as well get ready to claim the body, I—” her voice breaks once again, “that was two days ago.”

Now it’s James’ turn to say something. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Can he? Remus is not even sure he remembers everything himself. He makes a mental list as he tries to make sense of the situation.

He had fought a vampire that evening, that he can recall. He can still feel the stinging as she sank her fangs into him—anticoagulant liquid mixed with his blood, that’s why he was still so vulnerable when the other creature arrived. Finally standing over the vampire’s body, triumphant, he thought mistakenly followed by—whoever his saviour was, somehow getting a hold of The James Potter, taking him to… 

He then remembers where he is. Fuck, two days they said? “Fuck no, not here—I cannot afford this, I—” Remus tries to get up a third time, almost ripping off the shimmery liquid connected to his arm before they grab his hand. 

“No no no, stay down,” James pleads, “we already took care of everything, Moony, please.”

And there it was.

He hadn’t been called Moony in a long time.

The sound of it makes his skin crawl. The powerful connotation of a nickname, the memories it holds. How can he stand there and make it sound so natural? Remus wants to scream, to rip his skin apart, something—anything would be less painful than this. And he is saying that with a torso full of bandages. 

“I am not some beggar.”

He is.

“We know you aren't,” James affirms.

“Why would you do this, then?” Remus feels truly humiliated, helpless. Of course this would happen to him, he hoped whatever fucking cynical force driving his life was having a good laugh. 

Lily deflates, staring back at him. 

“Is it so hard to believe we did this because we love you?” 

He doesn’t want to answer that. No, he doesn’t have an answer to that.

Yes, maybe they did love him once. Back then between jokes and half truths cackled in front of a pint. Back then between the thought of a gained family and the uncertainty of change before changing ever meant the tragic outcome. Back when he trusted the people he had bared his soul to when he was a teenager. Back then between doubt settling behind their eyes and tedious non-stopping questions about his whereabouts, judging stares and Sirius not telling him ‘I love you’ every time he walked out the door. 

Back before they even questioned his loyalty, as if he could ever think about harming them, harming Harry…

The news had come to him ruthlessly, in the midst of rubble and bodies laid on the ground. During the recount of damage and Moody limping beside him, patting Remus on the back as a last cynic mercy before landing the blow. ‘Guess you really were one to be trusted, after all.’ He had lost his eye by then and talked way more harshly, never giving it a second thought. The silence and the tears filling up Sirius’ eyes had been enough of an answer those soul crushing seconds that followed. 

Remus had never known heartache like it. He had known a life full of sorrow, agony. Of loss and grief not yet resolved, of punitive treatment and inhumanity shown without preambles when it was directed at him specially. Of rejection. 

He had never known heartache like it. 

Perhaps no one was surprised by his sudden disappearance at that point. Perhaps the man on the other side of the bar knew better than to ask questions by then. But he also knew about the glint in Remus’ eye, and his usual drink. Three days he had spent like that until someone finally found him.

He couldn’t remember much of the exchange, leaning against the wall of a dirty alley, rocking wounds not yet healed from the war, only his coat with him and the cheapest whisky bottle he could find. Of course already empty by then. 

Mary had implored for him to listen, he had begged to be left alone, to please, be left alone. If the only family he ever knew after his own passed away had doubted him with something as cruel, he might as well not be worth a damn anyway. She didn’t take it well, crying as she urged him to hear them all out, to try to forgive them. When any of that worked, she resorted to talking about Sirius. ‘He hasn’t eaten anything since you left, hasn’t been sleeping. You have us all worried.’ 

It’s as if the sole mention of him could completely shut his brain off, there was simply nothing left to say. He had apparated again to a more private place this time, vomiting all the contents in his stomach before fainting.

It had been Peter all along. The raids gone wrong, the fallen soldiers, the counter spells, Riddle finding out about the prophecy…

The reign of terror started three weeks after that. The punishment for anyone bearing what they had called the ‘dark mark’ was to be kissed by a dementor. Of all the things the Ministry still couldn’t resolve afterwards at least they had agreed on that. The announcements were made known by every paper in the press; aurors were to be given express permit by Moody himself, resulting in lots of witches and wizards fleeing the country. The Malfoys had been some of them. Their friend, on the other hand…

Remus had attended Peter’s execution, standing in the back and never leaving the shadows in fear of being recognised, scanning every inch of the room searching for a trace of people once dear to him. In his last moments, Peter had turned to stare straight at James and muttered “I loved you,” between tears like some sort of sick joke, as if that explained anything. As if that could make him forget. The room had fallen completely silent after that, Sirius stood there rigidly, contemplating the whole affair. Just like that, two marauders gone; one dead, the other vanished.

James had weeped the whole time.

There had been an execution almost daily, during that time.

“Please, leave.” Remus is almost crying now, his voice breaks but he doesn’t care. Lily stares for a moment before turning to James and nodding briefly with a certain strain in her frame. They make their way out slow and doubtful, like not wanting to get him out of their sight in fears he might disappear. 

“We will be back tomorrow,” Lily ensures.

James slides an arm around her shoulders. “Remus, please promise us you will be here tomorrow.” His focus on him is intense, near supplicant. But there’s no more strength to look them in the eye, his hands are still covering most of his face when he nods, listening as they sigh and walk out the door, closing it behind them. 

The night arrives grim and vicious. He eats frenziedly even above healer’s worries because it’s been a while since he had a full meal like that. He flips through the paper James left on the seat next to the bed, trying to distract himself, turning pages warily until Regulus’ face appears. Remus rapidly folds the whole thing into a ball, throwing it into the bin. 

He can’t face any of them, the nightmares that follow only serve to assure him of that. That’s why when the sun rises and warmth starts flowing through the curtains, waking him up to the sound of gossiping healers changing his bandages and talking about the circumstances in which he was found, his mind is made up. It had been a fisherman in a muggle town indeed, a squib who had called his wizard brother. ‘Very lucky,’ the healers say, getting out of the room whispering about how the famous quidditch player James Potter had shown up.

The bedsheets make up nicely for the lack of clothes after a few transfiguration tricks, grateful he somehow still has his wand with him. Making it out of the room before they can get back is another story. Remus can go unnoticed in a crowd, that has never been a problem to him, so when enough people are turned he tries to make a run for it, barely reaching one of the entrances until he comes to a halt.

The smell of them rising up in the air, all three of them.

Harry’s scent is peculiar. He’s got a bit of Lily’s lavender, and a bit of James’ earthy tones; of broom polish and a hint of grass, of petrichor. Remus peeks out the corner to take a last look at them, a suffocating ache filling his ribs. Harry walks next to Lily and is holding two chocolate bars, nobody seems to mind that he has broken one of them, swinging it around in that energetic way of kids as they stand in front of the door. He's bigger now, baby fat still clinging to some extremities, black hair a whirlwind like a faithful copy of his dad.

“You sure about this, Lils?” James asks softly, but Remus can hear. “Perhaps it’s too much for him way too soon.” 

Lily seems more assertive. “He always had a soft spot for Harry, I just want them to meet once more,” she starts explaining, hand on the door handle. “I can show him that we can be a family again, we can show him that we’re sorry, that we’re willing to work for his forgiveness, we can—” She stops abruptly as the door opens.

That’s all Remus needs to hear before he walks out, apparating to a small abandoned warehouse he had used on a full moon; far enough from people and far enough from anyone who might hear the screams as his legs give out, still in no condition for him to be doing this.

His bandaged chest starts bleeding again as he collapses on a corner, sobbing at last in wrath, and hurt, and mourning the loss of the people he loved. Of the person he is and the person he used to be. Of the certainty he won’t be there as any of them grow up, as he grows older. The fact that nobody will love him like that again, the fact he is not able to open his heart anymore, not even to the people who had it before.

He stays there for a long time.

Chapter Text

December, 1986.

The wind blows in ever changing cold breezes against his skin, making the flap of his envelope move as he closes it. Guess there’s always a certain nostalgia during the holidays. Remus opens the lid of the mailbox and stops for a moment. 

A family steps out of a store holding a fairly sized box, their excited chatter resonating across the street to where he’s standing. Suddenly it’s as if reminiscences of his old life came to him in full force, Decembers spent with his mother’s family in a town like this, warm food and warmer tea on a table filled with conversation. Late night talks with his father, wrapping paper, a kiss on his cheek, ‘This one’s yours, open it, darling.’ 

He hears a muffled thud as he lets the mail fall. It’s been years since he had last sent any correspondence, barely had any reasons to nowadays but shame and spite are strong motivators and Remus is determined to pay back every single galleon spent on his little misfortune two months ago. 

The Christmas lights adorning the streets reflect on the wet pavement as he walks, stomach grumbling like a funny comparison between Remus from those memories and Remus now. 

Jul, they call it here. 

Isn’t it peculiar how much you take for granted when you’re young and naive? It’s been almost 10 years since he last spent a holiday with those people, most of them gone by now, he had found out. It’s been 9 years since he last hugged his mother. He adjusts the coat he’s wearing, a bit too big for him but he won’t complain, not when he had nicked it from a lad tall as him but twice his width; the personification of built like a wall like some people say. 

Warmth spreads through his sore joints as Remus walks into the nearest pub, settling at the bar as the attendant is serving a drink, soft melodies fill the space, coming from a jukebox at the back of the room. Snow falls outside slowly, piling up onto the ground in a way that makes the town feel almost cinematic, magical even. The pair of men a few seats from him laugh raspily at a joke he does not understand and the bartender turns to him, nodding once as he recognises him from the day before. 

“Halvliter?” The old guy asks, he’s got a grey beard and rough hands reminiscent of hard work.

“Ja, vær så snill,” Remus replies. He’s been in Norway for a week, but he’s a fast learner on phrases he might need. Ordering a pint being the most important. “Takk.” 

He lights a fag. 

The last three days had been spent moving furniture from a storeroom to an antique shop, leaving his shoulders and lower back with a mild sting, like a reminder of his body telling him not even at twenty six would he ever be free from the burdens of his affliction. Remus knew the job was temporary but the pay hadn’t been bad at all, could even buy himself a decent meal and all this time; drenched in sweat, finishing up the last of the refreshments so kindly offered by the owners of the store. 

That’s where he’d found it.

A small wolf figurine, carved from a piece of wood decades ago, it seemed, head raised mid howl and slightly chipped in places. Before he could stop himself, he was buying it, the owners looking at him funny, only asking for half the price. Blame it on the season—or blame it on his selfish tendencies, Remus had sent said figurine with the envelope and a handwritten note that said ‘Harry’ accompanying it. An apology of sorts, wouldn't be horrible for him to want to be remembered somehow, right?

He takes a moment, smoke flowing out his lungs as he wonders what they’re doing right now. If Euphemia has been cooking her famous mince pies this week, probably teaching Harry the way she had taught the four of them before. Remus would cut the pastries as Peter preferred chopping up, elbows shoved sharply into ribs and flour flying through the air with ‘boys, stop that,’ and Sirius biting his lip with that damned smirk of his. Yet another push. ‘You’re staring,’ James would remind him.

He wonders if they celebrated on the third of November. 

When the last of his fag consumes he immediately lights another, checking the clock in front of him. Still on time, thankfully. So he gulps the last of his pint before asking for a refill, barely noticing the change in music as someone walks to the jukebox. The machine rattles as it settles, Cutting Crew’s ‘I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight’ starts playing. And it’s not that he hates the song, but something in him had churned the first time actually hearing the lyrics. The hold on his pint hardens as he lifts it up, drinking greedily from it. 

‘I keep lookin' for somethin' I can't get 

Broken hearts lie all around me

And I don't see an easy way to get out of this.’

He doesn’t want it to, but his mind wanders once again to bitter nights back in London, to soft melodies and soft skin once so sweet under his lips turned acerbic. An often recurrence ever since the incident. Him, staring off into the distance and losing himself until somebody or something takes him out of it. It’s maddening, remembering nowadays only brings misery. 

‘Oh I, I just died in your arms tonight 

It must've been something you said.’

And doesn’t he relate? He, too, has fallen back upon bad habits, upon stranger’s arms that are willing to use him as much as he is willing to use them. A look—a half smile, some whispered words—Remus knows where that usually leads to, and he takes it. Whether it’s auburn or blonde hair, soft curves or square chests, green eyes or brown, he always takes it. Not raven hair, obviously. No pale skin, not blue eyes… unless it’s a real bad day. Unless he feels particularly unlovable. Remembering only brings misery, indeed. He chugs the last of his pint and stubs his cigarette into the ashtray. 

‘I should've walked away…’ 

Remus gets up with a grunt, legs aching as he takes out coins to pay, still having miles to go before the night ends, regretting not resting properly before. 

Norway’s dark alleys engulf him as he makes his way, brick facades, cars and unsteady ground that got him almost slipping on ice once. He sits down for a few moments. Breathes. Keeps going till he spots the run down abandoned building, recommended by one of the lads moving furniture with him. 'Good shit for half the price,’ he had said. Remus truly hoped it was true. His aches hadn’t really subsided since the full moon four days ago, and he'll probably need painkillers if he’s thinking about sleeping tonight.

He’s been taking them ever since escaping, having managed to steal his first batch from a drugstore, successfully distracting the shop attendants so they wouldn't notice the levitating box behind them then performing healing spells learned years prior on himself. There was still no clue in his brain about what had attacked him that day, but it sure left significant damage, wounds closing fully on the third day between struggles to find a better shelter and food to try and keep himself alive. 

Remus considered giving up. One of the particularly rough days. Holding a bottle of alcohol on one hand and his wand in the other, stare falling down around the empty room thinking there would surely be worse places to die. Was any of it truly worth it, if he had left them behind again? He guessed it would be, if he got to pay back the money. 

And what had they thought would really happen, showing up like that? Covering his expenses on the institution he had been so against? As if he was charity work, probably pitying the fact he’ll never get treated like them but Remus was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, was he not? That had been but a slip, his body’s ability to heal itself would’ve taken care of it anyway, guess the wolf really was useful sometimes. 

As he lends the lad the money, he can feel the subtle, subtle brush of a finger when their hands touch, quick enough to be brushed off as accidental by the average man yet bold enough to be noticed by him. His breath hitches, deep green staring back at him as if figuring out what he wants, if this can quickly turn violent, ignored or hopefully something else.

When there doesn’t seem to be rejection, the other lad takes a step closer. Hooded eyes, long black hair tied in a loose ponytail with tints of blue in the moonlight. 

Fuck it then, close enough. 

They kiss hungrily, using way too much tongue for his taste, but what can Remus say? No one looks for romance from him, no one wants the gentleness he once carried like second nature; all they want is a good time and get rid of him as fast as it even started, why would anyone want anything else? The air is colder now but Remus is not trembling as they enter the flat, he is calculated, knowing what he wants to do and not wasting a second. He pushes. His hands roam freely, noticing all the ways in which this body lacks what he actually craves for, disappointment filling his chest like it usually does. There are no gasps, no back dimples, no shaky muscles or the occasional kiss accompanying it. 

So he focuses on the need coiling down his abdomen instead, like something needing to be done to get it out of his system. 

He's not really asked to leave afterwards, but Remus knows he won’t stay. He cannot handle waking up to a black mane on the pillow next to him. Cannot handle the guilt he knows is about to come, so when all his clothes are on again he does not waste a second glance, almost bolting out the door before any of them say something else. 

And there’s no shame, really, in doing whatever you want whenever you want. It’s the aftermath that kills him—that fills him with embarrassment. That is usually reserved for mornings after, when he slips out without being noticed. When he opens the fridge on his way out and steals, when he lies telling them he overslept, asking if he can shower to 'go to work' knowing damn well there’s nothing waiting on him. You don’t really know about humbleness until you start using people to get yourself the bare minimum to survive. 

When Remus arrives at the abandoned factory he has been sleeping in, he immediately dissolves into the mattress.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t that dirty when he found it, only taking two scourgifys for it to be functional-in-an-almost-returned-to-its-glory way. He double checks all his belongings are in place before he incendios paper inside of a metal bin to keep warm. He travels light these days, the contents of his suitcase having changed through the years. There’s a few jumpers and another coat, socks without functional pairs and some mementos. So to say.

His hand reaches into his pocket then pulls a necklace out, leisurely admiring the surface before his brain goes back to 1980. One of Euphemia and Monty’s holiday parties. Every year they would all meet in the garden at 12 am, preferably with a stolen bottle of champagne to celebrate on their own for a while. 

In this memory they were all bickering around, and, as it was natural, some properly pissed already. Mary a bit unsteady on the ground, holding Marlene’s hair as she threw up in a bin and Dorcas rushing towards them. ‘Oh my GOD Marlene, you told me you weren’t that pissed already—' Lily had been taking pictures of a pretty much tipsy Peter while James raised his fingers behind his head, replicating horns the other man still hadn’t noticed. 

He, of course, was holding Sirius. It had been that hour of the party in which the adults (and mostly Effie’s family) were getting melancholic, playing old songs from their youth. They swung slowly to the music, mostly muffled from the noise around but not like that would stop them. Funny enough that had been one of his favourites, a song he hadn’t heard ever since, one he couldn’t quite place but had recognised from all those days spent at the Potter’s, preparing food with Effie and the others on the kitchen, reading in the library with Monty or simply lounging in the tea room, James and Peter playing chess in front of the fireplace while Sirius unrelentingly tried to disturb them. Fire cackling, his eyes catching the light with a half smile as a piece levitated and James punched him on the shin. 

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Sirius whispered, studying him closely, face a mere inch from his own.

“The song.” Remus had slid his thumb through his cheek, shrugging. “And you, mostly.” 

Him, always.

Minutes later, when they were a bit more settled, and Marlene looked a bit more sober, Sirius started their yearly traditional speeches. They had popped the bottle and were now handing out the glasses, having agreed that taking a swing of it right before everyone said some words wasn’t really the most sanitary. Dorcas had turned Marlene's champagne into sparkling water. Only Remus noticed, she winked.

“I want to cheer… for Harry, of course, who must be long asleep by now.” James smiled, an arm around Lily’s waist as he nodded, Sirius chuckled. “He’s given us a new purpose to fight this war, and he certainly has given me a new reason to return home every single day.” His nose was red, but that didn’t make him look any less radiant, grinning as he continued. “I wish to cheer for James, my brother. And to all of us, because I found myself with you, and found yourselves accepting me, and I cannot thank you enough for that. I’ve been lucky enough to escape, and lucky enough that it was to you; like the saying that goes, ‘Blood, as all men know, than water's thicker, But water's wider, thank the Lord, than blood.’ I’m thankful.” Marlene laughed, then shouted ‘love ya!’ Remus couldn’t help the tenderness crawling up his spine. It was normally a sight, seeing Sirius Black tipsy. It was twice a sight witnessing him give a speech while tipsy, his flawless oratory skills displayed as if proving only he could remember and recite such a phrase after half a bottle of wine. 

At this point they were all pretty much in the same spirits, muffled giggles all around and even some sniffing Remus couldn’t really focus on. Because the moment Sirius turned to stare at him, nothing else mattered except for those precious lips. 

“And obviously, I want to cheer for my Moony, the best partner I could ever ask for and the person that makes my days brighter. May I keep seeing your pretty face while you snore after a full moon for many years to come. I love you.”

“CHEERS,” was the response from the crowd.

Remus could cry, or was it the alcohol acting up? Either way, he stood up, mumbling, ‘you tosser,’ before kissing him feverishly, devotedly, hoping the other man understood the meaning in it. In the way he held him, in the way he only had eyes for him. 

“Oi, you two lovebirds!” James shouted, “It’s Pete’s turn!” So they stopped, grinning as they sat with the rest of them. 

“I only want to cheer for us being here today,” their friend started, slightly leaning forward. “Let the next year be better than the last one, and may we always be together.” He raised his glass. “Cheers, lads.”

When it was over they all hugged, forming a big clump of arms and torsos that left Peter in the middle. Remus, who until now had been partially resting into the curve of Sirius’ neck had no option but to join, bursting in laughter when Marlene stumbled, making all of them fall with her. 

Here is the only place he wants to be, all youthful, merry and carefree. He’s been using this memory to cast a patronus for years.

It was a calm before the storm. If only he knew a month later, while the snow melted and the first raid of the year failed, resulting in two casualties, that everything would change, he would have held them tighter. He would have danced with each and every single one of them, he would have told them that he loved them over and over again. Only a month later, the first cracks of division between them, the first whispers of a hidden traitor, a spy. 

That night Remus drugs himself to sleep, hoping that the pills last enough for him to forget about his friends when he wakes up. 

Chapter Text

October, 1988.

The first time he sees Sirius again, it's on a rainy night.

His boots are wet, splashing water every time he takes a step, the leather jacket he’s wearing shields him from the raindrops as Raumerstraße blurs out beside him. Not that he needs it because Remus does enjoy the rain, its soothing noises, the way everything feels a bit colder right after and the smell of petrichor it leaves. But leather seems to be what people use over here. 

It’s been a month since stepping into these streets for the first time, seizing the opportunity to do any odd job he might find, literally living by the day, fleeing after what he had begun to call the ‘Paris fiasco’ in his head. Forever, he had agreed to. No use dwelling on it now.

What he wants tonight is to finally relax for a while, to forget. 

He enters the already packed club and orders some vodka, neat. Throws his head back as he downs it, the familiar sensation pleasantly burning his throat, fucking finally, Remus doesn’t even wince. Orders another one right after.

The first time he sees Sirius Black again, it’s seven years after he left. Two years after St. Mungo’s. 

It’s one of those nights where he has nowhere to go and the guy tending the bar has been stealing looks at him throughout the night, grins as he offers another drink. For free this time. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Remus’.  At this point he is properly tipsy, so it’s normal for him to end up kissing him outside the bathroom, not completely out of sight for prying eyes yet the other lad doesn’t seem to mind. Nobody seems to mind in Berlin. 

He grabs, and even grunts as he pushes him against the wall. No sweetness to it. It’s fairly desperate, even; sensing the moment he’s about to get offered to go to a more private place, having to make sure of it, so his lips start smoothly trailing the jaw… 

That’s when it happens.

“Moony?” 

Like a curse. Like punishment. 

Remus freezes. 

Not that voice. 

The voice he has been waiting to hear ever since walking out that October night. The voice he grew up with in those stone corridors, one he hears sometimes in his dreams, if he's lucky. The sound so familiar he gets goosebumps, something shifts inside, his soul yearning.

He could recognize it anywhere.When he turns his head, the air drops off his lungs.

He will never be ready to take in the beauty that is Sirius Black. His hair still smooth and lustrous after all, his mouth still perfect, that spot he always liked under his ear... is that a tattoo? Remus feels nauseous, the tar-like sensation of words left unsaid, hot and sticky, pressing at his vocal cords as he swallows. He still smells the same, sandalwood combined with leather, smoke lingering, too. So he hasn't quit.

The last time he properly saw him had been two days after meeting Mary. 

Remus had returned to their flat feeling sorry in a moment of weakness. Of course he cared about Sirius, of course he didn’t want him to suffer on his behalf, they had been so close to having their happiness again at last. So close to—no well, that possibility was gone now, wasn't it? All that tenderness might’ve been gone by then; but even flowers bloomed in winter, like the stupid poems said, did they not? Hope was always the last thing that died, so that night he walked all the way home. 

Of course he didn’t think this through, him not being in his five senses and all. That was a night he would regret for years to come. Sirius had been sloshed too, not really exploding at him at first, but taking his time to do so. Remus didn’t notice him when he entered, the lights were out and he was rigidly sitting on their small dining table, clutching an already cold tea while staring at the door.

“Where the fuck were you?” He was full of rage, it was noticeable.

Remus halted, tensing up, but there was no use lying. His voice sounded rasp even to him as he spoke, “everywhere, mostly Scotland.”

There was a cruel click of a tongue. “Funny that, Mary didn’t meet you up north.”

“I said mostly.”

The atmosphere was incredibly cold, there was a faint sound of static through it.

“Why are you here?” Sirius inspected him, squinting eyes icier than usual.

Remus furrowed his brows. “What do you mean why am I here? I live here,” he retorted. 

The other man shrugged, and he swore he saw a flash of hurt in his face, quickly replaced by rancor.

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

“Sirius—” He took a step forward, as if trying to reach him. But the bridge that once existed between them was long gone. Sirius made sure to remind him of it.

“Look at the state you’re in.” 

“What are you even—” he started, but stopped himself once he caught a glimpse on the window’s reflection, a ragged mess staring back between dirt and old hags. 

Was that a bruise?

“Who did you fuck?” 

Remus could feel his stomach drop, a wave of fury seething within. He turned to face him again.

“What the fuck Sirius?” 

Something sparkled in his eye, poison rising. “Don’t play dumb with me Lupin, you were gone for days, and when you finally get back you look like this,” he drawled, gesturing at him. “Were you in a self destructive spiral? Did you throw yourself at the first person who showed a little bit of sympathy?” He was raising his voice now, hoarse as if he had been screaming.

And oh, did that hurt. 

Of course he wouldn’t ever trust him again, of course this was not something to fix. All these months in which he thought Sirius’ distancing was because of the war taking a toll out of them, all those days Remus would wake up to find the bed was empty, crossing the hall silently towards the living room only to find him drifting off. What for, he realised. This had never been a war issue, his affection simply dissolved. He had spent all that time suspecting him, he knew now, and Sirius’ mind was made up. In his eyes he would never be just Remus again. He would always be a werewolf; savage, unreliable and dangerous. 

A beast.  

“Did that make you feel better?” He asked, because he needed to say something. Is this how you really think? It was not an actual question, it was a reprimand.

Sirius was fuming, drawing ragged breaths as he clenched his fists. He was holding back, Remus could see. But none would go without a fight, if he wanted it to be vicious that’s what he would get.

“Go on then, do tell what else you think of me, please.” 

“I don’t have anything to explain—” he started, snarling.

“Well, no, I think you do,” Remus interrupted. “I think you do because what the fuck was that, Sirius? You really thought I would harm you? Harm Lily? James? God, you think I would harm Harry ?” 

“We were losing, we could not rely on anyone and you know that.”

And it was the way he delivered it.

We, not him. 

Them, never him, not anymore. 

Anyone, as if he hadn’t been part of them for ten years—a frightful thought materialised in his head. Maybe he never did. God, maybe everyone just tolerated him because he was Sirius’ boyfriend, how could he let himself be so stupid? Was there anyone between them that actually liked him? 

Lily. 

Lily did, she wouldn’t push him apart, would she? They were friends before she ever even considered James… She wouldn’t, she wouldn’t.

“Did Lily think the same?” It came out stupidly vulnerable, like something heavy weighing down his throat.

He didn’t really wanna know the answer, it was written all over his face. Sirius took his time before replying.

“We all did, Remus.”

And the few seconds of numbness really were a blessing at that moment, probably a bit merciful.

Then, a ringing in his ears snapped everything out of focus, he looked down, back slamming against the wall. We all did. And shouldn’t he be accustomed to this already? The rejection, settling deep in his bones. Frequent reminder that he was alone, would always be alone. 

The anxiety arrived later, the panic. Leaden while it sat on his chest, go on, try to breathe then, it seemed to mock. He could not stay here, it was too humiliating, the pounding in his chest urgent as if he needed to get out. 

He gulped.

“You—you know what, I came here to try and fix all of this—but you don’t want that apparently, so I am done.” He straightened up, chest still heaving. “I’m done,” he asserted, the last of his dignity clinging to him, refusing to let go.

Sirius stumbled as he got closer, slurring as he viciously dropped the bomb. “Go ahead Remus, leave.”

That’s when it hit him. 

The agony, bottled up until this moment, right before the end. Was he really asking that of him? After everything, after pining over each other for years, after surviving a war together—

“Sirius, I—” Remus whined.

“Leave! Fuck off then, don’t ever come back!” He shouted, pointing at the door, red splotching his face.

“I didn’t want to—”

“LEAVE.”

There was no more discussion after that. As he stormed off to their room, he heard a thud coming from the kitchen. Remus grabbed the suitcase from the corner, the one they’d use when travelling the world when the war was over, they would say. One sunny day, lying on the bed; Sirius’ torso was a sight to behold when the sunlight hit it like that. 

"I’m telling you Moony, we could pull it off." He was resting on his side, a hand supporting his head.

"In a month, you say?" Remus could not stop grinning, a finger caressing the tip of Sirius’ nose. Such a beautiful nose that scrunched faintly as it made contact with his finger. “Thirty days?”

It was days like these that kept him going, during those times. No missions until tomorrow, no responsibilities, just him.

"Well yes, unless you want to stay somewhere for a couple of days, which would be okay to me…" Sirius’ stare was mischievous, playful as it landed on him.

"I don’t think it’s possible."

"Wasn’t there a book?" He frowned, "I remember you reading a book—"

"Yes, and it was in eighty days!" Remus exclaimed, getting closer to his face, Sirius smirked.

"Mmm, they simply lacked vision,” he settled on, a certain finality in his voice. There was nothing else for Remus to say, it was infuriating when he got like this. And so enticing…

Their laughter filled the room, something twisting in Remus’ heart because, oh he loved him. He loved him so much, he would kill for the chance of seeing him like this all the time, he would die for him—even worse, he would live for him. Truly a lot to say when you’re actively risking your life on a battlefield. 

Remus bolted towards the door, stopping himself for a moment. Spinning around to take a long last view at him. Him, who had been the love of his life, staring out the kitchen window; moonlight reflecting on his shoulders, on his hands. Such beautiful hands, the ones that used to hold his entire world. Hands he wished he could hold one last time.

He knew he wouldn’t turn around. So in a last, hopeless attempt, Remus reached out for the necklace hanging from his neck, holding his breath.

As if controlled by a greater force, he took a step further. 

Holding his breath.

The wood creaked.

Sirius immediately raised his head, both locking eyes through the reflection. Remus noticed he had been crying, not making a sound. 

“Just go.” He heard, in a brittle tone. 

A sigh, the last of the fight slipping right through him. 

So he did. He walked out, leaving his key on the table.  

All those months of uncertainty, of holding onto each other in fear they wouldn’t be able to do that anymore, in fear death would actually tear them apart. What for? The childlike wonder of those first days gone, replaced with fear, desperation. ‘You and me, Moony,’ Sirius once whispered between gasps, ‘we’re invincible aren’t we? We will come back to each other, I will come back to you.’  

Well, it was ego what did it in the end. And wasn’t it ironic, how that fate was worse than death, and they never even considered it in the first place? At least in death Sirius would still love him, at least in death they would still have each other.

Remus took a long look at the hallway one last time, remembering the first time they marched through it, eager to start their new life together. 

How foolish of them.

As he finally regained strength to move again, something shattered inside the flat, followed by a scream so raw and full of pain even he started shaking, instinctively rushing to the door.

But he couldn’t go back. 

That was decided.

Remus stood there, vision blurred through a water curtain, so bitter it almost left traces on his skin. 

Remus took a bus that night, not really minding the destination. London was wide, and lively, and full of liquor stores to fill his every need before it was time to pay for a hotel somewhere. As he sat on the leather seat, staring out the window down the busy road, clutching the suitcase with trembling hands, Stevie Nicks’ whimsical voice danced through the radio, not soothing at all the anguish clogged deep in his heart. A sort of satire in these circumstances, one would say.

“Time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me,

I know I could have loved you, but you would not let me…”

He closed his eyes. That gut-wrenching scream would haunt him for eternity.

It’s in this club that he takes a good look at Sirius once more, barely breathing, heart pounding in urgency once more, flashes of his face full of hatred combined with flashes of an untouched champagne.

It’s in this club that he turns to the bloke he’s been kissing, whispering ‘your place?’ in his ear, not sparing a second glance as he walks past Sirius, holding the bartender's hand. Leaving his ex lover alone in the hallway. Remus pretends he doesn’t notice the tears falling down that gorgeous face, the way he folds, clutching his stomach as if he had been punched. He’s keeping his promise, isn’t he? 

It would be another two years for them to meet again. 

They arrive at one of those squat buildings that have become popular within young Berliners. After some weeks of living here, Remus himself has considered that as an option, since he wouldn't mind sharing a space with other young people like him. Prenzlauer Berg, he noticed, was mostly filled with youth, and punks and the occasional skinhead. Mostly rejects who really had nowhere else to go. Other nowhere people like him. Wasn't it fitting? His mind does not dwell too much on it either while they make their way up the stairs.

As soon as the door opens, his thoughts wander off on their own to pale skin and the contrast of freshly made tattoos.

A door closing.

Warm kisses. Better when paired with rum.

Lips, colliding.

Not a trace of wrinkles. Ironic how he remained untouched by time, always sacred, angelic. 

Laboured breathing.

Collarbones sharp and twisting with a loud gripe. 

Quick pulse, a grunt.

Pearly teeth strongly biting skin… 

A thud, repeated.

Whispers lost to another time. 

He hears some panting, can feel nails as they pull. He closes his eyes, pretending it's someone else. 

When it’s over, Remus lays on the bed. Whole room wrapped up in blue hues. He doesn’t know what hour it is but doesn’t matter, it’s late enough. The body asleep next to him didn’t seem to mind the smoke, so he lights up another fag. The radio is still softly playing in the background to a song he’s only heard once before, neither of them willing to get up and walk all the way to turn it off after the haze of the events that took place that night. Not that he complained; noise was always welcome if it meant not to mope about shit in silence. 

“You are far, 

When I could have been your star, 

You listened to people, 

Who scared you to death and from my heart” 

What is Sirius doing at this exact moment? Has he found someone for the night, too? His Sirius, intertwined between arms that have nothing to do with him, playing part in a miserably devastating scene. 

It had been so different before.

Sirius, the first time he casted a full corporeal patronus, dazzling as it ran in circles around him. The first time Remus’ world came tumbling down. None had really noticed at first, the animal vigorously running around the room. 

It wasn’t until it finally settled in front of him that he recognized the fur, the tail, wagging as if expecting something… realisation dawned upon both of them as they met each other’s stares.

Moony.

Sirius’ patronus was Moony. 

He could see the other boy turning red, James trying to play mediator as usual. 

Remus had never sprinted out of a room so fast in his life.

“People, 

Will always make a lover feel a fool, 

But you knew I loved you, 

We could have shown them all, 

We should have seen love through,” 

Sirius, sitting beside him in the Potter’s living room. 

‘Open it, Moony! ’ He never called him Remus these days. The stare expectant as he opened the box. A bronze chain rested at the bottom of the silk upholstery, a coin-like pendant hanging from it, he brought it closer, scanning the surface and smiling at what lay in front of him.

The Canis Major, the brightest star, engraved specially for him.

When he raised his head, Sirius was holding a copy, sliding it above his head so it would hang from his neck. 

‘Mine has got a moon on it. ’ 

“You are far, 

I'm never gonna be your star, 

I'll pick up the pieces and mend my heart, ”

Sirius Black, finding him an hour later in the potions room. Remus had been curled up against a desk, face buried between his hands. The hyperventilation stopped by then, but the shock was far from gone.

‘Remus?’ He could hear steps getting closer and closer, he didn't wanna look, couldn't. ‘Remus, can you please look at me?’

He couldn’t, no way.

Suddenly, a hand rested gently on his shoulder, making him gasp. Making him jump to his feet, tumbling as he tried to get away, knocking over a cauldron that clunk loudly when he tripped against a table. 

Remus raised a hand to wipe the tears cramming his face, mortified Sirius was approaching faster than he would like.

‘Can we talk about it?’ 

“But remember this ,

‘What is there to talk about?’

Every other kiss, 

‘What just happened…’

That you ever give ,

‘Why?’

Long as we both live ,

‘Does it disgust you?’ His expression was cautious, almost frightened.

When you need the hand of another man ,

Remus could laugh if not for the fear crawling up his spine. He raised his wand, never breaking eye contact.

One you really can surrender with ,

‘Expecto Patronum.'

I will wait for you like I always do ,

A dog, not any dog—a black dog.

There's something there ,

Sirius gasped, hopeful as they met again, hazel over sky blue. 

That can't compare with any other..."

‘How long?’ He asked impatiently, cutting the distance and grabbing Remus’ hand as if he had been dying to do so. ‘How long, Moony?’

“Strange that I was wrong enough, 

To think you'd love me too, 

Guess you were kissing a fool...”

Chapter Text

March, 1987.

For being the city of love, Paris is so fucking grey and frigid. During the day, that is. Remus walks through Place des Vosges, holding a brioche in a paper bag and a copy of The Neverending Story under his arm as the noises of hammers and people trying to agree on something echoes through the place. The structure in front of him seems to be in renovation. Whole place would be awfully silent, if not for that. 

He sits in the grass, breathing in before the paper bag next to him rattles when he grabs a piece of bread, spreading marmalade before eating it. It’s been a while since he has tried something sweet, so he truly takes a few seconds of savouring before opening his book. 

He can rest today, he's got enough money to last until tomorrow.

An hour passes by in that fashion, in eating and reading pages until another chapter has finished, fixing his posture, changing it, eating again, accidentally smudging marmalade—he doesn’t care, really. There’s a lopsided smile on his lips as he reads, content with the fact that this he can still enjoy. Frowning. Grinning. The faintest hint of a laugh pulling involuntarily at his chest, wondering about the human mind and the way it can create fantasy from zero. How did the author came up with this concept? With names? Is there a possibility he’s a wizard, too? So many odds. Even children's literature can find the way to pull at your heartstrings, he has found.

Remus has been visiting this place ever since bumping into it accidentally a week ago, enjoying a bit of nearly silent comfort in the midst of a rather busy city, too restless even for him.

Not for much of course. 

It’s not long before the distinctive *crack* of someone apparating near can be heard, making him stand up, alert, pupils blown wide in search for danger. But the park is still silent. A couple birds chirp near, there’s a laugh in the distance and a bark. He sees nothing. Not even his nose gets a whiff of something out of the ordinary, his hands relax from the tight fists he had been gripping them in.

Remus then grabs his book from where he dropped it on the ground, prodding to the room he’s been occupying. 

Le Marais could be a nice place to live in, he thinks. There are new stores opening almost everyday, the nightlife sure ain’t bad… and nobody bats an eye if you want to snog a bloke in the middle of the street. 

Only in this part of town, though, the rest of Paris seems to have resentment against the people living here. It’s not difficult to guess why, the rise of AIDS victims through Paris has surely affected the french population’s spirits. The general sentiment is gloomy these days. Remus doesn’t really wanna think about it, the fear had been almost paralysing the first time he ever found out. The pictures in the papers, the religious fanatics, the things people would say—

Well, Remus had always been familiar with rejection, welcomed it like an old friend knowing it would always come eventually. Why would living here make it any different?

He nods to the receptionist as he enters the hostel, heading towards his room, stare distractedly fumbling with the buttons of his sleeve until he senses it. The magic in the air. Thick and powerful—familiar? He can feel blood rushing through his body, muscles tensing up when leather becomes distinguishable between the rest of scents. 

He stops. 

If living alone has taught him something, it is to always trust his gut. Remus opens the door cautiously, a hand already reaching for his wand in case he needs it.

He will probably need it.

The room is dark as he sets foot in it, there’s a window, but the curtain is drawn and the only lamp is by the bedside table. The voice coming from the shadows is calm, relaxed, even. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

“Hello, Remus.” He almost jumps. Chanting ‘Lumos’ as the face in front of him becomes clear, Regulus Black stares back at him not even bothered by the orb of light. “It’s about time we talked.”

“Fucking hell, what—what the fuck?!” He almost knocks a painting hanging on the wall trying to get away from him. “Why—how are you here?”

The younger Black raises a brow. And he’s so stupidly calm. “You really think you could roam Paris without me knowing?”

Remus huffs, confused. “I didn’t even—” What the hell is he doing here? Regulus Black, in a crappy Paris hostel. 

“Not subtle about it, also.” The corners of Regulus’ mouth shoot upwards, he reaches for the lamp next to the bed and turns it on.

“How did you know?” 

He shrugs, as if slightly entertained. “The grindylow incident in the Seine. It’s got your magic all over it.”

“That was only a week ago—” Remus stops, cautious. Is he going to try and kill him?

His grip on his wand hardens.

“I’ve been watching you.” Regulus’ eyes scan him from head to toe, stopping at his patched up trousers for a moment.

It’s bone chilling.

“What the fuck?”

The reply comes out dismissive. “Yeah, it’s been interesting, to say the least.” Those light blue eyes of his return to Remus’ face, tracing out new scars, he supposes. 

“That’s fucking weird, Regulus.”

That makes him snort. Not really humorously. “Anyway, I recommend we go somewhere more…” He takes a look around, scrunching his nose. “Private, perhaps.”

Strangely enough they walk out some minutes later, neither of them saying a word. It’s so fucking weird seeing Regulus once again, he’s got to be honest. To this day Remus doesn’t even know if they could ever be considered friends. Sure, they spent shifts patrolling Hogwarts together back when they were prefects, sure, they revealed each other a secret or two. But they never openly talked about it.

They mostly avoided each other if they could.

Nearly forty minutes of walking go by before Remus starts feeling worn out, where the fuck are they going? He almost complains, when a structure comes into sight.   

Remus scoffs. “Are we going to the Ritz?”

The other man’s face is determined, inscrutable. “Nah, that’s new money.”

“What?”

It’s still a few steps and turns until finally arriving at the gates; ‘Intercontinental’, a sign in gold letters reads. Remus winces, his lower back and leg protesting, stinging once again with every step he takes, remembering angrily that his painkillers are still in his suitcase. It’s evident his companion hasn’t noticed his discomfort when his vigorous step does not miss a beat, crossing the entrance as if he owned the place.

There’s a few greetings he takes graciously before half turning to Remus again. “It used to be ‘Le Grand Hotel’,” he explains as they cross the lobby, headed for an ornate hall. “Royalty used to come here, famous writers, the whole deal.” Everything looks so shiny, marble floors and wood making a perfect harmony surely worthy of the history it must hold.

That’s when it comes into view.

“Woah,” he exclaims with half a mind to stop and stare. 

The room they’re in has got a massive glass roof. Ornate arches fill the walls with wooden double doors and flower motifs adorn the red carpet floors, white walls hold embellished golden light fixtures. It's been a while since he saw something so beautiful. 

The younger Black patiently waits for him as he strides through the space, catching up. Nobody stops them as Regulus opens the door of a salon, both men’s soles tapping the floor as they advance. And if that other room was pretty, this one is straight up breathtaking. Giant red marble columns tint the whole place a vibrant colour, a golden ceiling with a glass dome catches the eye in the centre of it, windows all around. Where the fuck are they?   

“This is the ballroom.,” Regulus mumbles, as if reading his mind. He patiently stands in front of a fireplace with golden cherubins and a bust over it, the briefest glimpse of a smile takes over his lips before he composes himself, tapping the foot of the winged sculpture on the left with his wand three times. The cherubins fly through the air while the wall slowly opens, making the ground tremble a bit. That makes him look around, worried someone might come in. When the place remains empty his shoulders sag in relaxation, focusing on the hall opening up in front of them. 

Not as pretty as the one with the columns, surely, but that doesn’t make it any less impressive. Yet more golden wall chandeliers hold candles that warmly light up the space over mirrors placed specifically for the hall to look bigger. Ancient magic permeates the air now completely open for them. This is what Gaston Leroux must have been thinking about when writing Phantom of the Opera. Remus cannot stop looking around.

“Bonne soirée, Monsieur Black.” The hostess greets as soon as they reach what looks like a speakeasy. 

“Bonsoir,” he responds, “cet homme ici est Remus Lupin, je ne veux pas qu'il soit enregistré,” Regulus says, motioning to him.

And fucking hell, Remus had forgotten about that, the perfect french the both of them could speak. 

She smiles as she responds, “oh, oui, bien sûr.” 

“Merci.” 

They settle at a private lounge, deep green curtains separating them from the rest, teak wood square panels around, making the space feel darker, cosier. Regulus finally sits down, thank god, so Remus follows after him, muffling a groan as he collapses on the chair. A bottle of champagne and two glasses materialise in front of them, pouring itself while his companion starts talking. 

“As I was saying, quite an interesting life you have there, Lupin.”

Remus is pinching his nose, leaning against the table. “If that’s what you wanna call it…”

“Nice girl, also. Does she know why you liked her so much?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

It’s as if there was switch turning on instantly, indignance rising in his chest. “No.” He cannot believe this. “No, that’s low, even for you.” How could Regulus Black, of all people, understand what it is to have nothing? Having to—basically sell yourself so you don’t have to sleep on the street, so you don’t freeze to death. How could he stand there—so full of himself, as if having the upper hand, as if mocking him. He feels sick, dirty. “Cut the bullshit already or I’m gone,” he settles, taking deep breaths to try and calm himself down.

Regulus seems to notice. For the first time that day Remus sees him softening, deflating. It seems like an eternity before he mumbles, “he was doing so well.”

And of course, of fucking course. This had to be about him. Remus sighs, running a hand through his hair. What was he on about? It’s not like he actually wanted to die, it’s not like he actually wished to wake up at St. Mungo’s. “Well, of course I never fucking intended—”

“He had a relapse, Lupin.” 

..

And something crushes in his chest. A relapse. His ears start ringing softly until it’s all he can hear, memory vivid as the day it happened.

The year Sirius was disinherited, the year he escaped.

James, running up to him in the library. Eyes wide open and breathing quite erratically. His frantic hands as he got a hold of his robes. ‘Remus he won’t come out’ 

‘Wha—what do you mean?’ 

He had been desperate, pulling at him. ‘The—the bathroom, he’s been there for an hour I don’t know! He won’t come out!’

And Remus could feel his stomach drop through the floor.

Rushing through the corridors. Heart pounding. 

Crossing the common room.

Up the stairs.

Inside their dorm.

Peter was against the bathroom door. ‘Sirius? Can you answer?’

Not a sound.

Only water.

Running water.

James, pulling at his hair. ‘It won’t open, we’ve tried everything!’

‘What happened?’

‘He just slammed the door,’ Peter tried to explain. ‘But the water’s been running for about an hour.’

This is bad.

‘Sirius?! Are you there?!’

Running water.

A punch at the door.

Finally, a sound. Like a groan.

‘Can you open the door?!’ His heart, threatening to get out of his chest. ‘Peter, get Poppy.’

James, bolting to the stairs.

A hit on the door. Another one.

Another groan.

He had pummeled at it, then. Hands red, getting redder by the second.

‘Open the door!’

Crimson staining the wood. Like needles piercing through his skin.

It wouldn’t open.

He started kicking.

A sound. Fainter.

‘SIRIUS OPEN THE DOOR’

He kicked heavier, faster as if his life depended on it. Because it did. Because he didn’t know what else he would do. Because none of it made sense without him. 

The wood, splintering.

His leg, throbbing. Burning as he kept kicking. 

He didn’t care. 

He could hear something cracking. He didn’t care.

Remus dashed against it with his whole body.

Once.

Twice.

The door, finally giving out.

The smell.

The scarlet spots against white tile.

A boy, lying in the middle.

Pale.

Troubled.

‘Don’t,’ is all Sirius had whispered.

A cry, his knees hitting the ground.

..

“Lupin!” The way it’s exclaimed takes him out of it. Regulus. It’s obvious that he’s been trying for a while.

Remus glances down to where his hands have been clutching the table, he is shaking.

“This is what I meant, this isn’t healthy at all.”

And that is what actually brings him back, he straightens into his seat, maliciously dropping, “as if you’re one to talk.” Because Remus remembers. Their private talks, the words spoken in hushed tones. He remembers.

Regulus’ face turns paler. “It’s not the same.”

His lower lip trembles from outrage. “Is it not? Look at what you did.” 

“It was necessary, I saw an opening, I took it,” the other man tries to explain, but both are way past lies by now.

“Is that what you tell yourself?” 

Regulus drops into his seat, studying him with crossed arms. He has triggered him, he knows.

“Fine, Lupin, I’ll let you choose,” he snarls. “Either you come back, at once, no funny business…”

“Yeah well, don’t know about that—” he interrupts, but Regulus doesn’t stop.

“Or you disappear forever.” Remus freezes. “I mean it, Remus. I cannot have him like this, not when I barely got him back.”

And he understands. It must have taken a lot for them to be in these terms. A war and the Black family almost swallowing them whole. Back when Sirius would still tear up at the mention of his brother, when he would send letters no one bothered to answer and the way he screamed at the sky for being so cruel to them. Remus would pretend he didn’t notice him staring at the stars on Regulus’ birthday every year. He remembers how he stiffened the first time they saw each other again.

“I don’t even know…”

“You don’t need to answer right now,” Regulus cuts in. “I’ll give you until tomorrow.”

All fight slips from him as if slicked with oil. Remus nods, slightly dazed. Seems like there’s nothing else to say, so he gets up from his seat, champagne untouched. He is already turning to the door when he hears him talking again. 

“And Lupin, I will know if you try to escape.” Regulus drinks from his glass, an elegant manner to it. The Blacks will never be anything if not full of aristocratic, calculated movements. Wit. He used to envy that, when he met Sirius. Until he noticed, until he understood what caused it, why it came to them like second nature. “By the way, don’t bother returning to that hostel.” He raises his glass again. “I’d rather you stay here.”

Remus almost laughs. “So you can keep an eye on me?”

“So I can have some peace of mind.” There’s no pity in his eyes, bitterness more like it. 

At this point Remus is exhausted and knows he won’t make it down Le Marais once again. So he agrees, hoping he doesn’t regret it in the morning. 

When he enters his new room, Remus is in awe, there’s no other way to put it. Everything looks and feels soft; there’s no rags, no rotten wood but most important of all, no bins full of rubbish nearby. His suitcase is here, a bit discoloured and deteriorated from the use, like a contrast between the fancy suite and himself. 

He wanders through the space. 

There’s a whole dining room and living room inside, polished and refined, as if specifically designed for this space. A marble fireplace sits right in front of the largest sofa with a white door on the other end. So he grabs his suitcase, eager to explore whatever waits for him behind it. The bed looks extremely cushioned and comfortable when he opens it, the need to dive right into it flutters all around him before he stops himself. 

There's another couch with a small table accompanying it, champagne and macarons left as a courtesy with the words ‘Welcome, Mr, Black.’ on a golden gilded card. The windows have long, open curtains, the city of lights living up to its name on the other side of them. Even his book is sitting on the bedside table. 

Remus haze stops then, realism catching up to him. His eyes drop down to his unkempt shoes, to his hands; now calloused with the evident passage of time through them. He takes it all in, not knowing what to do with himself.

He must take a shower first. 

One might never understand the way the brain works, tugging at the weakest points every time it gets the chance. The guilt had come after the bath, presenting itself as Remus slid into the complimentary robes he found in the bathroom.

Sirius had a relapse, and it was his fault. Sirius had a relapse, and there he was, playing rich at a fancy hotel. He tried picturing the whole scene—who had found him? What had they done? Was it awful or had they arrived on time?

He cannot return. 

This was always bound to happen to them, as long as Sirius was with him he’d be destined to suffer. It’s been a hard pill to swallow, understanding things have never been the way you thought they were, understanding the world keeps spinning to everybody else even when it has stopped for you. 

After a while Remus resorts to getting drunk on the champagne. Trying to enjoy the last time he’ll sleep in a bed this comfortable, running a hand through the fabric and almost having a meltdown in the process. 

So he decides to distract himself with the only thing that could work. He opens his book, reading where he last left off. And as the main character of the story loses his memories, he wishes he could lose some too.

Chapter Text

A thunder-like sound.

The wards around Hogwarts, down.

Dorcas smiles, desperate to fight. It had been her idea to take felix felicis before. All of them, she was not taking chances anymore. 

An army of black robes, moving forward.

Gideon, levitating the cup, teasing. Fabian by his side.

Lily, holding the diadem. Ready.

The fight, upon them.

Riddle, going for Dorcas. 

Spells fly in every direction. Remus is cautious, making sure he guides enough death eaters towards him.

The only pack of wolves willing to help wrestle.

He is bloodthirsty, unforgiving, dangerous. 

Marlene, holding the diary. Laughing.

Realisation, striking Riddle’s face. But it’s too late.

Dorcas, summoning Fiendfyre.

Sirius should be back by now. 

Remus fights, takes down two more death eaters.

Sirius isn’t here yet. 

Why isn’t he here yet?

Greyback, racing towards him. Ferocious.

He tries to stun him. Fails.

He’s getting closer.

James descending through the entrance stairs, Godric's sword in hand.

The diary, the first horcrux gulped by flames.

March, 1987 .

Remus wakes up drenched in sweat, the cotton of the shirt he slept in sticking to his back as he turns around to the bedside table. 6:47 am. Fucking hell, can’t he have a little more rest while he’s here? He’s going to have to shower again. Not that he’s complaining, it’s such a luxury for him to be able to do that so soon in a place like this. 

So he gets up, sliding covers away, almost grunting from the motion of hunching over to retrieve his toiletries bag. He should make the best out of the hour, and his body could use another fix. 

Remus hates dreaming about the war. It leaves him on edge for the rest of the day, as if half absent. And what a fucking miserable existence, to live stuck on a moment in life. 

The water thankfully warms up rapidly after opening the tap, a shameful, muted thrill broadens in him when remembering the different assortment of lotions and shampoos he encountered yesterday. He gets in. 

The cup, gone. Fabian limps, fighting a group by himself. Gideon a few steps from him.

The diadem burns. Riddle folds onto himself, fiendfyre around him.

A horrible scream slits the air. Bellatrix’s eyes fill with rage figuring out what happened.

Greyback, attacking Remus. 

His head hits the tile of the wall, softly and continuously bumping against it, like urging his brain to please find something else to think about. 

It won’t.

It was a flawless plan. What he knew about, anyway. Funny how he never questioned why no one told him the details, stupidly trusting everyone blindly, completely ignorant and willing to lit himself on fire if they asked that of him.

Most times it’s as if the flashes came back in a haze, fleeting and brief yet lingering; always present in case he forgets, in case something starts slipping from him. And it’s a drag, to be the one left wondering. The way everything seemed to be outlined—the way everyone moved, how they gathered. 

There were Lily and James, side by side, he remembers. It would’ve been impossible to separate them by then. There were Mary, Dorcas and Marlene, covering each other's backs as they always did. Gideon and Fabian. Sirius and Regulus. 

Him, alone. 

A miserable existence, indeed.

The door of the bathroom opens half an hour later to the sight of clothes spread on the bed. Like a sort of mockery. Black silk lies immaculate and untouched, tags and everything, waiting for Remus to take up on the offer. 

There’s no fucking way. 

He harshly seizes a brown jumper from his suitcase instead, because if Regulus Black thinks Remus can be bought he’s gonna have to hear a piece of his mind—

The window clicks as he opens it, immediately lighting a fag, one of the remaining five from his chain-smoking the previous night. Bummer, honestly. The lack of money inside the pocket of his trousers warns it’s either breakfast or a new pack of cigarettes today, and truth be told he’s fucking hungry. 

Greyback, vulnerable on the floor.

Remus, weary step and bleeding. ‘I got you, you fucking bastard’

Wand raised, until something catches his eye.

Sirius. 

Sirius and Regulus.

Soaking wet.

Deadly stare in their eyes.

Regulus holding something up.

A locket.

Fabian, on the ground. Gideon yells like a madman.

As he’s trying to comb his freshly cut hair— because he can do that with a mirror, now— there’s yet another *crack* coming from the living room. Light footsteps draw near him before Remus can even fully grip his wand. A house-elf stands before him, eyes glaring between skin full of wrinkles. 

“Master Regulus has sent Kreacher to call for Remus Lupin,” he says, “He said Kreacher must tell him they’ll meet in the cafe outside.” 

So this is Kreacher , he thinks to himself. He can definitely feel the elf’s displeasure towards him, but doesn’t have the gut to be mean to him. Call it modesty, call it sympathy between magical creatures. He loosens his hold on his wand and nods.

“Thanks, Kreacher, I shall meet him there.” 

Kreacher grunts and disapparates once again. Remus checks the bedside table, 7:55 am. If he goes now, he might make it before eight. 

God, he is hungry. 

He grabs his suitcase and strides to the entrance, snatching his coat on the way out. 

When he arrives at Café de la Paix , Regulus is already seated, sipping from a mug, reading the paper. Unquestionably looking the part. He clears his throat as to be noticed and slides in the seat in front of him.

“Morning, Lupin.” He doesn’t look at him, keeps focusing on the paper, instead. “Did you not like the clothes?” 

“I don’t want them, and I certainly don’t need your pity nor your hand me downs, as if I could be—”

“Oh, so he was right about not talking to you before breakfast,” he chimes in, snickering, “you do get feisty.”

That astounds him. 

The thought of Regulus knowing things about him had never crossed his mind until now, he had never considered the possibility of him being caught up in everything that happened. Directly from the source, no less. 

God, how the mood can change when they mention him.

Remus doubts before asking, “does he um, know you’re here, then?” 

Did he ask you to do this?

The other man finally makes eye contact, analysing. “No, he doesn’t.” 

Their weird tension gets interrupted when an assortment of food, pastries and hot chocolate gets delivered to their table. Remus doesn’t know half the things in there, but the smell is nice. So nice he almost falls into temptation. His hands twitch, he has to hide them under the table.

“Well, I have my answer.”

Regulus raises an eyebrow. “Straight to the point, then.”

“I won’t go back.”

If the younger Black is surprised, he does not show. His pale hands get a hold of a knife that cuts right through a croissant. “Hm. Figured,” is all he says. He grabs it the same way Sirius does, Remus feels lightheaded for a moment. “Do you want half of this?”

Yes .

“No.” Remus straightens up, gathering his belongings, wishing to run as far away as possible.

“God, you’re so arrogant.” 

It makes him stop dead in his tracks, forcing a deep breath into his lungs. One of his long pondered resolutions yesterday had been not to fight Regulus. What would happen if Remus’ temper ever got the best of him? What would— Sirius —say, if he ever found out? Another breath. Yes, he had vowed himself not to fight with Regulus, but Merlin does he make it hard—

“I have tickets for the opera,” the other man nearly blurts before Remus can even open his mouth. “Tonight, across the street.” 

“Congratulations.”

He sighs, it sounds tired. “I want you to go with me, if you’re up to it.”

Remus hesitates before he sputters, “what?”

“In fact, I’m going to offer you to stay the whole week.” 

To say he’s flabbergasted would be falling short. “And why the fuck would I do that?”

Something flashes behind Regulus’ eyes, gone in an instant, but he catches it. Doubt? Embarrassment? He is so difficult to read, it’s irritating. He composes himself soon enough to carry himself with confidence, crossing his arms. “Guess I’ve been feeling kind of lonely lately.”

And for the first time in years something flickers through him, curiosity . He rejoices, chasing that feeling, letting himself be filled by it.

Remus considers the offer. He’s got nothing left to lose, does he? Nowhere to go, no one to meet. He stares at Regulus. He’s only twenty five, if he remembers well, with the weight of the House of Black since he was what, seventeen? When Orion died. 

The weight of a war, for the most part. Of losses.

“I cannot pay you back.” It’s better to come clean right away, no chance for a dispute down the road. Most of his money had gone in the mail to the Potters.

Regulus nearly rolls his eyes. “Lupin, the room you’re staying in has belonged to my family for decades, I’m not paying for it.”

“For the ticket, then,” he adds. “And the clothes I won’t be wearing.”

“Oh no, you’ll bring financial ruin to The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,” he mocks. “Go on, grab some food, I can hear your stomach growling.”

A sting on his shoulder. Greyback is nowhere to be found, Mary is bleeding.

Avada kedavra. One more down.

Lily and James.

She is murderous, rage in her eyes. Taking down three death eaters with a swing of her wand. 

Remus stuns another two.

A green light, inches from him. That was close.

Regulus and Sirius, standing over the flames. Looking like two angels of death, blood splatters on their faces.

Sirius, finally meeting his stare.

Regulus, dropping the locket . 

He did, in fact, wear the clothes. For the opera, only. No way he was entering that place letting himself be the butt of the joke, the scars were gruesome enough for most people on a normal basis. Regulus joined him in the box, bringing two glasses of champagne with him, clinking as he placed them on a little side table.

To say that they had fun would be an exaggeration. They weren’t too comfortable with each other to hold a conversation yet, but they were there. And Remus had been feeling alone for so long, that it was enough. 

Regulus ignored how many drinks he had, Remus ignored how he clutched his hands when there were loud, sudden noises. A form of connection, it had to be enough.

The next day they visit the Museé d’Orsay, a fairly new museum that opened the year before and has been in the mouth of almost everyone in the city since then.

Regulus’ favourite part is the Art Nouveau pieces. Remus himself takes personal interest in the Renoirs. 

They don't really talk at lunch, neither of them really knowing what to expect, but they meet eyes several times. 

It’s until the third day, while getting breakfast, that Remus gathers the courage to ask. 

“So…” His hands pinch his fork before putting it down. “How’s she doing?” He bites into a piece of toast as the other man’s eyes stare again. “Lily I mean,” he specifies, for good measure.

His face changes radically, when he answers he sounds—cautious? “Better, now. It really crushed her.” 

Of course the deep breaths he has to take are not acknowledged. 

After spending most of the day together, it is agreed that a muggle pub would be a good choice for the night. Regulus downs a negroni, followed by two old-fashioned. Remus prefers beer but does not object when neat liquor is offered to him. They both get properly sloshed, finally walking out long after midnight. Regulus is downright slurring random facts about places until they reach the Seine, stumbling a bit as they walk beside it. 

He leans for a moment against the wall, breaths coming in slow. Some moments of silence go by before he talks. “This is nice, after Evan.”

That brings him several years back. Moody returning from a raid, his eye, gone. ‘ Doesn’t matter, I took the fucker down.’

“Well, this is nice, after everything,” is his response. 

When he glances back there’s a single tear running down Regulus’ cheek. Almost unnoticeable in this light with his stare gone in the distance. Of course Remus pretends not to notice when a hand rapidly wipes it away. 

The next day they don’t speak at breakfast, cannot meet each other’s eyes.

It becomes easier to talk, though, the more time spent together. They sort of develop a new language; subtle gestures, clever, based on perception. He knows not to push when Regulus tenses his shoulders up, and he knows he won't be pressured if he clenches his jaw. 

It becomes routine for Regulus to wait outside the hotel. A couple of people turn their heads towards him as he leans backwards leisurely, a leg over the other and even sunglasses on his face. 

“You’re late.”

Remus offers the hint of an apologetic smile as he pulls out a fag. “Overslept, woke up to Kreacher almost poking me.”

That makes him snort. 

Both admire the Diana of Versailles, hours deep into the Louvre.

“Harry asks about you,” his companion remarks, completely out of the blue. “Occasionally.”

Sometimes Remus thinks he entertains himself with this. With the way his breath catches when learning stuff about them. He tries to play it off with a cough but it’s noticeable enough. They have moved onto another sculpture when he gets the strength to follow up.

“How does he know?” 

“Lily and James have hung enough photos on the entrance hall.” He shrugs, walking around the statue. “Also, nice Christmas gift.”

They received it, then.

They don’t talk about Sirius. He tries not to think about how Regulus walks like him, most of the time.

The Luxembourg Gardens spread out across their front as they stroll past. Sometimes Regulus takes notes of things, other times it’s poorly made sketches he details when they settle down at a cafe. 

Until he stops walking.

“Are you still wearing it?”

When Remus follows his line of sight he almost winces. He could’ve been more careful of course, but fuck it, what good is it now. “Sometimes.” He won’t elaborate on that, only taking in the awareness in Regulus’ stare as he gives up and shows him. 

“I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t, either.”

No one did, he had made peace with it long ago.

It’s on the last day that he finally cuts to the bone.

“Regulus, why are you here?”

The other man raises an eyebrow. Flocks of people go by behind them. The way he talks seems premeditated sometimes. “I have a house here.”

Remus scoffs, nearly rolling his eyes. “You know that’s not what I mean.” Because he does, Regulus is not one to ever play dumb unless he’s trying to buy himself some time. 

He stares at him for a while, considering, probably. Then he speaks. 

“He found out.”

Black smoke arising. The shriek of a soul dying. 

Bellatrix, screeches, a hand reflexively reaching for her dagger and charging against James. 

He is not ready.

Remus tries running towards him. It’s evident he won’t make it.

Lily, squealing. They had separated for a moment, during the fight.

James leans to his side, but it’s Regulus who takes the strike, wand raised mid yell of ‘Avada kedavra.’ 

Bellatrix, down. 

His arm bleeds, twitching as he finally stares at James, trembling. 

Regulus turns around in a heartbeat.

“When?”

Regulus keeps an expressionless front, a defense mechanism, he knows now. “Three weeks ago.”

Three weeks ago. His heart squeezes from trying to keep his cool. “What, um, what did he do?” He asks, absentmindedly scratching his nose.

“You know him, he put on a show.”

Remus doesn’t know if this is a sensitive topic, so he keeps silent for a while. “Did he find out about him specifically? Or in general?”

“Both, at the same time.” The other man pinches his nose. “I decided to take some days off.”

“Fucking hell.” 

That night they go to a club. Down Le Marais, of course, stopping at a new trendy bar Remus has tried before. Quetzal Bar , the sign reads. The music is nice, drinks are cheap enough.

“What even is a quetzal ?” Regulus asks, apparently bothered to have been dragged all the way down here, yet Remus knows he’s not really complaining. 

“A bird,” he answers coolly, glancing around before slamming his hand on his shoulder. “So we drink, get proper sloshed and we move on to the club, three blocks from here.” He is keen on teaching Regulus the skint way of enjoying a night out, in a normal setting also, no more fancy drinks. 

“Ugh, fine.”

Remus walks to the bar and orders two rounds of shots. These he pays himself, shamelessly winking at the bartender before returning triumphant to their table. “Both, fast as you can.”

“No fucking way,” the other man scowls, “I’m a lightweight compared to you, you drink double.”

“Well then, go and ask for them yourself.” 

“Cunt,” he mumbles under his breath, throwing back both of them, grimacing. 

Remus does too, a genuine smile on his face as he lights a fag. 

When they arrive at the club, Regulus is too stunned to actually move. Drinks and all. He stands there looking at the people around him, all dancing while the music blasts out the speakers. Remus swings along, sufficiently loosened up already, liquor flowing through his system in pleasant waves. 

“WHY ARE YOU SO RIGID?”

Regulus looks straight up panicked, probably wishing to be anywhere but here. “I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO.”

“YOU DANCE.” 

Remus receives an unconvincing push, tripping him backwards.

“HOW?”

He starts scanning the room, trying to locate an example in the sea of sweaty bodies around them. There’s the usual group of very sober people that only want to dance, lots of neon shades and shiny things. 

There .

“LIKE HIM.” They both turn to a bloke dancing his arse off in the middle of the dance floor.

Regulus scrunches his face. “HE LOOKS LIKE A NUTTER.”

“I DON’T THINK—” Remus sees him trip, tugging at the sleeve of the person next to him, laughing as who he supposes is his partner tries to help him out. “NEVERMIND, HE DEFINITELY TOOK SOMETHING.”

He keeps searching. Between lots of leather, see-through t-shirts, rings, queens, suspenders—bare chests and skirts. He’s always been badly dressed for these types of clubs. 

It’s until the music changes and the rest of the groups start to cheer that he perks up again, recognising the first notes of the song.

“NAH, WE ARE TOTALLY DANCING TO THIS.” Remus pulls at him with heavy limbs now, half bouncing to the rhythm while the first verse rips through their ears.

Regulus follows, defeated. Still a bit rigid but definitely trying to move, somehow. 

“All I know is that to me,

You look like you're lots of fun,

Open up your lovin' arms,

I want some, want some.”

 

“COME ON, JUST BOUNCE.”

He tries, it looks painfully stiff so Remus stops, grabbing him by the shoulders. 

“REGULUS, NO ONE IS LOOKING AT YOU.”

And that seems to switch something inside his head, realisation. No one here knows he’s Regulus Black, heir to a centuries old legacy. No one here knows he is any different from them. That had been a turning point in his life, too. The first time he realised no one in the muggle world cared, no one knew about the things he had done, what he was. 

“HERE COMES THE BEST PART, YOU HAVE TO JUMP.”

So they do, letting go for a moment, letting themselves be some nobodies in their mid-twenties. Young and untroubled in the middle of Paris. What they should have been all along.

“You spin me right ‘round, baby, right ‘round,

Like a record, baby, right ‘round, ‘round, ‘round…”

“If you don’t take them I’ll have to tell Kreacher to burn them.”

“I told you, I don’t want them.” 

Remus was back to wearing his old jumpers, smoking as they stood on the Charles de Gaulle, staring at the river in the crisp breeze of morning. 

“I think you’re way too proud.” 

So there it was, an ending. 

Remus was now headed to—Amsterdam, probably. Far away from this place and everything it represents while Regulus was heading home. To them . 

He sees him turn his head, almost shy, somehow. “I cannot risk having anything that might help them trace you I—I cannot risk him losing it.” 

His heart misses a beat. Unwilling to address who he is referring to. “Are they still trying?”

“They never stopped.” 

And he sits with the realisation in his head, with the numbness spreading through his body. He knows he can’t return, he knows that’s the right thing to do, there’s way too much damage in between. So why is his throat closing, now?

‘Leave! Fuck off, don’t ever come back!’

“Guess this is it.” 

His eyes are still fixed in the river, leaning against his elbows with a cloud of smoke ascending like the pigeons flying above. 

Regulus puts his hands in the pockets of his coat. “I was honestly hoping you’d change your mind,” he nearly whispers, staying like that for a while, looking genuinely gloomy. 

“I know,” is all he says in return.

The sun rises in the horizon, Paris already woken up. A few lights turn on in windows it hasn’t reached yet, somebody decides to honk far away. 

“If it’s worth anything, I never believed you were the spy.”

If it’s worth anything . He would’ve probably gasped if not for the effort of not looking at Regulus now and the invitation that hangs in the air. 

“Happy birthday, by the way.”

Life is fucking cruel most times. 

And if someone asked then he wouldn’t have been able to get it, but that had been a turning moment in his life. His first opening to forgiveness. The first time in years he let somebody into his life, like a momentary lapse in which his walls came tumbling down. 

A moment passes, and he is alone.

Chapter Text

March 10th, 1981.  

Remus is woken up by a weird feeling in his nose, lifting up a hand to scratch it—he bumps against another face. He opens his eyes.

“Hi, good morning,” says Sirius, cheery. His hair is all over Remus’ face and he can now feel the weight of his body over him.

“Hmm,” is the answer, voice raspy while he stretches, closing his eyes again.

“Guess what day it is.”

“Chuck Norris’ birthday.”

He feels a pillow hitting his face. “Cut it off, it’s getting old already.”

That makes him smile.

“I have activities planned for today, so get in the shower while I—” He is cut off by Remus twirling around, pinning him to the bed.

“Did you, now?” He makes his voice lower on purpose, a hand slowly unbuttoning his boyfriend’s shirt.

Sirius’ breath hitches, his face is red, eyes fixed on his mouth, fluttering. 

“It can wait.” 

March, 1981.  

When Remus knocks on the door of the headquarters, he knows he’s already late. His hands are inside the pockets of his trousers, and he’s now displaying a new bruise on his jaw. No time for cleaning up, no time for dittany. Their last shipment of murtlap essence had been tracked down by death eaters—hence the small cut adorning his lip, and the already mentioned bruise, of course. 

It had taken a while. Ever since the news of a spy had spread within the Order a lot of missions had gone south. Needless to say he never expected it to be so exhausting. 

Lily receives him at the door, her eyes lighting up for a moment as the sounds of yet another loud discussion reach his ears all the way from the hall.

“Remus, thank god,” she sighs. 

“Hi Lils,” he greets, kissing her on the cheek. “Here, let me—” He takes Harry from her, bouncing him in his arms as he walks down the corridor. He is munching on a slice of apple and his chubby hand is all covered in saliva. He tries not to wince.

They’ve been having these reunions at least two times a week, ever since Regulus reached out to the Order; gatherings that usually involve storming around ideas and discussing places where Riddle might have hid horcruxes. Gatherings that usually end up in high tone discussions, mostly from Sirius and Regulus.

Guess it was one of those days.

They had received the patronus in the middle of the night, Dumbledore’s voice echoing through their bedroom asking them to meet in his office. Urgent matters.

Of course they had thought the worst. 

Fighting back tears that only a panicked state like that can burst forth, they got dressed for the wintery January weather and were on their way. 

There’s not a universe in which they would’ve imagined what awaited them on the other side of the door. Their old headmaster had greeted them calmly, telling them it was nothing to worry about, easing their concerns.     

“Why are we here then?” Sirius asked.     

“I’m afraid there’s someone here who demands to speak to you.” 

That’s when Regulus had come into view, hands behind his back, rigid shoulders, head held high yet a wary air to him, brows faintly furrowed, as if expecting Sirius to burst or charge at him. 

“Hello, brother.” 

That made him instantly stop in his tracks, stretching a hand towards Remus, holding it tight as his breathing grew slightly laboured.     

“What are you doing here?” It was barely a whisper, but the air around them had gone so stiff everyone could hear their own breath. 

Remus felt a hand on his shoulder blades. Dumbledore. “Mr. Lupin, perhaps we could use the time to debrief about your last mission.”

Sirius clutched his hand harder, tapping him on the palm twice then letting go, not taking his eyes off his brother. ‘It’s okay,’ it meant, in their own language.  

They had developed a system of hand tapping in case they needed to communicate without words or without looking at each other; mostly for security purposes too, so they could know what was going on while on missions.

Two taps meant everything was safe.

Three taps usually meant ‘be back soon’ or ‘be alert’, acknowledging an uncomfortable scenario, depending on the context. Everything depended on the context.

A pinch was reserved for the most dangerous situations, a subtle way of saying we have to get out of here—a subtle way of saying something was not right.

Fortunately they had never used it.

He followed the headmaster into his private office and closed the door behind him. Still dazed by the shock of seeing Regulus Black again, on Hogwarts, of all places. In Dumbledore's office, even better yet. 

"Tea, Mr. Lupin?"

He wondered why he was so calm. He accepted, and in a quick second verdict decided to take things easy, Dumbledore was to be trusted.

Their debrief had ended long ago when Sirius finally came to retrieve him with bloodshot eyes and billowy face, worrying Remus enough to dart through the room toward him. 

“We can go now,” he murmured, and Remus fought the urge to hug him and kiss his temple right there and then. 

So they did, uttering their goodbyes to Dumbledore and walking to the nearest place they could apparate from. As soon as they were out of sight, (and probably earshot), Sirius wiped his tears—a stern expression in its place, instead. He moved fast through the night, silent; firm.

“We’re calling an emergency meeting,” he announced, voice all business. 

Remus followed, concerned with the immediate switch. “You mean like an Order meeting?”

“No, I have a very specific group in mind.”

So Sirius had sent Moony in patronus form with detailed instructions on how to arrive at the place they were currently headed to, and of course, reassurance that everything was fine because ‘was it really that difficult to do that?’ 

They apparated to a clearing in a forest. The smell of damp moss floating around, combined with pine and wet wood. An owl could be heard hooting in the distance. 

“Where are we?”

“One of the Black’s multiple estates. I think I have been here twice, Orion liked to spend winters in the woods,” Sirius answered, crossing the space to follow a path on the dirt.

“And who are we meeting here?”

“My brother.”

As they approached, a mansion appeared through a glamour. Wooden walls, pointed roofs, big windows with clear wooden trims; a porch wrapped all around the right side of the house with columns and ornate railings decorating it. There was smoke coming out from a chimney, and some lights could be seen through the curtains.  

Regulus was already there when they entered, leaning against the wall, warm tea in hand, nodding as they stepped through the entrance hall. He had changed into formal clothes and Remus noticed a hopeful glint in his eye when he saw Sirius, leading both of them to a drawing room on the side.

“I made some tea while waiting, so help yourselves,” he offered, hand open motioning to a table on the side as he took a seat. His silky robes perfectly aligned and ironed; his spine stretched out and composed. 

“You mean Kreacher made some tea.” Sirius raised an eyebrow.

He didn’t even move, except to lift his cup up to his lips and drink. “Kreacher is at Grimmauld’s Place, only I can access this house. And whoever I let in.”

It felt so surreal to see them interacting together, Remus almost forgot about his suspicions. What was Regulus Black doing? Why did Sirius seem okay with his presence? Why could he be trusted all of a sudden?

Sirius poured himself a cup. 

Alarms blared in Remus' brain as he raised it to his lips, quickly snatching it out of his hands and gulping it in a swift motion until there was nothing left then meeting Regulus’ stare.

The other man only rolled his eyes. “It’s not poisoned.”

The rest started to arrive in the following minutes. It had been Dorcas knocking on the door with a very heavy eyed Marlene by her side, mumbling something like ‘Black this better be important or I’ll shove a fork through your nose.'  

Then, a gasp cutting through. Dorcas staring at Regulus, wide eyed, hands over her mouth. The other boy froze, not knowing what to expect. 

“Regulus Arcturus Black.” Her tone sounded harsh, which sent a chill down everyone's spine. There was no way of knowing what she would do when angry, they all could attest to that. “What the fuck?!”

He paled, visibly. Though he kept his posture. “There’s a lot of explaining to do—”

“No shit, you bastard,” she spat, “I should have known—”

The commotion got interrupted by another knock; Lily and James, arriving hand by hand, waving to all of them. As soon as James’ eyes landed on Regulus, he clutched his wand, pushing Lily and Harry behind him.

Remus got a glimpse of the younger Black’s face showing—what, hurt? Before returning to its usual indifference, clearing his throat and turning to Sirius. 

“Prongs, it’s okay.” Sirius lifted his hands up. “Please hear him out.”

“What do you mean hear him out? Is—is this some sort of death eater recruiting shit?”

“No, it’s not,” Regulus sighed, not making eye contact with him. 

A third knock, Peter. Mary had been busy that night. Everyone knew better than to ask. 

“Well, now we’re complete,” breathed Sirius, opening the door.

Soon enough, all of them were sitting in the drawing room, clearly on their toes as some talked in hushed tones, eyeing Regulus suspiciously as if he wasn’t in the room with them, as if he wouldn’t notice.  

He cleared his throat again, setting his shoulders. “There’s some tea over there, if anybody wants a cup.” No one moved. He crossed his arms in desperation. “Fucking hell, I swear I didn’t poison it.”

Remus pinched his nose. “No, he’s telling the truth, I tried it.”

That seemed to do the trick, Lily poured herself a bit, followed by Dorcas and Peter, who’s eyes were still wide open as if he had seen a ghost. 

It definitely was something taking in their faces as they acknowledged that Regulus Black was in front of them.

“Well, of course I suppose you wonder why we’re all here right now, no use beating around the bush.” He raised his head, eyes darting throughout the room. “I wish to gather your efforts in the killing of Tom Riddle.” 

Peter choked on his tea.

Lily gasped, grabbing Remus by the arm.

There was a general feeling of uncertainty, James shuffled in his seat, Marlene leaned forward.

“Needless to say, this is information I cannot trust to just anybody. If Sirius considers all of you to be reliable with this, I believe him.”

“What about Dumbledore?” asked Lily.

“I don’t trust Dumbledore,” was his reply. “Now listen, this might be a long night.”

He put a ring with a weird looking stone on the table, then started to explain.

That night, Remus learned what a horcrux is.

It was Regulus’ idea for all of them to make an unbreakable vow so nobody would find out about their private meetings or about him joining the Order. All horcrux hunting activities were to be discussed within the group only, all missions should be conducted with secrecy—well, they basically vowed their loyalty to the cause. They vowed their lives. 

Some sort of rebellion was born between them, the only group that knew about Riddle's soul splitting. Every week they would divide duties apart from whatever they had to do for the Order, including the exchange of information, disclosure of locations, documents, etc.

Remus felt strange during those first days. Or paranoid, more like it. Suddenly everything felt more fragile, they were dealing with dangerous things, they knew. It didn’t make it any easier. That was the beginning of the end, he would understand later. All of it falling into place, like some sort of twisted puzzle defining their lives in which nobody noticed what was going on behind their backs. And if he thought about it now, of course it would’ve been obvious. The frightened stare, the sardonic remarks that had been said in hushed tones… the rat had been there all along.

But the wolf’s teeth seemed to be sharper. 

And in reality when seeing a rat one might usually sprint away from it in disgust, not really giving it a second thought when it runs away too in self preservation. Now, when meeting a wolf one’s senses get sharper. The known tingling of survival instincts kicking in, of doing whatever the hell is possible to stay alive.

That’s what he had failed to comprehend during those first months of loneliness. Instinct. How involuntary it comes, how it takes over everything—natural, intuitive—only to be crushed by that realisation too. Had it always been lurking in the back of their minds? Was it always supposed to be him? 

It was two weeks later that Gideon and Fabian joined their ranks. Something important for all of them, in making the cause feel more settled since they were older members of the Order and had been fighting for several years now. 

They took care of some of the planning, strategy being one of their strongest elements along with Dorcas, who was fairly new to the army like the rest of them but had already made a name for herself. Her lineage came from a family of powerful witches, and being the first daughter of a first daughter in a line of first daughters carried weight in the magical world. She was powerful, they all knew; something that would be exhibited later on in preparation for the fight. Something even Peter would notice, who until then had been involved in strategy too.

With the help of Sirius they had figured out that Bellatrix should have been aware of this whole situation, making sense of an overheard conversation years ago which she purposely emphasised as the most important favour to the Dark Lord. 

Good thing she loved to brag. 

And Sirius. Along with Regulus he would give insight into dark, ancient magic. Horcruxes could be a taboo for most of the wizarding world—but not for their family. The House of Black’s library turned out to be quite resourceful, providing them with tomes and other artefacts that helped shape their mission. He would leisurely dance from one area to another, but most times he could also be found in the duelling room, (which used to be a ballroom, he had been told) trying out his abilities. Seeing him like that would make something pool at the very depth of Remus’ guts, truth be told. Sirius was always one of the best assets everywhere he went. It was as dangerous as well as alluring to him in other ways—seeing him in his element. 

It was never a bland day within their quarters. Some of the books would scream when opened, making Harry cry the first time it happened. Some could only be handled by purebloods, Remus still had the scorching marks to prove it. Some were normal at first, but seemed to have a weird energy about them, unsettling as days went on, very unnerving when touching them. 

Lily could be found brewing potions in the greenhouse, along Regulus. Both would spend hours mixing and boiling different assortments of ingredients. Whether it be a new batch of blood replenish potion, or polyjuice—they were the ones to go to. Later on Lily would tell him how frustrated she had felt the first few weeks, having a whole supply of ingredients that would’ve helped the Order just… lying there. Of course Regulus would not hear a word about sharing their potions, having a whole discussion in which he finally stormed out, saying that there was no way Lily could justify how they got all of it without jeopardising the secrecy of their mission. After that she just had to agree. It was evident desperation had been taking hold of everyone during that time. When they weren’t in the lab, as they started calling it, she was reading. Remus would see her worried, biting her lip as she examined books on ancient magic with James, who was mostly on research duty too.

Marlene turned out to be quite resourceful when Remus was placed on spell lessons, since he was one of the most skillful duelers in battle. Her reflexes were something to be proud of, deflecting every spell Sirius sent her way. She would be the first in line for field missions and was the most popular user of their murtlap essence stash. She could be classified as fun and leisure on a regular day, but there was something vicious deeper in. It was evident that she would not take any bullshit, or chances, for that matter, and would excel at almost everything she would be sent off to.  

Mary was mostly a gatherer, involved with logistics, he supposed. A well respected duty because she was constantly on the field, whether it be potion ingredients, Order gossip, floor plans or documents; she was the person to go to. It was her specialty to simply figure out things, whether someone was trustworthy enough to join them, whether a location was important because someone was holding out when talking about it—subtlety was her main goal, and she was unrivalled in it. She had years of experience in the industry. Emmeline Vance joined her a month later, bringing valuable information about certain antiques that had gone missing years ago, all having to do with the Hogwarts founders. 

March 10th, 1981.  

“Cannot believe some wanker stole my jacket,” Sirius groans, holding a bag of popcorn, leaning against the wall with the ‘Carnaby Street Welcomes the World’ sign over him.

Remus laughs. “We can go look for it on Cheshire’s market this Sunday, if you wish.”

“Nah, it’s okay,” he assures him, waving a hand. “The memories it held though…”

The robbery had taken place at a restaurant nearby, while they were seated at a table on the terrace. Sirius started singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Remus as he munched into his shepherd’s pie. What started out as a little joke between the two escalated when he started swinging around the rest of the tables, urging people to sing with him. 

“Come on, Moony! Don’t just sit there!” He exclaimed, tugging at his arm. “These people here want to celebrate with you!” 

Mortified as he was, Remus stood up; making it to the centre through the rampage the other man had created. As the rest of the clientele cheered, he was given a piece of chocolate cake with a single candle on top. When they locked eyes, Sirius’ smile had been so bright he forgot about the embarrassment.

As they finally returned to the table, Remus had three pints paid by other people on his table, and the jacket was nowhere to be found.

March, 1981.  

The roof of the forest house had quickly become his favourite place to get a much deserved privacy. Remus feels a fresh breeze against his skin as he smokes, an orange sky with the sun drifting down the horizon. Perfect scenario for a good ol’ dose of melancholia. He usually lets himself drowse off for a moment before stepping into the chaos once again. 

Time kept passing and they didn’t have any new leads. Their worst fear, really. Riddle’s ranks were increasing by the day, and the Order’s decreased in return. Their stashes were running out, Moody turned moodier by the day—

He hears the door to the terrace opening, taking him out of his thoughts. 

Regulus crosses the door and sits on a chair, sighing as he massages his head, closing his eyes. Realising that maybe he shouldn’t be here, Remus tries to get off the roof as silently as possible. It doesn’t work.

“No, stay there.” He hears him say, eyes still closed, creased brows.

“God, you’re strange.” He exhales, earning himself a glare. Remus stands there for a minute before he reaches out for his cigarettes. “Fancy one? Don’t tell Sirius, though.” 

Regulus accepts without saying anything, lighting it with the tip of his wand. He is stressed, that’s evident; the bags under his eyes turn larger with every passing day. 

For a few minutes, no one says anything. Shared silence had always been a thing between them, spending hours patrolling the castle in the late hours at night. Something he never thought he would find himself doing again years later. Curiosity prickles at his skin until it’s physically impossible to keep quiet. 

“Regulus, why did you really join?” 

He doesn’t respond for a while, only massaging his temples, frowning. 

“He’s going for Sirius.”

Remus’ temperature plummets, suddenly his chest feels small. “As in a hunt?” 

Sirius. In danger.

Regulus nods. “He cannot know.” 

“He will try to seek them out, he’ll become reckless.” He could picture it clearly, if Sirius ever needed another reason to be impulsive, this would be it.

“Agreed.” 

It’s yet another few minutes before he actually gets to speak again, trying to make sense of why they would want him specifically, of Riddle’s true motives. It clicks.  

“So I guess he found out about the prophecy.” And even saying it radiates a nauseating tug to his stomach—that had been the Order’s best kept secret, a little piece of hope they could all cling to when everything else felt too dark.

“Yes he did.” His voice is bitter. “I have informed Dumbledore. They haven’t sent the Potters on missions ever since, but I insist they must go into hiding.” 

Remus knows Regulus is hiding something. He notices how he never refers to James by his name, still. There’s another flick of curiosity pulling at his brain, it makes him wonder. 

Not everything was bad, at least. It wouldn’t be for a few months. 

When Sirius wasn’t occupied with missions, research or other work, he tried to spend time with their friends or, more importantly, Remus. Like an unspoken agreement, if both ever spent the day away and their missions dragged long enough they’d meet up at their flat. Something he had looked forward to all day ever since learning about Riddle’s plan. Seeing Sirius walk out the door didn’t mean just another mission anymore, didn’t guarantee he would ever come back. And how maddeningly worrying it was, to be apart in dangerous situations for so long. 

“God, how I missed you,” Remus mumbles between kisses, grasping the other man by the waist with legs bracketing his own. Touching him. Feeling him move. 

Sirius holds him by the jaw, trapping it between his thumb and the rest of his fingers. “Did you, now?” He whispers into his ear. His other hand is caressing him, slowly descending through his chest, through his lower stomach. Remus’ breath quickens. He nods.

“Prove it then.” 

So he does.

Kissing him fervently as he unbuttons his shirt.

Hand in his cheek as he bites his lip.

Leaving little marks on his neck as Sirius throws his head back, lips parted. Foreheads pressed together as they pant into each other’s mouths, grip tightening, eyes meeting. 

Always meeting.

March 10th, 1981.  

When they arrive at the forest house, the lights are out. 

There was supposed to be a meeting, in fact they were running rather late. Remus starts feeling uneasy, there’s always someone here, not once have they found it empty.

“Guess we’re the first to arrive, huh?” Sirius mutters.

Everything is silent.

The wood creaks under their feet, a collection of different smells filling his nose. He clutches his wand as Sirius slowly takes a turn towards the salon, heart racing—

“SURPRISE!”  

“Fucking hell!” He yells, a spell flying out followed shortly by a thud.

More silence.

“Holy shit, I think you just stunned James, mate,” Peter says.

Someone turns the lights on and indeed, James lies on the floor, his glasses crooked on his nose. 

“Well, shit I’m sorry, I didn’t expect this—” he starts explaining.

There’s a flash.

“Marlene! Don’t take photos of James while he’s unconscious!” 

“Look at his nose! He looks funny!”

In the midst of all the noise rising from everyone arguing—someone starts chuckling.

When they all turn around, Regulus is hiding a grin with his hand.

Quiet falls upon them, broken down by Lily, who starts giggling too. And the whole situation is so ridiculous they all start laughing with her, shy titters that turn into a fit of hysterical laughter as they try to lift him up. 

They put him on a single armchair, of course. Safe while the celebration starts.

Sirius goes for the turntable, Black Dog by Led Zeppelin starts playing as the drinks start flowing, 'It's my song, Reggie!' Remus hears from the other side of the room. Marlene takes a photo of the twins on both sides of James, shit-eating grins on their faces as they hold both thumbs up. Dorcas holds Regulus’ arm and starts dragging him around, smiling as he says something under his breath only for her to listen.

And it’s such a relief to socialize like this after everything that’s been going on—that Remus loses himself in conversation and drinks, swinging along to the music. Something he’s still doing when Mary takes his hand and urges him to twirl with her. 

“Oh, he’s gonna miss the cake,” she says, pointing towards the slumped body.

He almost laughs. “We can wait, it’s okay.” 

So they decide to take a picture, putting Marls new camera to use. Remus in the middle, of course, with a birthday hat somebody somehow had acquired, Sirius by his side, an arm wrapped around his boyfriend’s torso and grinning as usual. Lily poses beside Mary, hugging. Gideon and Fabian are crouched at the front as Marlene holds Harry, Dorcas holds the cake, Peter standing next to her. Regulus is near Remus, clearly not knowing what to do with himself—and James is still at the armchair, which they pulled all the way here for the photo. 

When the characteristic flash shines through, and the poses break, Lily is raising her voice.

“Oh my GOD WHO DREW A MOUSTACHE ON HIM?”

When it’s time to cut the cake, Remus is already tipsy, staggering as he gets close to the table, enduring his third rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ of the day—not really complaining at this point. He snorts, and bobs his head along with the out of tune melody, winking shamelessly at Sirius and rejoicing when he sees a blush spread across his cheeks. 

“You have to make a wish, though,” declares Peter. So he closes his eyes.

Let it be like this forever.  

The candles are out with a blow, and when he cuts it, he turns to Lily with a smile.

“Carrot cake, like your mum used to make, right?” She asks, eyebrows raised. 

There’s simply so much joy inside him at the moment that he turns around to hug her. 

All of a sudden, a heave cuts through the air. James is staring around, confused. Catching a glimpse of the group, he deflates again.

“Don’t tell me I missed the cake,” he groans, as he rubs his eyes.

“Nobody tell him about the moustache,” whispers Marlene in return. 

An hour later, when the alcohol has loosened up everybody and their stash of rock music has run out, they turn the radio on. A trendy pop song can be heard, and Remus sits on the now empty armchair, taking in everybody around him.

“Sometimes I feel I’ve got to,

Run away, I’ve got to,

Get away...”

 

Sirius is holding Harry. “Padfoot, I'm your uncle Padfoot—”

“Sirius, he is like seven months old.” Regulus interrupts.

James and Lily are dancing in the middle of the room, Mary and Marlene joining them.

Dorcas is chatting with Gideon, Remus can hear the words Diagon Alley and kneazle as he points to a scar in his arm.

Peter seems to be deep in conversation with Fabian, on the other side of the room.

So Remus gets up to serve himself another drink, wondering how all of them could have taken time off for him. When he returns to his chair, Sirius is there, a yawning Harry in his arms. 

“He’s so little,” he lulls, bumping his nose softly.

Remus feels something warming up inside him.

This is the moment he decides he will do anything to keep it this way, like fate carving a path in his mind. Surely nothing was written in stone, surely he would sacrifice anything if the reward would be keeping them intact—and if war was the price to pay for all of them to be together, then so be it. 

March 12th, 1981.  

Remus, on his knees. A cool, freezing feeling rushing all over, piercing as the stones beneath.

Albus walks away from him.

“I’m begging you, please,” his voice cuts through the morning air. “I’ll do anything.”

He sees the man in front of him stop, turning around with an illegible expression on his face. 

“Give me more missions,” he begs, breathless, heart pounding. Heavy like the agony occupying it. “Let him sit this one out, please.”

His tone is soothing if not for the words he pronounces. “Mr. Lupin, one cannot interfere—”

“They’re all I have,” he whines.

Dumbledore stares at him for a minute. “The Potters are on their way to a safe house, that is decided, but Mr. Black is a crucial part of our advancements, there are still several missions lined up for him.”

“Give them to me.” Remus is pleading, desperation evident in his voice, cracking. “I can take it.” 

So he did. 

He got more tasks. He spent his days working, operating under fake names, glamours, gathering information for the Order and their rebellion, hurting himself in battle over and over again. Doesn’t matter, he would take it without complaint, he would take it all for the sake of keeping them safe. Alive.

Whether the execution of his plan was morally questionable, he didn’t give a damn—they would never find out, and he would never tell.

As winter became spring, as they lost more Order members, as the promise of a better life dulled and tarnished beneath a clearer sky, Remus kept an ounce of faith. 

If only he knew he had been played.

Chapter Text

“What shall we use,

To fill the empty spaces,

Where we used to talk?

How shall I fill 

The final places? 

How should I complete the wall?”

December 24th, 1988.  

Remus warms his hands with his breath as the line grows larger behind him. One thing he learned fast in Berlin was to be patient. If you wanted to get a seat at a restaurant, you had to get in line, if you needed something from the store, better get used to waiting hours to find out maybe it had run out. 

December lines were worse, apparently. He could even hear chattering teeth from the people around if he concentrated hard enough. The temperature had dropped significantly these last few days, forcing them to buy a heater for the sake of keeping all their limbs intact.

He would’ve done this earlier, but the factory he was working at needed the extra labour and honestly he couldn’t say no to a few spare bucks, lower back be damned. 

The aisles are almost empty by now, he doesn’t fail to notice. Where a month ago there had been enough cans to feed an army, now lie only two; and a single banana, somehow. He scoffs, snatching one before anyone could get a hold of it first. There were no fish, and no turkeys, but the chicken seemed to be in demand, now—yet another line to be able to get your hands on it, no thanks. No whiskey, but there were still several bottles of vodka. He considered for a moment, then let go. No need to build a stash yet, right? 

When he walks out an hour later, he is carrying carrots, peas, and some canned corn. The store was out of potatoes, what he actually needed. 

As he makes his way back to the flat, Remus spots a clothing store. He sees leather jackets with spikes on them, some shirts with prints, pins, black bovver boots and even scarfs. A sign next to them with what can only be translated to ‘even punks get cold too’; he snorts and enters. 

He hadn’t even thought about buying a Christmas present for Erik until now. Guess it was hard to get used to having a friend again. Or acquaintance. Or probably more than that, like a fragile limbo right between the two. 

Remus finds a sex pistols pin between several others placed in a box in front of the counter, taking the emerald green scarf from the exhibit too in hopes his new roommate will find it to his liking.

How could he even begin to explain the type of relationship he had with Erik? It all started that fateful night—the night he saw Sirius. Both had slept on the same bed until the rich smell of breakfast woke him up the morning after, accompanied by a wide smirk on the other man’s face.

“So, who is he?” He asked as Remus finished eating.

“Hm?” 

Erik pointed towards the bed with his head, holding a mug with coffee in his hand.

Oh, that. “I’d rather not say.” 

“Was it the guy from the club?” He took a sip. “Cause let me tell you, proper stunner… though you’re not so bad yourself, if we’re honest.”

Their friendship had come easy. Apparently, Erik had been looking for a roommate to help cover the expenses of the two bedroom flat he had been occupying for a year after escaping from his family back in Stralsund, Remus could use somewhere to live. He acquiesced.

Remus placed his bags on the floor, checking out his new room. “Do you usually ask people after you’ve shagged them?”

“Not really,” the other man replied, “suppose I just got lucky.” He winked, green eyes fixed on him.

He did, in fact, offer everybody after shagging them. Remus learned later. 

Well, he didn’t mind, Erik was nice enough, and definitely knew how to cook—amongst other things. A man of many talents, one would say. At 29 years old he could speak German, English and a little bit of Spanish. Born from a German mother and a British father, the latter deceased now, he didn’t elaborate much. 

He had a sister, few years younger than him and he sent money to his family on occasion; the rest using it on groceries, the flat and sometimes punk concerts. Convenient, for the place he lived in. He had a scar under the navel, and another on his leg from a bike accident when he was five, apparently his father had found it hilarious while his mother yelled at him. If one can even imagine the dynamics to that. 

He never asked about Remus’ scars when they shagged on occasion.

At first Remus had been shy, afraid of sharing a space with someone else after living on his own for so long. It was quite the effort to keep full moons a secret—and to keep the wand hidden, of all things—but it got easier with time. 

Everything seemed easier with him, that was just his way to be, not careless, but accepting. He didn't ask lots of questions, which was ideal for a man like Remus, yet he had a lot to talk about. And they did have some things in common, mostly when it came to music. 

He steps out of the store, bag in hand, they even put a bow on it. He will have to keep it hidden until tomorrow. 

The pleasant smell of butter and meat fills his nose as he enters the flat, slamming keys on the counter and the groceries bag. 

“Finally, how was the line?”

“Worse than usual, don’t know why I even tried.” Remus sits down on a chair at the kitchen table, leg throbbing. “They were out of potatoes.”

“Well, we can survive.” The other man cleans his hands with a towel, staring at the pan.

Remus stands up with the slightest bit of effort and walks to his room, stashing the scarf underneath his bed. It really made him feel so ridiculous, what if it was too much? What if Erik didn’t like it? What if he got the wrong idea? 

No, he has to stop these types of thoughts, it's fucking debilitating to think like this all the time. He is capable of having friends again, he is capable of basic human interaction without feeling like having to run away.

He has to be, there's no other way.

When he returns to the dining table, Erik is holding a box. “Look what I found,” he boasts, handing it to him.

“Tree lights? We don’t even have a tree.” 

He signals behind him with his head, a cheeky smile on his lips.

So Remus turns, snorting as he catches a glimpse of an almost bald pine branch on a pot with a green garland wrapped around, two red ornaments hanging from it, and a pinecone where the star should go.

“It’s a concept.” He hears behind him. “I called him Herbert, can you wrap the lights around? I’m almost done with dinner.”

So that’s how they spend Christmas the next day. No mashed potatoes, no turkey, but delicious chicken with corn and carrots. Herbert in the background. The conversation flows naturally, to Remus’ surprise, and so does their cheap wine. 

It’s until late hours in the night that he even ends up sharing some stories about Hogwarts, under the disguise of a private school, of course. The stone corridors, the stained glass windows; how the snow covered everything when winter arrived. Some of their pranks, how comfortable the beds were even if they didn't seem like it, how bats could be heard outside their window some summer nights, if they were lucky. 

Nothing about the people he shared a room with, perhaps it was way too soon.

It’s even later that Erik is slurring as he opens his present. “How thoughtful, It even has a bow and evrrrything!” He smiles, ripping the first strip of paper.

Then, he comes to a halt.

“Wait,” Erik gets up in a hurry, swinging. “I got something for you too—verdammt!” He exclaims, almost knocking over Herbert, tripping and slamming against the door. 

Remus bursts out in laughter, which makes Erik spin around, panting, nose red. “I’ve never heard you laugh.”

Oh. 

He stops immediately.

The other man seems upset. “No no no, do it again, sounds nice.”

He knows he won’t, so he deflects, clearing his throat. “Um, are you okay, though?” 

“Yeah.” He waves a hand, still looking at him, head tilted. “Well, sstay there.” He flees towards his room. 

That night Remus goes to sleep with a new book, and a conflicted sentiment looming over him. He didn’t even know it had been more than a year since he last laughed.

The next morning Erik pukes his guts out in the bathroom, and of course Remus prepares breakfast for him.

“Day after day, love turns grey

Like the skin of a dying man.”

July, 1981.  

The first time he felt a permanent soreness in his bones was two nights after a full moon, after his third mission with the wolves. The indications had been simple: spend the transformations with them, try to earn their trust, recruit them.

Easier said than done.

When he told Sirius about it he had gotten so angry he almost went after Dumbledore himself, leaving Remus with the obligation to physically restrain him, wrapping his arms around him until he calmed down.

“It’s not fair, why would they send you on your own?” He cried.

“It’s okay, it will be okay,” he whispered in his ear, “it needs to be done, it’s okay.”

Sirius’ voice broke when he asked, “What if it’s not?”

“It’ll be okay, you’ll see,” he reassured him.

It hadn’t been okay. 

The wolves had been cautious around him, suspecting, asking for him to prove himself as they all stood in the woods. The darkness had been all engrossing as he felt the first punch. As three people attacked him at once, as he felt the first rib breaking and his leg giving out. His face had bounced against the grass, blood on his teeth when he finally got up, fists ready, senses tingling. Remus didn’t dare say anything to him when he returned, limping, bleeding, basically mauled. There was no use in arguing, this had been a mandatory task. Hard as it was.

He leans against the door when he closes it, his skin damp, still covered in sweat.

“You’re bleeding.” Sirius is on his feet in an instant.

“I know, it’s fine.” He puts a hand in his chest. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” he drawls, “they hurt you.”

“Sirius, please not right now.” His head is pounding, every step takes a little effort.

“Is that a scratch?” 

“I don’t know, it could be.” 

He squints at him. “Do you think I don’t know about what they do?”

Remus sighs, talking over him, “I know you do…”

“About their impulses?”

“Careful,” he hisses, “ ‘they’ includes me too, in case you have forgotten.” 

So he heads for the tub, his body rejoicing at the sensation of hot water, warmth spreading. He takes some murtlap essence and dittany from their first aid, spreads it through the cuts in his chest, everything aching a bit as it heals. 

Remus is drying himself with a towel when Sirius enters the bathroom too, and seeing him sends something hot down his stomach, still. His stare is fixed on the floor.

“You reeked of them,” he whispers, sounding defeated. “You reeked of sweat, and lust and—” He turns away, drawing a ragged breath.

That’s when he understands. Sirius wasn’t mad at him, right? Sirius was jealous. 

“You know I wouldn’t, right?” When he doesn’t answer Remus takes his hand. “Sirius.”

He closes his eyes, brows creased, nods twice.

“And night after night, we pretend it's all right

But I have grown older, and you have grown colder

And nothing is very much fun any more .”

And Remus’ guts feel like sinking, so he does what he knows best.

They plummet against the wall, first. Kissing as if the world would end if they didn’t, like Sirius is the air that has been missing from his lungs—because he is, in a way. 

He feels him quivering under his touch as he nips at his jaw, getting rid of everything as they go with frenzied hands, pulling like it hurts to separate. Lithe limbs making space with Remus on his knees as in worship. Because he does. Fingers glissade smoothly, receiving wonderful sounds in return that heats up the bowels of his gut.

It’s a few moments into it that Sirius plunges him into the bed, taking the lead. Ruthless in the way he grabs him, ferocious in how he bites this time, as if marking him, making a chill go down his spine from the mild piercing and the noises he’s trying to conceal. It’s not really gentle. It’s pure carnal instinct, a little fierce as they cling to each other, as way more marks appear and Sirius muffles a whine in the bridge of his jaw, breathing increasing in short bursts announcing he’s on the brink.  

Remus tries to hold his face but is immediately dismissed. The other man pushes him back, going for the kill. Doing all the things he knows will make him lose the last of sanity clinging to his body and then some, grinding like possessed, brutal and loud and Remus is so out of his mind at the moment he doesn’t give much thought to the fact that he’s not really looking at him. 

In fact he hadn’t been for a while. 

It hits them both with their heads buried in the crook of each other’s necks, shaking as Sirius finally looks him straight in the eye. Something flashing in the background that could be similar to defiance or—boldness, he’s not sure, before he turns around and falls back into bed. Not facing him.

Remus is left there, panting with the aftershocks of it—furrowing his brows in confusion because he has no idea what is going on.

He could cry, really. All bliss slipping from him like smoke. How did it come to this? Why was this happening? He wanted to scream, to hold him by the wrists until he got an answer. Why are you rejecting me? Why would you give this to me if you don’t want me? Do you know how much it hurts?  

Something recoils deep within, the urge to vomit is strong, the weight of heartbreak crushing him.

And he cannot stay. 

He lies in bed for a minute, trying to calm himself down, wishing he could just reach out and hold him—

But even that possibility seems out of bounds now.

“Darling, I have to go,” he says softly to the body lying next to him. 

There’s no answer.

So he gets dressed, a lump in his throat. 

As he walks out, he stops. “I—I love you.” Why would he even doubt with this? There’s something shifting in the air, he can feel it. And if he could go back he would’ve told himself to stop, to really acknowledge it before leaving. 

When he turns around, Sirius is asleep. 

“Would you like to watch TV? Or get between the sheets?

Or contemplate the silent freeway?” 

..

July, 1981.  

Remus can’t breathe. 

He drags himself through the entrance of their flat—how did he open the door he cannot remember. 

They were supposed to stop a shipload coming from Belgium. The death eaters had been waiting for them, killing an Order member in the process.

Sirius is not here.

His stomach sinks, he has a bad feeling. Why isn’t he here? He had nowhere to go today, right? 

God, he cannot breathe, it’s as if his lungs shrinked, as if the space closed in on him with every attempt. 

The window, maybe if he opens the window…

His knees hit the floor as he clutches his chest.

He cannot be here, he has to get out, something is wrong.

What if he’s dying? What use will he be if he’s dying? He opens his mouth, trying to help the air in, only to end up with desperate gulps of it.

His hand is gripping the wood on the floor, something is wrong, something feels wrong. 

What if he dies right now? This definitely feels like dying, there’s no way he’s making it out of this alive, he cannot breathe.

He cannot.

..

“Would you like something to eat? Would you like to learn to fly?

Would ya? Would you like to see me try?”

When air finally enters his lungs, Remus is leaning against the wall, still on the floor.  

He is pinching his nose, heart still plummeting, but definitely not dying.

He wipes the sweat from his forehead. 

Remus had seen somebody else die tonight. Somebody that had a family, that had friends, probably had plans for dinner, even—he knows this is what he has to do but fucking hell, he was so tired. There had been so much death around lately, he was so fucking tired. 

The distinct sound of a key can be heard, then, the door opens. The steps entering are heavy, laboured breathing that puts him on edge in a second. Sirius leans wearily against the entrance table, which gives out under his weight, the wood not being strong enough. He hears him cursing under his breath.

“What happened?” Remus asks, seeing the other man get startled, not expecting to find him there. 

He doesn’t respond, just falls into the sofa, muffling a groan. 

This cannot be good. “Sirius, what happened?” He gets closer to the couch, trying to get a better view of him.

The voice that responds sounds hoarse, scratchy. “I got called in, at fucking last,” he half snickers. Being ‘discarded’, as he called it, by the Order had been a tough blow for him. “Something easy they said, of course it wasn’t.” Remus can now see the blood in his shirt. “They took us by surprise.” It happened to them, too .

Remus’ hands are shaking, wasn’t this part of the deal? He was not supposed to be in the field. He kneels in front of him, summoning their first aid kit. “Let me see.” 

Sirius raises his shirt, a series of slashes and cuts adorning his abdomen. Remus sighs. “Take off the jacket, and the shirt too.” His tone is imperative, and he is fucking pissed.

When he does, there are other marks on his arms. “What the fuck, Sirius? Who did this to you?”

“Bella, I think she was trying to chain—ah.” He winces as Remus spreads murtlap essence over his cuts. “Anyway, I got her good, she was limping when we left,” he adds, with a little snort. 

Remus can feel his blood boil, why did no one listen to him? He knew this would happen, he knew, he fucking knew. What if they would’ve taken him? What then? Remus would have gone mad, he would have gone to them by himself, he would have—he doesn’t even want to think about it.

He is furious, grabbing bandages, scissors, blood replenishing potions. Sirius cooperates in everything he tells him to do. 

“This was not supposed to happen,” he mumbles under his breath. 

Silence. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” Now that the cuts have stopped bleeding, and the colour has returned to Sirius’ face, he strides to the door.

The other man gets up, demanding to be noticed. “No, you said this was not supposed to happen, what does that mean?”

“Nothing, it fucking means nothing, god.” He won’t stop shaking, he can feel his throat closing again. “I—I have to do something.” He storms off, headed towards the person responsible for this.

Between the haze of his emotions, he fails to notice how Sirius stands frozen, staring off into the distance, a heartbreaking expression on his face.

When he gets back, the entry table is fixed and Sirius is nowhere to be found.

Two weeks later they lost Emmeline, right in front of him. 

He held her hand as she died. Remus was the one that told their friends, triggering another panic attack right after. It was way too much to handle, one of their best assets, gone. The losses were getting closer to them, the people dying around him had names, now. People he had shared a meal with, a drink, a laugh—people he shared common goals with, people he had listened to as they talked about their loved ones. The funeral was exemplary, but all he could feel was shame, guilt. He stared at Emmeline's little sister as she threw a rose to her casket, and all he could do was mutter ‘sorry’ under his breath. Sirius stared at him.

July 31th, 1981. 

Harry’s birthday fell on a Friday that year, and Sirius was the most excited of them all. Splurging in a variety of plushies and a tiny toy broom for the occasion—beating James to it, taking advantage of their secluded situation. 

Remus opted for an illustrated version of Winnie the Pooh, with a teddy bear to match. He knew the boy was still too young to even understand the story—or the concept of a honey eating bear, for that matter—but he also knew Lily would appreciate it. And him hugging the stuffed animal surely had been a sight for days to come. Someday he would grow into it, he remembers thinking absentmindedly.

They arrange the table in the garden, not acknowledging the tightness between them as both touch accidentally when reaching for a napkin. Remus is wounded, yes, but it’s Sirius’ turn to reach out. Especially after everything that happened. 

James emerges from the kitchen, holding a tray of sandwiches and a jug filled to the brim with lemonade, biting his tongue. “Fuck, we’re still missing the lights.”

“I can do it, don’t worry Prongs.” Remus pats him on the back. Desperate to get away from Sirius for a moment. An ache starts making its way to his chest, heart twisting, it’s been years since he had last felt that way towards him. 

He enters through the backdoor, bumping into Lily still wearing regular clothes. 

“Remus, thank god!” She kisses him on the cheek.

“Hi Lils, James sent me for the lights.”

“Ah yes, in the cupboard.” She stops to look at herself in a mirror for a moment, holding a bobby pin between her teeth. “Do you mind taking Harry? I still need to put on my dress”

“You know I don't.” He reaches out for him, crawling through the floor. “Hello, you.” Harry giggles, recognizing his face. 

They had been living in the house since mid March, when Regulus offered it as a safe house—guaranteeing that the guards around it were stronger than any of the Order and way more efficient, for that matter. Shockingly, Dumbledore accepted, transferring the three of them as fast as he could. Remus wonders what Regulus had to offer him in return.

Whether the three of them liked to be confined to their headquarters was a mystery to him. At least they were not completely alone like many who had gone into hiding before them. At least they could still see them, and at least they still had something to fill their time with. James was sure that he was about to hit gold in what research was concerned and Lily had been working hard on potions and other projects Regulus trusted her with. Remus couldn’t really understand it, but the two of them had formed some sort of alliance—surely a result from spending so much time together in that greenhouse space. No one could ever deny Lily’s attempts at being someone’s friend, if she chose you, you were definitely done for. At least that’s how Remus felt it had been with him, like an unstoppable force, something that was bound to happen and he was thankful it did.

He walks out, lights and Harry in hand. And as soon as Sirius lays eyes on him, he is striding to his side.

"There he is!" He exclaims, plucking his godson from Remus' arms, ignoring him.

Mary arrived first. Followed half an hour later by Marlene and exactly fifteen minutes later by Dorcas. The three of them circled around Harry, presenting him with their own gifts, making a whole show out of it, whether the baby paid attention or not. ‘Okay Mary, but why would he like wooden blocks when he could have farm figures instead?’  

It was definitely entertaining to see.

These had been such uncertain times that when Peter arrived late that day, bringing a bottle of wine with him, nobody even thought about questioning him about it. 

Not like they would do Remus in the near future. 

Around two even Effie and Monty made an appearance, which was surprising because they were the only ones who had ever been invited to the house apart from their group. Of course they brought gifts of their own that didn’t even fit in the table anymore and a tray of cocadas made from scratch by Effie. One of the best sweets from her country in Remus’ opinion and a personal favourite when it came to James’ sweet tooth. Sirius had rushed to their side as they entered, a giggling Harry in his arms, suddenly chattier.

There was only one person missing. 

“Where is Regulus?” He asks Lily, who is munching on a sandwich already.

She stops smiling for a second. “Oh, he couldn’t be here today, Gideon and Fabian either. Too busy with missions.”

In the background Sirius can be heard shouting, “Marls! Take a photo of me and Harry in his new broom!”

That makes Lily jolt from her seat. “Sirius Black you did not!”  

Alice and Frank were the last to arrive, grinning as they laid Neville down on the grass with Harry—both babies raising their arms in recognition and a smile on their faces when a variety of toys were placed around them. 

They had joined their horcrux hunt in April—a relief for the struggle they were stuck in during those days. The two of them had gone through the auror training, and their intel was one of the most helpful ones when talking about strategic intelligence and duelling tactics. The Longbottoms were some of the most promising aurors of their generation, Moody had once said. 

Remus definitely believed it.

Now they had a diary, stolen from Lucius Malfoy’s house, they had located the cup at the Lestrange’s mansion, exactly where Sirius feared it would be, and they had suspicions of Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem in the forests of Albania. To say they all vowed their lives had been an understatement—not even their souls could have been enough for the all consuming effort the crusade needed. And yet they still tried.

It’s until James walks out of the kitchen again, holding a steaming platter this time; that he realises he hasn’t really spoken to anyone since he arrived. He fixes his gaze on the food as it’s put down on the table and leaves it there for a while. 

“Yes! I was starving,” Mary exclaims, already grabbing her fork.

“Guess you’ll have to stand in line,” Sirius declares, “I am hungrier.” 

“I think the hungriest would be Moony,” jokes Peter, “Look at his face.” 

And when Sirius does, his smile has vanished. 

After eating and bickering for a couple hours, they all disperse again. Forming little groups as the wine starts flowing. The last of the birds can still be heard, all singing as the sun goes down, and the air starts getting a bit colder. 

Remus catches Lily sitting on her own, twirling her glass, staring off into the distance. 

“Everything okay?” Remus gets closer, concerned.

A sigh. “I wish Petunia was here,” she says, “But don’t think she would’ve made it, even if it was possible for her to come.” 

Remus never really understood sibling relationships. It had been difficult for Sirius to really make amends with Regulus at first, since both of them could hold onto grudges for years and were not known to ever be the first to break. They got along well when it meant planning or investigating, they would see eye to eye and could anticipate the death eater's behaviour better than anyone else. They spoke the same language when it came to dark magic and when talking shit about family members; but when the conversation turned south, and it was time to talk about their parents or life at Grimmauld's, everybody knew a fight was about to take place. 

It was understood in the ferocity of it all, that they wouldn't hesitate in giving their life for the other, yet there was still a barrier there, persistent, both stubbornly dashing against it, but never at the same time. 

He wondered how could someone get so estranged from a person they grew up with? How could someone get estranged from Lily? She was nothing like Regulus or Sirius for that matter, kindness came to her as easy as breathing—he had years of friendship to prove it. 

“Well, she is missing out isn’t she?” He slides an arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer.

They observe the rest of their friends, all laughing and joking around. Dorcas seems to get along with Alice and Frank way too well, while Marlene and Mary are peeking through the bags of the gifts table. Laughing about who knows what that leaves even him with a little smile as he takes a gulp from his glass.

His eyes drift to Sirius against his will only to find him already staring. He immediately breaks it, though, mumbling something to Effie he cannot hear. James is by their side, simply nodding. 

Remus turns to stare at Neville, still sitting beside Harry, grass stains on their clothes. And nobody really notices at first; music and conversations to be immersed in. It’s some minutes later when Neville starts laughing that they notice the Bowtruckle touching his leg; curious. Getting closer and closer to him until he almost touches his nose. His laughter spreads even to Harry, who starts giggling too while the creature now looks a little confused in the middle of it all.

“Marlene! Where’s your camera?” Lily asks, rushing to capture the moment.

“Ah yes, some creatures seem to like him. Plants, above all,” mentions Alice, getting closer. “Who knows, maybe he'll be a herbologist someday.”

Late August, 1981.

As he reaches the door this time, he almost collapses. Remus sits down on a step that leads to the garden, blue hour consuming it all, a cerulean filter over the trees. He is panting, grabbing his leg as if it didn’t hurt to do that, too. 

It’s all finally catching up to him. The fights, the erratic sleep patterns, the deaths—the killing. How they said you have to mean it when directing the spell. How he meant it every single time—

He sniffs, followed by a grunt. He puts his head between his arms and stays like that for a while. It hurts. And he’s so tired. Somehow, a deeper part of himself wants to cry; somehow, a deeper part of himself is asking for his mother. He shakes his head, rejecting it. Focus, he shouts in his head. It’s not over yet, he still has a lot to give—and give he will. For them. For them, for them, for them, he repeats, like a mantra. 

When he feels strong enough at last, he steps through the entrance. Yet more muffled voices can be heard, the sound of them clearing while he limps to the studio.

Sirius is raising his voice. “No one knows about his whereabouts!” 

James answers, “I don’t know, something would have slipped by now, somehow we would—” but he stops talking as Remus opens the door.

He nods in greeting. “What are you talking about?”

“Horcruxes,” Peter cuts in.

Nobody talks for a minute.

“Um, shall we?” Asks Frank, bringing a book from the desk nearest him, clearing his throat. “So, the diadem…”

They all shift in their seats, a weird tension permeating the room. 

It was September when they lost the Longbottoms. 

Voldemort was desperate, it showed. They got violently tortured for information they never released. A thing they should’ve been grateful for, yet all they could feel was grief. 

Their sacrifice had been so brave, considering what they knew and what they had to lose. Just a week earlier Sirius had insisted that they started destroying the horcruxes, sparking a loud dispute with his brother, who insisted the least they needed was for Riddle to notice they were gone. The books said he would definitely feel it if one of them was destroyed. So they kept researching ways to efficiently devastate them, trusting Dorcas with the task of practising fyendfire bending, and Lily with the task of researching basilisk venom. Something she was doing when receiving the news, gasping as if the air had been sucked out of her lungs, gripping the wall as she fell to the floor, weeping. ‘What will be of little Neville?’ She asked, between sobs. 

Nobody had an answer. 

Regulus looked deep in thought. 

November 9th, 1989. 

Even though the streets of Berlin might be grey, there was so much life within them. Remus sits on the sofa in their flat, looking out the window in what seems to be a daily ritual at this point.

There’s some kids throwing rocks at the abandoned building in front, laughing as they hit the ground. A chuckle, a friendly punch. Oh, to be that young once again, he thinks, before wincing a little.

His hand twitches, so he lights a fag. The full moon is on the eleventh, the familiar ache starting to settle deep in his bones and his lower back. Always returning to him with a vengeance. 

A drink wouldn’t be bad, right? Remus gets up. He knows where the alcohol stash is, has been thinking about it for an hour now, as a matter of fact. He pours himself a bit of vodka, a fleeting rush as he downs it, wondering if he could take another—

Erik enters the flat with urgency, as if he’s being chased. He slams the keys on the kitchen counter and turns to Remus with a smile. 

“They’re tearing it down.”

Remus halts. “What? What are they—”

“The wall! The fucking wall, it’s going down!” He yells, jumping up and down.

So they turn on the tv, one they had found discarded by the side of the road two blocks away from where they lived. It was evidently damaged and when they turned it on they discovered it only had two channels, interrupted by static every ten minutes. Most days it was tolerable, but this close to the full moon he couldn’t handle something like that without wanting to rip off his hair, so he kept it turned off.

As the scenes start appearing, and the news people start talking in german—saying things he doesn’t really understand—he feels a hand on his shoulder. “I think we should go.” 

Are you mental? He wants to ask. “Right now? It looks like chaos in there.”

“Fuck chaos, it’s an historical moment! We should be there!” His roommate gets up from the floor, rushing towards his room, Remus can hear some clattering. “We’ve been waiting!” 

When he returns, he is wearing a leather jacket and is holding a bat. 

“I think the bat has more chances of shattering than the wall…”

He swings it around. “Let it shatter then, let’s fucking go!”

So they do, letting themselves be guided through Berlin streets with the pool of people who apparently thought the same as them. There’s citizens watching from the windows, restaurants seem to be giving drinks or coffee to willing passersby. Dogs bark, babies cry and even Remus joins in the fun every once in a while.

When they arrive, Erik is thriving as if high on adrenaline, a force of nature to be reckoned with, sheer layer of sweat covering him. His deep brown hair, wild as he makes his way to the front, his jaw, the way it moves every time he screams with the rest of them… no, no. 

He focuses somewhere else.

And as Remus observes the uproar around him, he really starts to feel it too. A promise—a breakthrough. There are young men, old people, children, babies, policemen, even tourists watching. All expectant as a claw machine moves towards the wall, as the other side can be seen again, after all these years. The older people cry, and the young ones cheer.

His friend is now returning to him, making himself heard over the clamour as the hammers impact into it. 

Tear down the wall! 

(Tear down the wall)

(Tear down the wall)

“You have to try it!” He yells, handing him an actual sledgehammer. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Where did you get this?”

“Does it matter?”

Not really, he thinks, as he gets closer and lands the first blow. Debris flying all around—people rally. 

 A loud noise, like the ones he used to fear on missions.

Rubble. 

Rubble he crawled through so many times, same rubble he saw people dying in. 

Another blow. The wolves, measuring out his strength. Remus standing in the dark as he felt his leg give out.

Another, and another, and another, and—

‘We all did, Remus.’  

‘What do you mean you can’t go this week?’   

‘Is that a slash on your leg?’   

‘I love you, Remus.’  

'I’m sorry, Remus.’  

‘Come on Pads, dance with us.’  

'Where are you going?’  

‘Where have you been?’  

‘I’m afraid of dying, Remus.’  

‘It’s Alice and Frank, they got them.’  

‘I never believed you were the spy.’  

‘I can show him that we can be a family again.’  

The final blow, an opening to the other side. A whole other world waiting beyond. There are people there too, all waiting.

They’ve all been waiting.

“I don’t need no arms around me,

I don’t need no drugs to calm me,

I have seen the writing on the wall,

Don’t think I need anything at all.”

When he finishes, Erik grins at him. 

“I heard they’re handing out free beer over there.” He points to a bar, a block from where they’re standing right now.

Remus’ hands are red, surprisingly deadly still. He takes a moment to take it all in—the liberty, the weightless feeling—the dust, sticking to him. 

“Sounds good to me,” he responds finally. Handing the sledgehammer to a bloke on his left, making his way out the wreckage. 

“All in all it was all just bricks in the wall,

All in all you were all just bricks in the wall.”

Days later, at a club with sticky floors, two roommates clink small glasses and down a shot. A celebration of sorts, a goodbye. Not to each other, but to Berlin. 

The plan had been made two months ago, while lying in bed, sharing a post shag cigarette. They didn't often, since Erik wasn’t really a fan of the taste. 

“So where would you go, if you could?” Remus had asked that day, scanning the ceiling over them. 

“As in visiting or living there?”

He closed his eyes. “Anything—no wait, living.” 

Erik stretched. “Madrid.”

“I’ve never been there.”

“I have family there,” he said, "the weather is nice, the sunsets way more colourful.”

A chuckle. “Would love to see it.”

Silence. Then he felt him shift in the bed. “We could go.” 

Remus opened his eyes. “What?”

“To Madrid, if you’d like.”

He was sitting now. “To live?” 

“We could.” 

It was a sheepish proposition, but a proposition nevertheless. 

He pictured his future, something he hadn’t done in a while. If Madrid was a colourful city like he said, he surely could give it a try; after all, that’s what he wanted for himself from now on, right? Something happier, hues—lights. No more black or white, he was tired of black or white. For years, he thought he didn't belong anywhere, for years he wandered around alleys, a different city every month, a new bed every week; never settling down in case someone would find him, in case someone recognised him. He thought he would never have a home again, during that time. 

He seized the sheets beneath him. Guess he was wrong. Guess his heart could still hold onto a little bit of hope. 

So now, as they stood getting sloshed on their last weekend at Berlin, Remus felt like letting go. It was symbolic, in a way, to leave his pain behind like the wall that had come tumbling down under their fingertips.

Of course he didn’t expect any of it to be easy, but at least he was ready to begin. 

Usually, he had a rule when listening to music: No Bowie, no Queen, no T.Rex, and definitely no Abba. 

But tonight it didn’t matter; tonight was all about making peace with it. Or pretend. So he leaps towards the dj, asking for a tune before returning to their table. 

“Honestly, if you asked for a rock song in a club—”

“Nah, this you’ll like, I swear.” He downs yet another shot, feeling braver as the song starts playing, putting on his best smirk and turning to Erik.

He sees the other man stop in his tracks to stare at him, pupils dilating, tracing Remus’ face. 

The way he stops at the scar on his nose, at his brows, so delicately. 

How he takes a step towards him, as if he cannot help himself. 

And looking at his lips, he considers it; but Remus knows better.

He cannot, there’s a limit, and none are willing to cross it, it would be too much. Living together, none of them ready… everything would end in tragedy. Remus was fucking tired of tragedies.

He clears his throat as he grabs a glass from the table, taking a sip. 

Spell broken.

As the voice begins to sing, he feels a tug at his stomach, scenes start flooding his head. 

The Gryffindor common room. 

A flash of black, curly hair—glitter. 

Tanned skin, dimples.

Red, blonde—floral perfume. 

‘Come on, don’t tell me you don’t like to dance!’  

Silky hands, covered with rings. 

A grin, mischievous yet sincere. 

He smiles, welcoming whatever the hell wants to appear, he will take it, hold to it for a moment then let go. 

After all, it’s history indeed.

Erik furrows his eyebrows, almost opening his mouth in shock. “No way you asked for this.”

He winks at him, then grabs him by the arms. “The winner takes it aaaaall!”

And he can only laugh, because the winner did take it all, didn’t he? The summers spent at the Potters when they were young, the golden rays hitting James, reminding him so much of home. That potions room the first time they kissed, the soft trace of fingers as Sirius discovered his scars the first time they… no, not that. Remus can keep some of it. 

It belongs to him too, anyway. 

He takes another sip. 

“I was in your arms, 

Thinking I belonged there,

I figured it made sense,

Building me a fence…”

 

It was always meant to be this way. Happiness had been once a thing he could reach out to, something he considered constant in his life, leaving claw marks on it as it was ripped from him so forcefully—

And it's such a shame because he used to love his life, he really did.

Of course he had caught glimpses of it during his time away, a little smile then and there, that time he actually laughed in Paris—but none really stayed. None of that joy ever stayed, and he was getting older, he was getting fucking tired. 

He remembers Lily, dancing to this exact song when it came on the radio. How in the middle of a war she could keep her spirits, never giving up; always relentless even in her cheerfulness. How he thought he could make a home out of it, of their love—her kindness. And yes, normally he wouldn't ask for Abba in a place like this, but it reminded him so much of her, he needed to feel her close one last time; he needed to picture her clearly one last time.

I miss you so much, I’m sorry I couldn’t stay, he says to her, in his head. A simple thing really, but there’s so much to talk about, he would never stop. 

So they dance and spin around as Abba fills their ears, not caring about who might be watching. He cannot stop smiling, a weight lifting off his chest. I love you, I love you, I love you... 

Remus takes a moment to remember all of them, their faces, their voices. Then mumbles his gratitude, his goodbyes. 

So long, thanks for all the memories, for the good times.  

His throat feels tight when his mind reaches Sirius. The one he saved for last.

“Somewhere deep inside,

You must know I miss you,

But what can I say?

Rules must be obeyed…”

 

The one he knows will be harder to let go of. The eyes he’ll keep picturing in his dreams... But even this, he is willing to do now, many years later. 

How I loved you, darling. And god, how you hurt me, but it’s okay. I will be okay.   

He thinks of his parents, and his smile is wider. He thinks of Hope’s bright eyes, of Lyall staring at him proudly. Of how difficult it would’ve been for them to see him like this, if they were still here, that is.

I’m so sorry, mum, I will take care of myself now.   

Remus keeps dancing, even lifts his arms a little, laughing and singing along with Erik—his head pulled back, lights raining down on him as the note drags on, beat slowing down. 

He feels a hand on his lower back, bringing him back to the present as he stands face to face with him. 

Time seems to stop, for a second. 

And the truth is, he wants it. 

Remus wants this a lot, he can see himself finally letting go in the future, but he knows he can’t offer him much. Not for a while, so he tries to pull back. 

As if reading his mind, Erik grabs him tighter.

“Remus, it’s okay, I know,” he blurts out, then fixes his gaze on his lips. “I know. Just this once.”

“Okay.”

So they kiss, and this time it’s sweeter.

Chapter Text

December 24th, 1988.

If you happened to question the compassionate nature of forgiveness, Lily Evans would know all about it. It had been in her bones, in the very core of her marrow, the humane impulse of it, the spur.

Until the war. 

Until Peter.

She stands on the front door of Petunia’s house, unable to move. The door is brown, there’s a dent on the right side, probably Dudley’s doing. She knows. 

She knows what the brick facade feels like to the touch, she knows the plant on her left needs a little more water, and knows that her sister probably forgets. 

But she doesn’t really know what the couch texture is like. She doesn’t know their preferred brand of tea, cannot tell Petunia’s nail polish colour. Not anymore. 

And whose fault had it been, really? The one who sent letters that would never receive a response? Or the one who had been left alone during all those months, after planning a future together? 

She fiddles with the box in her hands. A book and a dress inside, perhaps more evocative of the girl she had been, instead of the woman occupying her place now.

When they were girls, they used to browse magazines stolen from the living room table, watching the bright red lipstick the ladies from the pictures wore—the gloves, the dresses. 

Petunia had cut some of those pictures, sticking them in the corners of their shared mirror of their childhood home. ‘That’s gonna be me when I grow up,’ she said, applying a wonky layer of crimson on her lips. Lily giggled, trying on a shirt from her mum’s closet. ‘I’m gonna be on fashion magazines, and never marry because boys are gross.’

Their summer days were spent in their parent’s room, under trees, lying on the grass—playing with their dolls while the sun vanished slowly. A plush toy, a miniature tea set, The Hollies records, hide and seek… and the hugs, and the knowing smirks, and the pinky promises— 

At night it used to be hot cocoa, if they were lucky, and a ‘Little Women’ chapter before bed. Muffled laughter, a lamp turning on and off just to piss off the other, and just one more chapter, and oh, boys are gross but Laurie is nice. Amy had been her favourite, Lily liked Jo better, naturally. 

Naturally.

It all changed when she met Severus, ‘We agreed boys are gross!’ ‘No, Pet, you agreed’

‘Go spend time with him, then!’  

Their summers changed, and as they grew, so did hostility. 

It got worse when she got her letter, along with him. Pet opened the letter first, not understanding what it meant. Their parents had been equally confused as her, until Dumbledore appeared minutes later. And then it all made sense. Lily had listened to him, silent at the beginning, finding her voice when he mentioned the library, and the brooms, and the owls.

She was thrilled, until she glanced over to her sister; a heartbreaking expression on her face as she clutched her hands in her lap. She inevitably dealt the final blow. 'Can my sister come too?' 

Her eyes had been hopeful, then. Meeting over the teapot placed in the middle of the coffee table.

Until the negative.

Until hope turned into rage, until she stood up and hustled out of the room in a second. 

Suddenly her sister simply wouldn’t talk to her, wouldn’t even look her way. It was as if Petunia’s affection for her had ceased to exist, and Lily was so confused. ‘She’s just jealous.' Sev used to say. But she felt something more.

Their days were now spent having short anger bursts against each other, what used to be whispered secrets in the dark now were slammed doors, instead of shared sweets now laid a book with ripped pages, and empty wrappers. A pair of scissors, Lily’s hair trimmed. Her, aghast, their parents playing mediator, ‘No more sweets for Petunia for the rest of the month’. Her face, full of hatred.

No more hugs, no more shared biscuits at tea time, no more— 

She had thought it would be a phase, mostly puberty having its way with them. 

She looks down at the space where her feet refuse to move from. 

Guess it wasn’t. 

Lily had wanted to tell her all about it, the war, the losses—how they were hunted down, how she might have died without making amends, how one of her greatest fears was not seeing her again.

She almost did.

She had hoped for a reunion, an understanding. Not even a hug, but a squeeze of the hand would’ve been enough. 

She wanted to ask her why she didn’t show up for her wedding. 

There’s this memory from the war Lily returns to regularly in her mind, like studying it over and over. Riddle had turned to look at her before going for Dorcas, the most horrible expression she had ever seen on his face, so sure of himself, so certain. A threat. As if whispering to her ‘Be with you in a minute, I gotta do something first.’ 

She had felt death’s grip around her throat, then. From the hand of the most petulant man she had known, the cruelest. It was a relief to know James had been in the castle, still, busy keeping the Hogwarts students safe from the battle. 

It’s rather confusing how, but she had a moment of peace in the middle of the uproar. In the middle of all those spells and yells. She looked down, then remembered. Riddle hadn’t even noticed the diadem in her hand, a triumphant feeling expanded over her chest. Glancing over the battlefield searching for her friends, praying to whoever god or entity listened not to spot a known face amongst the lumps on the ground. 

Of course there was Dorcas, close to Marlene, who was duelling with the skill of a—she doesn’t even know what, it simply was so like her, bruises and all. A glint of madness in her eye, felix felicis suited her the most.

Dorcas seemed to agree, glancing with adoration at her as if Tom Riddle wasn’t closest to her at the moment.

Near them was Mary, she had separated from them for a moment, her fingers clutched her wand like it was an extension of her arm, and the rage on her face had been palpable in the screams she gave as black robes began to fall around her. Always so fierce in her magic, like challenging any of them to take it away.

It had been her birthright, and she definitely knew.

Her heart gave a tweak when she spotted Remus. Blood dripping from his brow, a cut at his lip. He was fighting… really fighting with them. Casting spells with an implacable tempo, a rashness characteristic of him, no looking back, no sorrow. No remorse. She stared as one death eater tried to take him down with their bare hands, winced at what was coming. He knew how to use his knuckles too—had to learn, a long time ago. And even in this he was inexorable, a wand had no use making it personal, not always. There was no real blunt, brutal contact there. A fist was. A blow that landed directly where it would bruise, a kick destined to maim, a grunt, a crack and there was one more body on the ground. He didn’t turn to stare at it, his gaze was alert, searching. 

And then she realised Sirius wasn’t here yet. 

Neither was Peter.

A head full of curls approaching her. The felix felicis moving her forward. She got ready as the fiendfyre spread around her. 

She had wanted to tell her about her breakdowns, she almost died, for goodness sake. And Petunia wouldn’t even know.

Would she regret it? Would she miss her? 

The truth is, Lily had kept her cool for the sake of the people around her, a flaw her mum used to reproach her. ‘You do have the right to break down every once in a while, people can take it, we can take it.’ And she knew. She knew they could.

But she couldn’t. She smiled and danced with the rest of them, she gathered strength to talk about mundane things, to make tea, potions, to take care of Harry when he was having a fit, to play with him on his nice days, to keep friendships going, to keep a marriage going. 

All things she threw herself into for the sake of keeping busy, to not let herself break down, to not lose her strength. 

It was Frank and Alice who finally made it happen. The way they were both so young, so talented, so in love. So happy with what they could take, what they had built for themselves in the middle of the war…

All that had been ripped from them. Their livelihood, their thoughts, their ideas, passions, dreams—leaving them pure vials with empty eyes, disturbingly still hands and shaky breath—trapped within themselves. 

Gone was all trace of the Alice she once knew, so good at quidditch, so full of ambition, how she was convinced they would win, jumping at the first chance she had to ‘make herself useful’ for the war, how sure of herself she got, how sharp. 

She remembers how they danced at their weddings, how Lily was the first who found out about Neville.

How she kept the secret for her, when she wasn’t sure what she would do. 

Of course she cried for them, but the truth is she wanted to scream, she felt the petrifying urge to hurt whoever did this to them, a poignant need to tear apart, to burn, to kill. The rest of her friends looking at her worried, not knowing what to do. And therein lies the problem. No one knew how to handle her when she got like this, no one knew how to soften the sharp edges, how to help her. Except for him. The one crying a few steps from where she was sitting, the one dealing with all this shit too.

She lost Alice, and he had lost Frank.

It turned worse that night. They were in bed, the dim light of a lamp bathing the room in warm tones. It didn't reach them.

James was grimly silent; had been for a while, now. She took off her slippers, both of them still sitting on their respective sides, not facing each other but still very aware of their presence. 

It was an interesting sensation, how she totally could feel his energy as soon as he was close, as if he wore his magic around, as if he could sometimes project his thoughts to her... Lily just knew, and he knew right back. 

“Neville was almost born the same day as Harry.”

She didn’t know why she said it, it simply came out, broken, silent.

Then, when their gazes met, she was sobbing once again.

“Ven,” James mumbled, come here, reaching out for her in an instant. She let herself be cuddled, hugging him right back.

“I don’t understand, we saw them two days ago, my brain simply won’t process it until I see it for myself.”

“You know we can’t, Lils.” And she sobbed again.

“I hate this,” she said, between sobs, “I fucking hate this, I—” She cut herself off, not knowing if what she was gonna say would sound selfish, cruel.

“I hate it too, I hate watching all of them walk out the door not knowing if we’ll see them again, Sirius, Mary, Peter…” He trailed off, and both of them knew who he had been close to mentioning. They wouldn’t touch the topic, it had been a source of dispute between them, and none had the energy today.

There had been private meetings without him, meetings in which at first she had been very vocal about her support towards Remus. Yes, she knew there was a spy among them, but he never felt like it. She could feel it, somehow.

Thank the war, thank everything that had been happening around them, all that support had turned into silence lately, doubt filling her head. What if she was wrong? 

“I cannot stop thinking about what would happen to Harry in a situation like this.”

“They’d have to take you over my dead body, that’s what would happen,” James said, harshly. “I wouldn’t let it be, Harry would never suffer Neville’s fate.” His voice sounded enraged, protective.

“And there’s Sirius, too.”

The answer came almost by divine intervention. Lily had come barging in to the studio one day while Regulus was checking out some maps. 

“I need to talk to Pandora.”

“You know she is hidden, out of reach—” He didn’t look up from the parchment on his hands.

“Yes, but if anyone has the opportunity to reach her, it’s you,” she interrupted, searching for any hint of acceptance in his face. She then talked lower, solemn. “I know why you’re doing this, Regulus.” 

He stood there, not really understanding what she was trying to say to him.

She sighed. “I know—this has been about Sirius, for the most part. But I also know that you want to keep James safe, I have eyes.” She saw him get paler, instinctively giving a step back. “And no, I don’t resent you for it, I understand. But he’s my family, and I’m doing this for him, too.” 

He couldn’t meet her eyes, rapidly hiding his trembling hands but not fast enough for her not to notice.

A minute passed.

Him, gaze fixed on the floor, her, staring at him. 

“Regulu—”

“I’ll try to get in touch for you.” And in two seconds he was out the door.

Two days later she kneeled down in front of the fireplace. ‘I’m sorry Lily, I couldn’t arrange more than 20 minutes, she’s waiting.’  

“Pandora, how are you? How’s it been?”

“Oh you know, it’s been,” she responded, absentmindedly. “We’ve been fairly happy, the nature over here has embraced us in its magic, it seems the creatures are curious. Fairies, for the most part.” Lily snorted, god, how she missed talking to her, listening to every single thing that happened to cross her mind. She felt a pang of joy, happy to know her friend was safe. "I keep finding lavender in random places around the house, so I leave some sugar out for them."

“Sounds better than what we’ve been having to endure lately.”

Pandora smiled sadly in understanding, her image flickered for a moment. “Come on, tell me what’s on your mind.” 

Her eyes filled up with tears in a second. “Oh, Panda, I’m desperate. I cannot shake this feeling of impending—doom, loss—I don’t know.” She stopped to take a breath, she couldn’t start crying, they didn't have much time, so she cut to the bone. “There was a prophecy, I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

She did too. “I cannot intervene at all in these matters, Lily. Please don’t ask this of me.” She lowered her gaze, as if in apology. “...but I can tell you this.”

Lily held her breath, expectant.

“There’s not a universe in which Harry is alone.” Pandora made a motion as if she could reach her. Somehow, Lily felt as if she did, a small nip at her hand. “You figure out how to save him, every single time.” 

She couldn’t stop the tears this time, relief flowing down her spine. They stayed like that for a moment, mutual sympathy in the way they looked at each other, an ache from being away, both finding solace even in this short interaction. How maddeningly healing were friendships. 

Then, her brain tuned into the noise in the background, a man’s voice—Xenophilius, of course, only... baby coos filled the air. Her eyes instantly opened up like plates. 

“Panda?”

Pandora smiled. “Xeno, Lily wants to see the baby.”

She could feel her heart pummelling against her ribcage, she actually gasped, covering her mouth. A baby entered the frame, still small, very round, white hair, pale. 

“Her name is Luna.” 

As she scanned the pages beneath her fingertips this time, she felt a little less anxious. And when she found the blood protection spell, she understood Pandora had been right. She stared at the boy in the cradle in front of her, the way his tiny breaths filled his lungs, how his tiny hands were an exact replica of his father’s, how he twitched in his sleep. She knew.

There was not a universe in which Lily Evans would fail to protect what she cared about the most. 

Lily clutches the gift box harder. Funny, that.

Did you know I would have trusted you with him in case the worst happened?

Her lip starts trembling, guess it was worthless now to think of it, but she couldn’t help herself. 

Would Petunia have accepted him? Embraced him into her home like she never did Lily? Told him stories from their childhood? 

She turns around, leaving the box in front of the door. No letter, no card. 

Here's to hoping.

When Lily arrives home, she is drenched from head to toe. She had forgotten to take an umbrella for the sudden rains that have been attacking Godric's Hollow lately, on top of everything. She takes off her coat, cursing under her breath.

Sirius is walking down the stairs, a complacent smile on his face.

“Oh, Lils! So glad you’re here! My little gremlin is in his room,” he exclaims. “He’s been mostly in his room all afternoon, so really the broken window on the backdoor has nothing to do—”

“Sirius Black, honestly, I might kill you.” She starts rubbing her temples. “Do not test me today.”

He adopts a stern stance, crossing his arms. “Figure the visit didn’t go well?”

“I didn’t even—I couldn’t. Froze on the door, again.” 

His blue eyes stop at the crinkle between her brows. “Do you wanna talk about it or…” 

“Not really, not right now.” What would she even say?

“Okay, um I was about to serve some tea actually.” He motions to the kitchen. “You want some?” 

She just nods, sitting on the couch.

They had a mutual understanding when it came to talking about Regulus or Petunia. Or when it came to not talking about them, which really was most of the time. A comfortable silence with someone who understood did wonders for the mind, she could attest to that.

She hears him mutter ‘reparo’ to the broken window, then walk out the kitchen with two steaming mugs. 

“One sugar, innit.” 

“You still sound too posh for that,” she mocks, settling down for a moment, limbs relaxing. Then, she remembers. “Shit, my potions.”

“They’re fine, I checked,” he assures her. “Three stirs clockwise at 7 and all that.”

“To the blue one?”

“Mmm, can’t remember, it looked more purple-ish…” When Lily jumps from her seat he stops her with a hand. “Of course the blue one, sit! The potion empire is going well!” 

“Honestly, the tea is not enough reason to spare your life at the moment, Black,” she scoffs, but smirks a bit at the end. 

“Oh well, guess it was a good life.” He takes a sip. “Though not enough shags, I gotta say. Bummer.” 

"Ugh, Gross."

They drink their tea in blissful silence for some minutes, warmth spreading through her body with every sip. She lights the fireplace with a flick of her wand and grabs a blanket from the nearest sofa. Sirius closes his eyes for a moment, warming his hands.

Lily knows everybody says that, but Sirius really has a beautiful face. The sort of face people tried to replicate in statues, failing miserably because yes, he is pretty—but most of it lies in his livelihood, in how he carries himself. In the way he knows but won't really use it to his advantage, not anymore. The ghost of a smile attacks her, a deep fondness for the man in front of her, remembering countless hexes and how she used to scrunch her nose in dismissal when they crossed each other on hallways.

He has grown to be one of her best friends.

They keep sitting next to each other, not talking, simply existing at peace until a muffled thud can be heard from upstairs. 

“Fuck no. I swear if he has somehow let another gnome into his room…” Lily groans, gripping the arm of the couch, already rising from her spot.

Sirius stops her once more. “Stay there, I’ll check. I have to go anyway.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I um, have a date.”

She startles at the mention of that. “Oh, okay?” Tilting her head. “That’s nice, right?”

“Yeah!” He exclaims with feigned confidence, but his smile is somehow pinched. “I’ll just…” His finger points towards the stairs, and he’s making his way to Harry’s room a second later.

She knows it’s cruel of her to think like this, but Lily might never get used to see Sirius with other people.

It was in the awkward placement of the hands when he brought someone over, the way he muted parts of his personality, the way he would avoid certain topics in conversation, circle through them or steer away. It simply wasn’t the same, they all knew.

And well, he definitely struggled. It was painfully evident in the way he searched for connection, a shared language. The simple thrill of a brush of the hand, of a quick shared kiss, of knowing—of being understood, of sharing the worst and still be seen as worthy of love—the certainty of a perpetual bond.

A year ago he had met Oliver. Blonde curls and deep green eyes, quite good looking for the likes of her, gentle enough to accept him. He worked at the ministry, where both of them first saw each other at a business meeting of Regulus' doing.

She guesses they got along well, the relationship lasted for about six months before Sirius abruptly cut it off and no matter how many times they asked him he wouldn’t give an answer.

He had stopped dating for a while. So now, to learn that he was back on the pull was definitely surprising to hear, Lily couldn’t be anything but happy for him, he deserved happiness too. Whatever it took.

“No gnomes today, sorry to disappoint.” He returns, minutes later, grabbing his jacket from the entrance. “Put him to bed, so you can stay there.”

“Thanks, Pads.” As he makes his way to the door, she stretches a bit so he can see her. “I expect a full rundown tomorrow.”

The corners of his lips shoot upwards. “I know. Bye, Lils.” 

A few minutes after he’s gone, Lily holds a Fleetwood Mac record, fiddling with the cables of the turntable so it turns on. 

She knows there are modern ways now, but there’s a certain charm to turntables still, she will keep on using them for years to come, she can see it. She pours herself some wine, dimming the lights. The rain outside doesn’t seem to have any intention to stop, so she drifts off for a moment, massaging her feet. James should be here any moment now.

“Wait a minute baby,

Stay with me a while,

Said you’d give me light,

But you never told me about the fire...”

Her eyes close for a bit.

Petunia didn't invite her to her wedding. Petunia never picked up the phone. Petunia avoided her at their parents funerals. Petunia never sent gifts or cards on Christmas, or Harry's birthdays, or even her birthday. She never showed up when Lily invited her. Maybe her sister just wanted to be left alone, and she had been so fucking slow to understand. Guess she had to accept this and move on.

She had a sister, once. She had a partner in crime, once. And it had been beautiful, and fleeting, and it was gone. And she had to accept this and move on. 

Except she couldn't. Seventeen years and none of it ever felt right. 

When a tear slides down her cheek, she wipes it out with her sleeve, sipping more of her wine till a feeling of being watched settles.

Lily opens her eyes only to find Harry sitting on the stairs. His hand grips the rail almost wearily, his mouth open in a big yawn. 

“Hi, sweetie, all good?” He nods, suddenly more woken up. “Come here.”

They hug, her son’s hair tickling her nose when she places a chaste kiss to his cheek. So Sirius succeedeed in making him shower, too. 

“Are you sad?” It’s spoken mutedly into her jumper, making her melt. They don’t tend to lie about what they feel.

“A little.”

“Is it about Aunt Petunia?” His eyes cautiously trace her face for any reaction. “Or… uncle Moony?” 

Her heart jumps a little at the mention of him. Remus. Yet another person she couldn't keep, even though she tried.

The holidays are depressive, nowadays.

"Maybe, but it's okay love,” she tells him softly, brushing those locks, “we can all feel sad for a moment and then happy again."

"So, at what hour are you going to be happy?"

He still speaks with the naivety of a child, most days. A laugh almost makes it past her chest, truly wishing to understand how his mind works, when does one lose this type of energy, the confidence and humour of it all. 

She checks the clock. 

"At ten, I think." 

"That's kind of late."

He’s trying to be funny. 

"Exactly, so off to bed you go." Lily pats him on the butt, slightly. "Did you brush your teeth?"

Harry grins broadly, showing her, then runs up the stairs. God, he's in a weird phase of life.

She adores him.

"Love youu…"

She hears a muffled 'Love you too!' and there's silence again. 

"But when you build your house,

Oh, then call me home..."

When James arrives from practice, it's almost 9:30 and she's on her third glass. 

"Amorcitooo corazoooon..." She hears him sing from the living room. The sound of keys against the table, shoes falling, a little groan. "Sorry I'm late, it's Charlie's birthday apparently and he brought some cake, so thought you’d like—" He stops himself when he sees her, holding a piece of cake on a paper plate. 

"Cake sounds nice." 

"Oh, love, what happened?" He is on the sofa next to her in an instant. "Was it awful?"

"I couldn't even knock on the door." Her nose starts to feel runny, she blinks fast, trying to stop the tears welling up her eyes.

"Oh, come here." He wraps his arms around her, almost protectively, his chin resting on her shoulder with his arms irradiating that encompassing heat. This will never tire her, she considers, as tears start falling silently from her eyes. James has always been this for Lily, the only person she can completely let her guards down with, the one that will never judge.

“Don’t even know what I expected,” she murmurs, closer to his chest, to that steady rhythm of his heart that soothes her when he embraces her this way.

“You’re trying.”

The way he talks to her, the way they fit in this sofa even when it’s way too small for them, the way they always look for each other when entering a room, James Potter had long carved his way into Lily’s heart. And how could she ever explain? She had let herself fall willingly, avidly, when his first genuine smile entered her vicinity. Soothing, familiar, known.

She wipes her nose from the tissue box Lily had dragged all the way for this purpose, melting into him, certain James watches her with something like worry he tries not to show. But she knows him. A smile attacks her unannounced the moment he starts to sing.

And now, James has never had an angelic voice. Only tuned enough for him to sound good, but it’s all in the way he’s trying right now. His fingers rubbing at her scalp, soft hums when the first smooch ends up at her forehead, then her nose, triumphant as a laugh finally fills the room. 

She glances at the clock again. 10:00 pm.

December 25th, 1988.

Christmas dinners at Effie and Monty's place are always snug affairs, yet full of havoc.

Delicious food with wonderful company, champagne while conversation flows, Marlene arriving with Dorcas cause 'our families are shit and we have such a good time here'. Regulus, stepping in with them. 

Monty, embracing him like he does Sirius. 

Extended family with casseroles and bottles, uncles with slurred words. 'Yo te conocí cuando estabas así, chiquito, mijo'. James, smiling at him while pleading Lily to go sit with their friends. A plate, full to the brim as they all make their way to the table. 'Regulus, you have to try this—' 'Dorcas, do you know how much I love you?' 'Yes Marlene, you can have my glass.' Sirius with his brothers by his side, Harry, who hasn't appeared for an hour. 'Where is he?' 'Probably with the cousins'. 

Dorcas, hand full of rings. 'Salazar, look at them.' Marlene trying to learn spanish with the aunties, Sirius, showing off. The aunties laugh, and Marlene does too, clueless.

Lily, sitting with Effie, feeling overwhelmed. Her mother in law, sliding a hand through her hair. 'Do you want some irish cream, sweetie?' 'Yes, please.' James and Sirius challenging Dorcas and Regulus to a game of snap. 'Come on, Gryffindor against Slytherin!'

Regulus, not staring at him.'Do you hear anything, Dorcas?' 'No, I don't think so my dear Regulus.' The scream that comes out of them. 'You cowards!'

Harry, running with his cousins. Her husband, snatching and picking him up. 'Dad! I don't wanna dance!' Lily approaches. 'Oh no, darling. I'm afraid you must.' Glint of mischief as she locks eyes with James, both holding him, squeezing him between them like a sandwich. He lets himself collapse, limbs slumped around him as if he had fainted, having a fit. 'He's so dramatic.' 'Wonder where he got it from.' Both, turning to look at his godfather, who is now shoulder to shoulder with Regulus, deep in conversation.

It's two empty seats at the table where friends used to sit, and a gloomy looking Sirius at 1 am. Drained of energy, taking some time for himself as the adults are playing old songs once again. Pedro Infante's voice flowing through the air.

He is out on the terrace, staring at the moon. His right hand is holding a now empty beer bottle and with the left he is reaching for his pack of cigarettes. Drunk, she guesses.

Lily approaches slowly. “I figure the date went like shit?”

That makes him smile a little. “He had hazel eyes.” He takes a drag. “Good shag though, I guess.”

She chuckles. “Not fair for the other lad.”

“Yeah well, I’ll have to tell Gideon not to pair me up with his friends again.” He tries to sip from the beer, only to find it empty. "Or with anyone in general, honestly..."

Lily stays silent for a bit, not happy with the topic they're about to discuss. But it's inevitable, she knows him, now. Knows why he is refusing. "Sirius, it's been two months..."

He gives a long sigh, an 'I know' hanging from it. “I just can’t stop picturing him with that guy.” He pinches his nose, cigarette in a shaky hand. And that gesture makes him look so much like… oh dear, funny how everyone imitates the people they love. “Why can’t I forget about him, Lily? It’s been seven years.”

“Honestly, I can’t either.” She puts a hand on his shoulder. “But I’ve learned that I must heal, if he ever comes back—”

“He won’t.” Sirius’ voice is full of raw bitterness as he interrupts her. 

“If he does, then I want to be ready this time.” She is searching his face for understanding. “He might need a lot of help, he looked so tired.”

“He definitely didn’t look tired when I saw him.”

“Sirius.”

“He’s not coming back, Lils.” He glances up at the moon once again. “Guess I made sure of that.”

Chapter Text

October, 1986.

James had been in charge of cooking dinner that night, as he did most dinner nights when their friends came over. A casserole that in Effie’s opinion, should be ‘easy as pie’. 

He proved her wrong. 

Not in a ‘I cannot do it’ kind of way, but rather in a ‘Harry says he wants to help,’ kind of way, and lord, was it something to witness. Sauce adorned their fingers after only half an hour, sour cream on their clothes, and at one point their son had squeezed a tomato so hard even the windows had particles on them. 

Nobody cared, really. They were both so natural when interacting like this. Harry an identical copy of her husband, same face when concentrating, same roaring laugh when they made a mistake and James rushed to fix it. Chubby hands holding a spoon, dirty aprons, both doing silly things so the other would smile.

Lily could spend hours looking at them.

A knock at the door announced of Sirius arriving, and so she made her way to the door, opening widely with a smirk. 

They had been meeting up weekly some months after the war ended, starting out for the sake of raising Sirius’ spirits after the worse of the aftermath passed. For the sake of not leaving him alone again after what he has done to himself. Sometimes Mary, Marlene and Dorcas joined them, in rare ocassions Pandora showed up too, carrying Luna in her arms or dragging Regulus along even if he complained. 

‘Come on Pads, dance with us,’ Lily remembered begging as the other man refused. James had cooked that night, too. Basically barging into the flat, pot at one hand and a new record at the other. But they took his hands delicately, they started swinging them around until Mary felt comfortable enough to poke him in the ribs, succeeding in making him smile a little. 

‘Don’t be a codger, Black!’ 

Count on both of them to perform miracles with their never ending tenderness, by the third song he stood up. 

He had danced, then. He had laughed. 

It’s quite miraculous what suffering in a group could achieve. These nights with the whole group usually turned out really entertaining, lately, more so with Marlene’s cocktail curses and Mary’s odd choices of games. Dorcas could usually be seen with Regulus, talking lowly about god knows what that sometimes—sometimes made the younger Black laugh, a genuine hearty laugh that made him look temporarily lighter, easing off the stillness of his body. 

She then returned to Marlene, an intoxicated smile as they kissed, as they danced to whatever Sirius or Mary decided to play. 

When it was only Sirius, it was calmer, cosier. It was laughter with wine stained teeth, licking butter off their fingertips reminiscing about their Italy trip two years ago, heated conversations about quidditch while Harry accidentally made a cake float. James calmly lowering it with his hand. Their eyes as the three of them realised. The celebration right after. 

It was Sirius recommending a book, ‘I had it in my bookshelf the whole time and it never occurred to me!’ As they laughed. It was his smile dying in his lips slowly. ‘It belonged to him.’ Delicately touching the pages. ‘Wonder if he ever read it.’

Then it was James, breaking the tension with some stupid joke. Lily giggling. The mood returned, and they all looked smug again. 

This time though, as James patted himself on the back about his’ and Harry’s culinary abilities, a silver translucent beagle had come running into the dining room, through the kitchen back door, making the three of them stand up abruptly. A secondary effect of receiving so many of them during the war, surely.

“James Potter, I reach out on behalf of a young man, brown eyes, bit o’ tanned skin, lotta scars—” the message said, a shaky voice reaching them. A kiss of teeth. “Not gonna lie to you chap, the situation doesn’t look good—he’s at St. Mungo’s, they will try to do anythin’ they can, but the condition is critical. Might get ready to claim ‘im, if ya get me… I’m sorry lad.”

Lily’s heart felt like sinking. She could throw up. No, she was going to throw up.

Sirius’ face turned pale, he made a choked noise, throwing his chair out the way with a horrid screeching noise. He didn’t quite look like himself. His breaths now rasped in his throat, something simply gone in his expression as he darted to the front door.

“Shit. Shit—” James exclaimed, grabbing his wand from where it rested on the table. “Call Regulus,” he pleaded Lily then bolted, following his best friend.

She turned her attention to her son, who looked at everything with a wide stare. “Harry, baby, stay there okay?”

Her frantic hands quickly landed on the fireplace, tried to call Regulus through it with a wrenching voice that only echoed and echoed with no response to ease her mind.

Panic ran through her, clinging to the tile, looking for her wand when she remembered she could use a patronus instead.

‘It’s Sirius, come to our house, it’s urgent.’  

Harry clung to the fork still gripped in his little hand, still sitting on his chair as she returned. “What is happening?” He asked.

Lily held him, rapidly leading upstairs. 

“Nothing to worry about, sweetie,” she explained, crossing the door of his room a minute later. “Daddy and I have to go take care of something, okay? Stay here, uncle Reg will be here any second.”

“With Draco?” Harry’s eyes turned hopeful for a second.

“No darling, just him, okay? Be good, We’ll be here when you wake up.” She kissed him on the forehead, rushing to join James.

It was hell, the scene that unfolded in her front yard. Sirius squirmed on the ground with James’ arms around him, screaming muffled as he fought, as he literally tried to punch her husband with his head, tried to kick him with the bit of strength he could summon, wands spread around the grass. 

There was a buzzing sound, Lily recognised the way the wards reacted when enforced, the other side of the street looked smokey, as if seen through a veil. 

“Lily, grab the wands, please.” James was clearly struggling to restrain him. So she did, leaving a distance between her and them when a pale hand landed near to her feet. 

“Let me go!” Sirius kept begging. “James, please, let me go!” There were tears streaming down his face, his breaths came in desperate gulps. “Please!” A sob, ripping his lungs. “Please, please, please—” When his pleas seemed to be useless he trashed ruthlessly, letting out a shriek that even made Lily flinch. “LET ME GO!” 

It’s as if he was ripping away his vocal cords. James talked apologetically in his ear. “No Pads, I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” 

“LET ME GO, LET ME FUCKING GO, HE IS DYING FOR FUCK’S SAKE—THIS IS MY FAULT, JAMES, HE IS—” 

A red bolt of lightning exploded, and a second later Sirius was a slump in James’ arms. Lily turned around to see Regulus standing in the doorframe, hand shaking as he kept his wand up.

“It’s Lupin, isn’t it.”

Lily was speechless, still on edge from all that shock, so it wasn’t surprising James decided to take the lead. “We have to go see him, there’s not much time.”

Dying.

“Can you take care of him?”

He’s dying.

Regulus casted a glance over his unconscious brother, nodding. “Of course.”

“Harry.” She forced herself out of her haze. “H—Harry is in his room, there’s um, dinner at the table.”

“Thank you, Lily.”

They moved Sirius to the couch as fast as they could, putting on their coats then apparating to St. Mungos.

The rest comes back to her in flashes, in rapid memories as if she rushed through them, in weirdly placed details and numbers of how many sobs she almost released.

“We’re looking for a young man, our age, in critical condition,” James urged, barely touching the front desk.

The receptionist looked confused. ”Do you have any more details?”

“Scars,” Lily said. “He’s got a lot of scars.” She didn’t know if she could say anything else like curls or jumpers while trying to describe him, she didn’t even know if that’s what he looked like anymore. 

“Oh, him.” The woman nodded, reaching out for parchment and a quill. “He’s with the healers, emergency room—” But neither of them heard more, they were already on their way.

The hallway leading to the rooms was a busy one, with witches and wizards of all ages pacing back and forth, robes, bandages, broken wands—was that a Billywig? 

“James Potter?” They heard a voice behind them, an old man with a grey moustache, brown eyes, and windburned face. “The quidditch lad, innit? It was me who sent the patronus. Edward.” He stretched out a hand.

“Hello, yes—hi Edward.” Her husband took it. “This is Lily, my wife.” She rapidly shook his hand, too. “Can you please tell us what happened?”

Edward scratched his moustache. “My brother, he got a store on the town he lives in, says ‘e heard lotta ruckus for it to be a cat—found your friend in the back bleedin’ out, gory scene really,” he narrated, making Lily feel as if she could throw up again. “Sent his delivery boy for me, says he knew he was a wizard right away.” 

James put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you so much for bringing him in, don’t know what would have happened if you didn’t.”

The man smiled sadly, maybe feeling sorry for them. “Well, gotta see what the healers say, from what I’ve heard he’s still bleedin’, blood replenish potions and all.” 

He would've died alone, was the first thought that came to her as she took a seat. James joined her some minutes later, fiddling with his hands. 

She reached out to them, curling around the fist. None of them would cry, not now. Not until they had any news of the state of Remus, they tried to be stubborn like that. But it broke her heart. He looked very close to, nearly tipping over that edge, worry interlaced in the furrowing of the brows, in how his shoulders trembled as he exhaled.

An hour passed.

“I’ve been such a shit friend, Lils,” he deplored, face angry, the characteristic breathing coming in short bursts. But when he looked at her his eyes held such sadness, the first tear fell. He quickly wiped it off, closing his eyes. Jaw clenched. “I’ve been such a shit friend and he still called for me.”

“James,” she murmured. Their eyes met. Soothing, familiar, known. He slid and arm around her ribs, forehead against her shoulder, just knowing. 

Two hours passed.

There were exactly two hundred and fifty four tiles in the room they were standing in. Twenty three people. Fifteen light fixtures and Remus was bleeding out. And he almost died. Three toddlers, and Sirius was a mess. James was a mess, and the tile closest to her had a crack in the middle and the tears tasted salty. 

Somebody approached them asking for Remus’ information. Name, birth date, age, blood type—some things even Lily didn’t really registered, coiling the belt of her coat around her finger, sniffing once. 

James answered all of it in a heartbeat, as if he already knew what they were gonna ask. His arms were crossed over his chest, glancing over to the doors of the section they were not allowed in but surely held their friend inside. 

“Does he… have a registration number?”

He suddenly tensed up. “No.”

The attendant looked nervous at the tone, tried to lift the page held between his fingers. “Well, for the procedures the following days he’s going to need—”

“He’s a member of the Order.” James cut in. “You can ask Dumbledore himself.” 

“I’m afraid—”

“He won’t. That’s final, thank you.” 

His gaze returned to the doors, broadening his shoulders like a wall, nothing passing through.

They had been really defensive of him when it came to the werewolf thing. Refusing to follow orders from the Ministry when they approved of the register reform, refusing to follow orders of all werewolves to be caged on full moons, refusing to talk to anybody who had an aversion to them. It all seemed extremely stupid now.

What had those efforts accomplished, in the end? Remembering Remus’ eyes lowering before disappearing, the complete shame of understanding what was going on. She would have stopped him, if she knew.

She would have done a lot of things.

Remus finally got a room assigned after three agonising hours of waiting. ”He’s still a bit unstable, so we have put him in a coma,” the healer explained, “he might wake up in the following days, will you be the ones visiting?”

They still stood outside, not confident enough to go in yet. Maybe not strong enough for what they supposed they would find on the other side. 

She couldn’t suppress a gasp.

Remus laid nestled behind a heavy looking blanket, cheeks more pronounced, skin paler than she remembered. When she glanced down at his torso she had to bite her lip.

Pink stained bandages seemed to hold him together, his small puffs of air came in slow intervals.

Sleeping. He was only sleeping.

Lily held his hand without thinking, relieved of finding warmth so opposite from the cold looking body in front. He was finally there, she could actually see him, she could touch him.

Relief that soon enough got overshadowed by guilt, by regret. He was now covered in scars, in white deep marks trailing over his whole body, cold ivory over tan, his pain worn on the exterior without a choice. She recognized the scar on his lip, and the one over his nose. 

The rest were unknown to her, a result of never committing any of them to memory, of having lived in underestimated time. 

“Oh, dear…” she mumbled, like an atonement, as if making amends. 

Remus had grown up, he had matured, forcefully. No one to witness it, no one to look after him. An unbearable loss, and a dreadful casualty, all weighing down on her.

Because they kept reuniting, and they kept taking photos. 

And Remus stopped appearing in them.

And he had been suffering, she could see that now. All this years, he had been suffering. And they had laughed. Years and years of laughter and good moments trailed behind them, years of healing, years of holding onto each other as they did.

James’ lip trembled as he got closer, as he took his time with the view. 

It was probably three am when they returned home. Sitting down with Sirius in the living room after a few hushed conversations and a very tired Regulus walking out the door.

His eyes still looked irritated, his voice sounded scratchy, clearing his throat every few seconds. “How… How is he?” He asked, from the sofa. Shy, embarrassed, probably. Eyes darting throughout James’ face, bracing for bad news, she could tell. Bracing for the worst.

Somehow, James hesitated for a moment.

Just a second, but it was enough.

Enough for him to fold, to clutch his stomach panicked. “No he is not,” he said to no one in particular, holding onto the fabric.

“No!” Her husband was quick to correct, “no no no, he is not, he’s fine!” Sirius’ head fell to his hands, breathing again. “Well, fine as in—he’s um… in a magically induced coma,” he mumbled that last part hurriedly, scrunching his face, not ready for an argument yet.

Rage filled eyes found him again. “As if that makes it any better!”

“Pads—”

“No, James! You think this is fair?” He stood up, striding through the space. “To restrain me? To stun me?! To keep me trapped inside the wards?!” He gestured around, raising his tone. “I should be there!” Sirius’ voice was breaking now, but he didn't stop. “I should be there, why won’t you let me be there?” 

“He has to decide, if he wants to see you.” James had his hands in his waist now, firm. “So yeah, I think it’s fair.”

“We will respect his boundaries when he wakes up.” Lily agreed, same convinced tone as him.

Sirius’ expression trailed off, he slumped his shoulders as he fell on the sofa again. “So I don’t have a say in the matter.”

“I’m sorry Pads, you don’t.” 

“So what if he comes back, what then?” He prodded, looking directly at him but James wouldn’t bulge, not in this.

“We take him in.” 

“Without letting me see him? Without telling me first?” His anger was rising up again, his tone betrayed him.

“Well, you never asked me if I wanted him gone, did you?” James bursted.

Sirius quickly looked away, mortified. Embarrassment evident in the way his mouth turned downwards. For a few minutes no one dared break the silence, the pause that followed. 

“I’m sorry,” their friend whispered. 

James softened, he had never been able to hold a grudge against his brother, simply couldn’t fathom being the source of someone else’s pain. “No Pads, I’m sorry.” He stretched his arms out to him. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that.” 

Sirius was reluctant at first, eyeing Lily like he wanted to apologise to her too, teary eyed yet his wrath lingered. 

“I’m so pissed off right now, Prongs.” He laid his head in his hands. “I don’t even know what I’m feeling.” 

James was by his side in an instant. “I know.” 

Lily squeezed in the sofa with them, too. Resting her chin on Sirius’ shoulder. “We’ll see how it goes, okay?” 

He stayed silent.

Sirius spent the night, obviously. They didn’t want to get him out of their sight, in fear of what might happen, in fear of what he might do. His outlet was usually fierce, ardent destructiveness. Brutal as it flowed through his hands, even cruel if it reached his mouth. 

And if it was not against someone, it was against himself. 

And sometimes, that was even worse. 

It was James and the fright in his eyes. Hiding knives from the kitchen, disposing of razors and pencil sharpeners, keeping a close eye on his wand. It was disguised supervision, not taking their stare off him as he rinsed a glass. It was the subtle twitch in his hand, and his eyes drifting off, and the way they could all tell when he was feeling the urge. The way they could all tell when he was fighting it and when he was going to give in.

Or so they thought.

The next day had been spent in a state of tumult. James wanted to cancel his practice, Lily couldn’t concentrate properly on her potions, resulting in ruining a perfectly good anti-paralysis batch.

She was going to have to apologise to the healers she usually sold them to.

Sirius wandered around the house like a ghost, only letting Harry take him out of his trance as both played in the living room, as Sirius transformed into Padfoot and let him handle him like a horse, his hands grasping around his fur, giggling as the dog licked his face.

He went back to sulking when her son took a nap, barely talking when Lily served tea, not looking at her as she handed him his favourite biscuits.

At night they sat with Remus, holding his hand, looking after him. She scrutinised him, committing his features to memory, this time. Startling at the slightest movement.

Sirius stayed home. 

“I’m going to the shops.” Lily approached him the next day, grabbing her purse. “Do you… want to come with me?”

He raised his head from the book he had been reading. He scoffed. “Do you really trust me going out with you?” 

“Unless you give me reasons not to.” 

So that’s how half an hour later they were walking down shampoo aisles, holding a shopping cart while Sirius held Harry’s hand. 

“You think he’d like a lavender shampoo?” Lily asked, humorously.

He snorted. “Maybe.” Then grabbed another bottle, sniffing. “He never really cared about that.”

“Oh, but the coffee, though…” They both smiled. 

“We should buy some clothes,” she said, reaching for a deodorant from the shelf. Sirius stopped her. 

“He used this one,” he mentioned, casually, adding another brand into the cart. 

The three of them made their way to the clothes section, Harry had a tendency to jump now, which he did the almost the whole way there. The boy laughed with Sirius as he lifted him from the ground, pulling his arm and making him bounce.

“Oh wow, they suck.” He stopped, staring at the shirts. “Look at this thing, so plain.” 

“They’re supposed to be plain, they’re basics.” Lily placed two white shirts on the cart, also snatching a green jumper from another rack. The other man only looked around, opting for a pair of corduroy pants and a black sweater, holding them in his arms as his whole face changed, suddenly not so smiley anymore.

“Lily, I want to go back.”

The night Remus finally opened his eyes, they could barely keep the news to themselves. James crossed the door smiling, communicating everything to Sirius with a simple nod. 

The sigh he released was full of solace. “Fucking hell.” He slid a hand through his face. “What did he do? What happened?”

“We don’t know what happened, he um—” James scratched the back of his head. “Wasn’t very happy to see us, honestly.”

And they did a whole recapitulation for him. His voice. How he sounded exactly the same but slightly deeper, how the healers expected him to wake till the fourth day. 'He's strong willed,' was all Sirius said in response, like it completely made sense, face turning hopeful for a few beats. 

“Figure he didn’t ask about me.”

The part in which Remus asked if he was there was excluded from their tale, naturally. They were not sure he could handle the rejection yet, the way Remus' eyes had turned cold when she explained what happened the night they received the message.

Sirius kept fixating on his mug, on the table in front of him.

Lily was calculated, wary when she spoke again. “We think he’s not ready yet.” 

His eyes lowered, disappointed. His nails clink against the porcelain for a bit.

“Yeah, that might be it.”

“We’re seeing him tomorrow—” She tried to add.

“Nice,” he asserted, not willing to talk about this any longer. “I’m going to bed.” 

“Sirius—”

He raised a hand. “Please, let me go to bed.”

Renewed hope followed her all the way to bed. They had concurred again, she’d be able to help, this time. They would at least talk, really talk because Lily understood where his rejection came from, Remus had always carried pride like it was normal, but she saw the real him for a moment. When they took each other in he wasn’t a man banished. He was her friend. The one who spent so many nights with her in the common room, the one who helped her cast a patronus in exchange for tips in Slughorn’s class, the one who had cried tears of joy with her when he saw Harry for the first time. 

Seemed she wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

“You should’ve seen him, Lils. When he woke up, it looked like ease all over his face,” James told her, in muted tones. “He was so like before, like in Hogwarts after a full moon.” A sniff escaped his nose. “Until he remembered, and then he simply looked hurt.”

“I know, love.” She gave him a tissue. “I felt it too.”

“He was the first to show me Pink Floyd, you know?”  

She shifted in bed to face him again. “Or muggle music in general.” His hands were now curled in the back of his head. “Said our music was boring and outdated, when he finally trusted us.” That makes her smile, but is followed by nostalgia. “He was like a brother to me, Lily, and I stopped checking on him that year.” He wiped a tear that had fallen on his cheek, taking a deep breath.

“Wish You Were Here was my favourite,” he continued. “It still is, but for completely different reasons, now. I cannot stop thinking about Peter, or him when I listen to it.” He shook his head. “The war ruined everything, it ruined us completely.”

The next day everyone was up early, a thrill warming her veins despite Godric’s weather. He was back, and in two days they would take him home, and would finally make it better. They would make it work, this time. They would have the chance to properly apologise—to properly resolve it. Their family would be complete again, she could picture everyone's faces clearly. 

“Do you want to meet uncle Moony, eh?” James asked, helping Harry put on his coat.

“Yes!” He answered, stumping with his little feet. He was full of energy, some days even James couldn't keep up.

“Here, hold these, sweetie.” She handed him the chocolate bars.

Sirius was sitting in the dining room, eyes open but not really staring at anything. His cup of tea had gone cold.

“Sirius, we’ll be back in time for lunch, okay?”

He didn’t move.

James got closer, sensing something was wrong. “Pads, Regulus will be here any minute now.”

He didn’t move. 

And when their eyes locked, they knew they couldn’t leave him like this. 

So they waited. Then waited some more. 

20 minutes until Regulus appeared at the front door, opening it with the spare key they had given him for these types of situations and holding out a paper bag. 

"Brought éclairs." 

Then, they were finally on their way.

“You sure about this, Lils? Perhaps it’s too much for him way too soon.” They were standing in front of Remus’ room, James’ hands were in his pockets.

And yes, how could she explain that she was sure, she had been sure since their eyes met again. That she had seen the man behind the shade, so sad, craving some sort of connection, craving tenderness.

“He always had a soft spot for Harry, I just want them to meet once more,” she insisted. “I can show him that we can be a family again, we can show him that we’re sorry, that we’re willing to work for his forgiveness, we can—” she opened the door and the rest of the words died in her mouth. 

The bed was empty, and Remus was gone. 

Two weeks later they received the first envelope. And two weeks later, Sirius had a relapse.

December 26th, 1988.

After the party, the calm settles within the Potter’s household.  

The real celebration for them usually falls on the 26th, when they can finally have more peace, a moment for family only.

Their plates are once again full to the brim when they sit for dinner, and this time the preferred drink is white wine, which Regulus courteously provides in generous amounts throughout the night. When Harry asks to drink whatever the adults were having too, Lily watches with amusement as Regulus fills his goblet, chanting a quiet incantation that turns it into fizzy apple juice. ‘Here, you’re a big boy, now.’ 

Later, they all take a seat near the Christmas tree. Seasonal music on the radio, setting the mood into a cosy reunion, the fireplace lit, James sprawled on the floor next to Harry, Sirius near them, reclining against the couch. Regulus settles next to him. Lily prefers the sofa, her knees would probably hurt after a few minutes if she did the same as them.

Effie takes out the first present, handing it to her grandson, and the exchange begins. 

The grandparents, grinning as he hugs them. James, opening a record, ‘Es de tu primo, me dijo que te había gustado.’ Lily, receiving a gorgeous botany book and a necklace from James—‘And Harry! ’, it’s new quidditch gloves, mostly books from and for everyone, toys, sweaters, a gold chess set that leaves Regulus speechless, a new broom for Harry…

It’s all cheers and compliments as the new album plays in the background, Sirius tapping his fingers with the melodies until a beautiful ballad with a piano starts playing. 

As the voice of the vocalist starts ringing through their ears, he stops. 

They don’t notice it at first, it’s James who suddenly stays very still. Spinning around to look at him. 

His eyes are fixed on the carpet, fingers now clutching the fabric of his pants, his breathing sounds calm but it’s evidently controlled. His eyes look glassy.

“Okay, no more music.” James says, standing up.

That seems to take him out of his trance. “No, no it’s okay.” He wipes a tear before it even falls. “Please don’t, it’s a beautiful song.” 

“Pads—” 

“I’m fine, James. Stop treating me like I’m fragile.” 

Lily turns around too. “Pads, we don’t treat you—”

“Yes you do.” He cuts in. “You do, and it’s—fucking overwhelming sometimes.” 

Regulus steps in. “Sirius.”

“Blimey, let me cry if I feel like it, okay?” He jumps from his spot. “Jesus.” 

Effie raises a hand when James tries to take a step forward, stopping him. It's Monty who actually walks towards him, clasping him on the back once in understanding, whispering something in his ear, then returning to his seat. 

He puts the song again, laying completely still with his eyes closed. They all listen with him, accepting his request, no one making a sound. 

“Entre el cielo y el suelo hay algo,

Con tendencia a quedarse calvo de

Tanto recordar…”

When it’s over, he doesn’t move, only clears his throat before saying: “We should go to Spain, some day.”

Chapter Text

December, 1989.

“Well, this is it.” 

Erik is carrying two bags, barely keeping his balance with the weight of an apartment and then some in the interior. Remus carries the other two, pots clash on the inside every time he takes a step, and he is pretty sure a lightbulb from a lamp broke two streets down. His lower back and his leg have been mildly stinging since the train station half an hour ago. 

“Are you sure this is the right address?” Remus snatches the paper from his hands, heaving, scanning the handwriting as if it was a puzzle. 

“Course I am,” Erik responds, seizing him by the wrist to take the note back. Courteously, with a smile.

Remus yanks it away instantly, clearing his throat.

They hadn’t talked about it. 

The kiss. The club, the soft—soft lips as they brushed against his own, against his neck when they arrived home, against—

Because it had been different this time. And they both knew it.

They both knew as soon as the sun came streaming down the still very open curtains and the pads of the fingers were still pretty much pressed into his thighs and Remus could not for the life of himself remember anything apart from his own name while the other man took and took and still gave some.

Maybe it was the alcohol streaming down both their systems, maybe it was something else. Something new, something altered. 

“Well, we’ve got ten minutes till the lady arrives, so—” Erik leans against the rail of the open corridor; it’s rusty, the walls are full of smokeish spots splattered around and the door looks tawny, discoloured in places. He groans as he lets go of their belongings. 

Remus does too, hips against the wall, still breathing heavily. “How far is the place you told me?”

“Seven minutes from here, not much walking,” the other man replies, pointing towards his leg. “It’s manual labour though, or so I’ve been told.”

“It’s good,” he assures him. “I’m good.”

They stay silent. 

“So—”

“Who—”

They both stop, encouraging the other to talk. When Erik refuses, Remus takes the lead.

“Who got you this place?”

“My aunt, the one that lives here—she um, made phone calls. They told her this was available,” he explains. “Might be worse than the other one, honestly. But cheap as we could find.”

“It’s good.” 

Erik scoffs. “It’s the third time you’ve used the word good in five minutes.” He smiles. “Did you hit yourself in the head or—”

Remus is shoving him in a second. “Maybe I could hit you, you wanker—” 

His smile is cheeky, totally fucking mischievous. “Don’t you dare, Remus Lupin—it might turn me on and the housewarming gift might be a lot different than you expect—ow, fuck,” he exclaims, folding when he hits him in the gut. “Too soon, I suppose.”

Before he can answer, a lady appears through the staircase, pink skirt, pink blazer, stopping to stare at them. She is holding a black leather bag. “¿Erik Thomas?” She asks, reading from a paper, too. 

He is up in a second, holding out his hand for her to take. “Así es, un gusto. Dolores, ¿cierto?” 

She purses her lips, and stares at Remus. A long, meaningful stare, then turns to Erik, smiling. “Entremos.” She puts the key in, rattling as she twists her hand. And obviously, he was accustomed to this. But it still took him by surprise. He had been so comfortable with Erik simply existing around him and simply not asking, he forgot for a moment. He turns to look at his scarred hands for a second.

They lock gazes, both nodding as they raise the bags from the floor. Uneasy.

And well, they were both right and wrong at the same time. The space was just a tad bigger, the wall on the back had enormous windows divided in various glass panels with black metal margins. Brick walls painted white and wooden floors, tarnished and with evidence of pulled sofas and chairs in pale lines across the floor. The lights look ancient, though. Remus opens all the faucets he encounters for a few seconds, testing as the woman moves rapidly through the space.

“El living, la cocina con espacio para una mesa…” She points towards the gap, towards the dented linoleum of the kitchen floor, counters arranged in a u shape and window in front of the sink. Well, definitely spacey, Erik will make use of it just fine. 

She continues her walk. “El primer dormitorio.” Which shows a fairly medium sized room, big enough for a double bed. Same wooden floors, but also a wooden panel wall in front of an L shaped window in the corner, built-in closet between the two. 

The second one is basically the same, both separated by a bathroom in the middle that looks like it hasn’t been restored since the 70s. Whole place is like a time capsule actually, old, dusty in places, creaking, yet it feels promising. And that’s fucking perfect for him. He zones out of the conversation while the technicalities are discussed, still pacing. His friend signs the contract on the kitchen counter. Erik Thomas Brown, the paper reads. 

Huh, he never asked. 

Remus gets a notion of what is being said, he doesn’t speak spanish, but he could understand, once. Back when they did something utterly annoying and laughed as James burst out against them in what the boys thought was gibberish, at first. 

That, until Sirius caught up. Suddenly he was the most keen to learn, earning a surprised grin from James, astonished that he would care enough to do that but well, that was Sirius Black for you. He would make you feel special, and loved, and—understood. And then he took it away. Leaving scorch marks and straight up shame as he did, a void so hollow… 

The rest followed. Holding little reunions in the library, writing phrases then pronunciation lessons in the dorm. Months later none could speak fluent Spanish but prided themselves in being James Potter fluent, which was what they had been looking for, anyway. ‘Have you been calling us donkeys all this time?’ A wink. ‘And worse.’

This type sounded different, though. The s and the c’s and the z’s—

The voice of the lady takes him out of his thoughts.

“La agencia dijo dos jóvenes, dos habitaciones, cierto?” She examines both of them with a horrible, horrible smile as she approaches. Erik tenses, and Remus knows what 's up. “Estudiantes?”

“No,” Erik says, moving forward. 

“Puedo preguntar para qué usarán el lugar?” Her eyes are cold, and her face is severe even when showing her white, pearly teeth. 

Erik relaxes, now. And he can feel what must be a shit eating grin in his face as he reaches out for him. “Remus, baby, can you tell this lady what we’re gonna use the flat for?” He asks, holding eye contact with Dolores.

He snorts, crossing his arms. “Oh, she would know.”

“Planeamos profanar todas las superficies posibles,” he teases, pulling Remus and—god give him strength—smacking him on the thigh. “Verá, mi novio aquí es un poco ninfómano.”

Her face contorts into something horrible, face flushed, eyes like saucers. Remus doesn’t know what he said, but he knows they got the upper hand. They paid in advance, and the papers are signed already. So he smiles innocently. 

The woman shakes her head a little, head up as she smacks the keys on the counter and leaves. 

They look at each other, then burst into laughter. 

“What the fuck you said to her?” Remus wheezes. “God, she looked so offended—”

Erik is on the floor, wiping tears as the laugh dies within his lungs, still grinning. “Guess you’ll have to learn.”

The first night is spent eating instant noodles with a spliff because ‘why not, let’s celebrate’ while they pull an inflatable mattress out. Setting their miserable mini radio over the counter, tuning it to a local station while mostly listening to static along the way. Making a mess of the kitchen floor, partly because Erik was mocking him whilst preparing said noodles, stoned. Remus storing away their small odd collection of bowls, pans and miscellaneous kitchenware, both humming along to whatever song they recognised. 

Overall there wasn’t much to be done, they sold all furniture before they left; including the trampled tv they got for free. (Their best investment, really.)

“So what now?” Remus asks, stomach full and properly doped. 

A pair of red eyes sparkle across the kitchen. “We make a list.”

Remus raises an eyebrow. “A list?”

“A fucking list!” The other man sprints to his room, he can be heard ruffling about, then emerges with some paper, and a pen. “First of all: mattresses.” So he writes down.

Mattress—of high interest. Rem’s back won’t cope otherwise.  

Stereo!—of high importance. Rem's mind won’t cope otherwise.  

A rug—we’re not toff people, but we’re decent.  

Dining table, and chairs—Rem’s back won’t cope otherwise.  

He nudges him. “Can you stop making it all about me?” 

Erik stops, pretends to think about it, then shrugs. “Humour-wise you’re not coping, either.” 

“Don’t write that!” More nudging while he tries to take the pen.

He only raises his hands as in surrender, very fucking entertained with himself. “Chill out, smile, laugh, something!”

“I am smiling, I’m almost laughing, as a matter of fact.”

“You’re laughing at me, not with me, Johnny. Fucking hurtful, that is.” The other man places a hand over his heart in mock offence, putting his best conflicted face on. 

The corners of his mouth shoot upwards. “You’re laughing at my expense, Tommy. Fucking hurtful, that is.” 

He chokes. “How did you even—”

Upper hand. “It was on the lease. And the lady mentioned it.” 

“Ugh, not fair.” Erik waves a hand. “Don’t you have something else to do? Fuck off or something—” 

“Nah.” Remus snatches the list. 

Telly—Erik cannot be left alone with his own thoughts,  

he might start crocheting at this point. 

A hit. “Have you got something against the—noble art of crocheting?”

“Ow, anger issues I see—”

Punching bag—Erik won’t cope otherwise.  

A laugh, another hit.

Punching bag—Erik won't cope otherwise.

Correction: 'Rem's' arm won't cope otherwise.

“Now, onto the useful stuff.”

Fire extinguisher.  

“For your fucking temper, I think.”

A scoff.

Groceries and shit. 

And they keep writing, and laughing, and punching each other as they fight for the pen, and the paper crumbles a little but it’s fine. It’s all fine when there’s hope, and a new sense of purpose, and friendship, at last. Someone to share. Because when he first made plans to share with other people, he hadn’t even thought of it as something temporary. He genuinely believed it would be forever, however foolish it seemed. Rejection had felt like a blade, back then. 

And at the moment, he guessed it had been life’s way of teaching him a lesson, telling him never to do that again, never to love so selflessly, never to sacrifice that much, never to give away his trust like that again. Like standing in front of someone on your back, falling and hoping you’ll be caught, like child’s play. Because it had been easy like that.

But now, with the flickering ancient light of the kitchen, and the bickering, and the accepting once again, and the inside jokes, he considered. Maybe he had been craving human interaction for so long. 

Maybe, instead, this was now life’s way of telling him to give it another try. Slower, now; with caution, always an eye on the horizon. But another try nevertheless.

Remus’ hand goes instinctively to his necklace hours later, thinking maybe it’s time to finally let it rest. It’s a horrible reminder to hear it clink in his grip. 

“So what would you do, if the world did had five years left?” He had asked Sirius once, in their dorm, in the winter of 1976.

They were listening to ‘Five Years’ and were basically cuddling on the bed, a blanket draped over both of them while the fire cackled. It was their second run of Bowie’s album, and they had been asking silly questions the entire time, the dumber the better.‘What would you do if you saw a spider from Mars?’ ‘What would you do if you woke up as an alligator?’ ‘Okay, but what about a space invader?’

"1981?" He stopped as if thinking about it, but the badly disguised humour in his eye gave it away. “I would kiss you senseless.”

“Nah, be honeste here—” he said, caressing his palm, “lad comes in telling everyone the world is actually ending in five years. Nothing to do about it.” Remus sat up to prove his point, as if counting down things with his hands. “You could travel, you could learn new languages, at the end of it all you would have a life well spent, die a legend.”

“Languages I know.” Sirius was still resting on his back, relaxed. “But if the world ever really got to that I reckon it wouldn’t be a life well spent without you spending it with me.” 

And Remus had felt so safe that night. 

He slides a thumb through what’s dangling from the chain. Perhaps another day. 

The next day is spent leisurely sightseeing. Erik walks next to him full of energy, showing Remus around with childhood stories and silly comments. His aunt had been living here since he was a baby, she mostly lived by the sea by now but there had been a time in which his family visited in summer. 

“This is la Plaza Mayor,” he explains with a slightly harsh accent, arms spread and grin on his face. They sit down for a moment, taking in the atmosphere, the sun warming their skin up. 

Remus crouches down to pet a dog half an hour later while Erik takes out a whole euro for a guy who took two instant pictures of them. “One for you—” he mumbles, handing it to him after writing ‘Madrid, 89.’ In the white space with a borrowed pen from a store. ”And one for me, you can even carry me in your wallet and all that.” 

Remus scoffs. “Who says I want you in my wallet?”

He does, indeed, put him in his wallet later.

“Are you hungry yet?” His friend asks as they amble down the street, ornate buildings around them, delicious smells as they stride past more restaurants, a girl blows a kiss to a man from her window, saying goodbye. Someone passes by on a bike and Erik pushes Remus aside as he does, getting him out of the way. 

“Remus, my friend, you’re walking down la Gran Vía. Busy as can be.”

They both turn around just in time to witness the moment a pigeon shits on a man in front of ‘Lillian Loy Parfums’. He curses loudly while trying to clean his suit with a napkin. 

Erik sighs, fondly. “Incredible, never ceases to amaze me.” 

A woman walks out the store, stops as she gets sight of him. “¿Pero qué te ha pasado?” The man, scoffing as he points towards the sky. 

They move on.

“Ah yes, la Puerta de Alcalá, famous for…” he stops, like he only just thought about it, “honestly I don’t know the story.” His stomach grumbles with almost comedic timing. “You know what? We should have a picnic.” 

Them, walking all the way to a park after buying tapas and wine from a place Erik insists will make his mouth water. “This is classic shit, you gotta try them—”

They sit in front of a pond, and Remus hopes they’re not walking that much anymore because his lower back is starting to feel funny. He takes in the view, and the people around, and the air against his cheeks. How different life feels when you’ve got a gram of faith. 

“Look!” His companion exclaims, pointing. “A duck. Ain’t it grand, Rem?” 

In the end, they return to the flat, both falling back on the air mattress in exhaustion until it starts sizzling. 

“Shit,” Remus grunts, trying to fix the new hole with tape. Of course it could’ve been easily fixed if he could ever use his wand in front of Erik, but he doesn’t think this is big enough for that. They fail. It was brand new. 

“We should get a sofa.” His friend places various blankets and duvets on the floor, the hints of a smile even above the unfortunate situation. 

December 31th receives them with the pop of fireworks, and the pop of a bottle and the pop of his eardrums as hundreds of people cheer around them, all hopeful with the promise of resolutions and aspirations that usually comes with the new year.

They walk down the busy street once again while some dance. People hug, some cry, Remus and Erik laugh as they push each other, testing who falls first. At one point his friend reaches out—he grabs his arm, and with the strength of the whole motion, the next step he takes is wobbly, they trip. The eyes staring back at him shine a little as the roar of laughter attacks them. Remus places a quick kiss on his lips, full of adrenaline.

Well, shit.

Back at the flat, it’s a battle. 

As soon as the door is closed, the clash. 

Warmth spreading as they grip each other’s clothes, as they share breaths, as they slam against the wall, searching—

As the other man bites his lip, so he pulls at his hair in return, as they get rid of their shirts and fall into bed once again since that last time in Berlin, Remus can feel the twisting in his stomach, the need—the thrill. 

Erik puts a leg up between Remus’ own, pulling him down with just enough strength to get a soft sound in response. He sees him grin a little, as if thinking there it is, the fucking cynic.

And there’s a certain closeness, of course, in being known like this again. In someone not really using you completely for their own convenience, but for something else entirely, like a shared fleeting experience. Remus has grown to know him too, which isn’t half as bad, mainly for the whole benefit of it. They do have a good time. 

It’s all nice, everything going well, until the fall, the guilt, and the fucking ringing starts again. It’s panting as everything quickens, it’s the hands in the back of the neck and getting the angle right and the soft whimper that comes with it—until the fucking fall, until a voice appears, until it rises in intensity and it’s all he can hear anymore. ‘Did you throw yourself at the first person who showed a little bit of sympathy?’  

He gasps. “Stop.” 

Erik gives two steps back, concerned. “Shit,” he curses, tripping, “I’m—I’m sorry, did I hurt you? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, it’s not that.” Remus scrunches his nose, still panting. He rolls over until he’s at the other end of the bed. 

“We don’t have to do this, okay?” 

He covers his face with his hands. “I know, I know, I know—” His lungs start shrinking, he needs air—

His friend sounds worried. “Remus, breathe.”

He tries, but it comes out desperate. “I can’t—” 

“It’s okay,” Erik insists, nervous. “I know you don’t want more than this, it’s okay.”

And the shock actually makes him stop for a second, he can still feel the crushing sensation but it’s not that strong this time. Remus turns to stare at him, confused, chest heaving. 

“I won’t make other advances if you don’t want them, I mean—It’s casual, right?”

“I—I don’t know what I want—”

Erik gets one step closer, but doesn’t touch him. “Yes you do, you do. And you shouldn’t be ashamed, okay?” And he actually sounds collected about it, even if his expression remains concerned. “I will respect it, if you ever tell me you want to pursue this deeper, it will be okay, if you don’t, it will be okay. We don’t owe each other anything on that matter, okay?” 

He, in contrast, is not collected at all. “How would you know?”

He wipes a hand down his face, pinching his chin, fiddling. Remus has to insist again before he speaks.

“I had someone, too.”

“Back there?” 

Erik shakes his head, adopting a grim expression. “Back home, met him when I used to hang around… well, not that good people.” He scoffs a bit. “He didn’t know, at first. So it was a handful to deal with.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The man in front of him snorts, sitting down. “As if you talk to me about your shit.” When Remus doesn’t smile, he continues, suddenly contemplative. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

And Remus knows it’s his turn to stay silent, he really wants to listen to this, it's the most Erik has ever told him about the people back home. It’s evident from the way his body language changes in a heartbeat, there’s still something there, rotten.

“We were supposed to make it out together,” he says, finally. 

And fucking hell, there is something there.

“He left me at the train station. I mean, he made it, first. And I thought finally.” He closes his eyes, very forcefully. “But then he got closer, and it was written all over his face, and I understood and it felt so fucking awful.” 

Remus listens. Watching his friend rapidly wipe his eye, embarrassed, probably. Erik never cried in front of him. 

When it’s his turn to talk, he explains what goes through his head when he feels like he can’t breathe, he explains how he doesn’t really know what is going on with him sometimes, and Erik listens to him too, introspective, nodding as he maybe makes sense of something. In the end they both just lie there, existing together, absorbed in their own minds. 

“What happened to him?” Remus asks, way less shy than before. “Did you ever find out?”

There's no response for a good five minutes. “Last I heard he got married, living blissfully, they say. But I know.” 

Remus sits on their new wooden kitchen chairs days later, cigarette in hand. It’s been half an hour of staring at the blank notebook in front of him with a pen gripped in his fist. A gift for Christmas, bought by his roommate who still argues that it helps to write if you can’t talk about it. Whatever ‘it’ means.

“You stopped wearing your necklace.” Remus hears him say casually, from the living room. Erik, in contrast, has been collecting papers all over different streets, coffee in a mug next to where he circles job opportunities with a red crayon no one knows how they acquired. 

“I don’t wear it all the time, who says I don’t have it in my pocket?”

They lock eyes. “It’s been a week now.”

It’s a minute before he talks again. “Yeah,” he says, with a sigh.

“Well, I certainly noticed the—” Erik puts his index and thumb in a circle.

And he grunts. “Please don’t, I stopped using it, yes. I cannot talk about it yet.” 

So he nods, and both stay silent as a song sounds through their shitty radio.

It’s two months later that Remus finally gets a stable job in a record store, and Erik lands himself a stable schedule at a bar a few streets over, and both of them miss each other every other day completely but when they concur, it’s fun, and it’s catching up or going to the movies or sometimes other stuff too—stress and all that. Casual.

Anyway, it’s two months later that they finally get ahold of a stereo, the owner of the shop telling him to keep it if he could fix it after someone returned it. 

Mostly to tease him, he knows. The problem is almost impossible to solve. 

But Remus has magic, and a faint understanding of how these machines work, and by the end of the day, a new fucking stereo. 

Erik is asleep when he gets home, so he stays silent as he plugs the whole thing in, accio'ing one of his roommate's sex pistols cassettes then turning the knob from decent volume to loud. Smiling to himself as he does. 

The drums and the electric guitar fill his eardrums with such intensity even he winces.

“An imitation from New York…” 

His roommate emerges seconds later, covering his ears and scanning the room 1. For the source of the noise, 2. For him.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” He asks, his lips turning upwards.

Remus smiles. “I KNOW.”

“WHERE YOU GET THIS?”

“I FIXED IT.”

Erik turns the volume down, taking in the machine in front of him with eager eyes. “Cannot believe this, it even has a turntable!” 

He sits beside him. “I know!”

“It’s nice, people might even think we got dosh.”

Remus looks around their apartment. To their furniture, or the lack of it. A sofa, the lamp over a carton box, their dining table with two chairs and a Rolling Stones poster over it. 

“I don’t think so, honestly.” 

March 9th, 1990.

For his birthday that year, Remus gets his first tattoo. A silly thing really, but Erik bounces up and down all the way there, half grin on his face as if not believing he’d ever do something like that. 

The needle trails down his skin, ripping as it lays the ink, lacerating as it cuts through, painful he supposes, in normal circumstances. Yet nothing compared to the pain already looming over him, the full coming on the 11th. Happy Birthday to him, from the moon itself. 

The light of the lamp over him makes him squint, and the buzzing noise of the machine is honestly starting to bother him, and the staying in one position for hours, and—

“Are you having your headaches again?” Erik asks, from a chair. 

“Yeah, something like that.” He puts a hand over his eyes. His friend is next to him in a second, pulling out a bandana from his jacket. 

“Does it help if we put this over your eyes?”

“I’m okay, there’s no need,” he replies, pushing it away.

A groan. “You’re too proud, have they told you that?” 

“Nah.” 

He had gotten away with telling Erik that his full moon aches were simply about chronic pain, which explains the pills, and the erratic sleeping patterns, and the fact that he totally accepts his wishes when he says he wants to be alone and locks himself in his room before he apparates somewhere—secluded—enough—fucking hell, he might commit a crime at this point, why is the fucking needle so fucking loud? He closes his eyes. Takes deep breaths, clutches his own skin. 

He lets himself drift off for the sake of keeping his sanity while Erik browses the catalogue, to an autumn night in Hogwarts, a year before they graduated. A happy memory.

They had a dorm reunion for Mary’s birthday that year.

The boys were in charge of the decorations and securing snacks from the kitchen while the girls were in charge of… well, showing up. And keeping the secret. Marlene and Lily had been the perpetrators, the ones who planned the whole thing.

These were difficult times for her, her energy had been dulled lately, the usual vivaciousness turned melancholy. And it was a change so drastic even James noticed five minutes within the group meeting once again in the train. ‘Her grandma died,’ was the response given by Lily after Mary excused herself to the loo. ‘They were very close, it’s awful.’  

Grief was a well travelled path between most of them, mostly Remus, so the immediate silent understanding was no surprise. Nobody said anything. Sirius bought half the sweets from the cart, and Peter gifted everyone souvenirs from New Orleans, a town he visited over the break and was pretty sure was infested with vampires. ‘It’s crazy, I’m telling you, there’s so much history there—’ 

That’s how, in the middle of September, Remus secured a string of lights between the four beds of their dorm, while Peter transfigured pillows into bigger cushions. The theme, if he understood, was a pillow fortress concept. 

“It must suck,” said the other boy, “the first birthday without someone you once loved there.”

Remus stiffened, taken by surprise. He really didn’t wanna remember everything he had gone through when his parents died, the slash was still too recent, the gouge ran deep, still pouring blood in substantial amounts.

“Yes it does,” he breathed, minutes later.

Peter turned to stare at him, alarmed. “Shit Moony, I didn’t mean—”

“I know, it’s okay.” he mentioned, not resenting him. “It’s okay, Pete.” He knew his friend wasn’t the sharpest when it came to these types of things. He never meant wrong, his heart was always in the right place, with the best of intentions. But was it difficult to keep himself gentle, sometimes… he breathed in rhythm, counting as he did so, the ringing evaporating.

They kept getting everything else ready while waiting for Sirius and James, who were actually running five minutes late.

“I swear if they fuck this up…” He mumbled, while hanging tinsel and sheets, totally changing the space, a warmth emanating from the lights, from the lit fireplace, or perhaps in general. As soon as both of them were done, the missing marauders barged through the door, levitating and carrying a varied assortment of sweets, muffins, cakes—and of course, booze.

It was the good type of mess, when the girls arrived minutes before they were supposed to, and they were still arranging scones on the makeshift table, it was Peter who suddenly blurted "SURPRISE", making the rest of them jump. 

Mary was not surprised at all, which was obvious because she had a special ability to figure out whatever the hell she wanted to figure out. And the boys hadn’t been the most subtle when helping with the plans. 

She smiled, though. And it was a relief. 

They cheered on her behalf, gave her chocolates, clothes, a bracelet, they hugged, they talked while the goods were distributed, they put whatever she wanted on the turntable, and when they all felt in better spirits, Marlene yelled. “Talent show!” 

And because they were all properly plastered, they all shouted “Talent show!” in response.

The order of the presentations went like this:

James, the first to stand up, with a beautiful rendition of ‘Bus Stop’ by The Hollies, for Lily obviously.  She even teared up a bit.

The marauders, a very drunk performance of ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’ by The Rolling Stones. Marlene, with an energetic rendition of ‘Because the night’ by Patti Smith, to which they all happily sang the chorus back to her, thrilled. One of the best performances of the night, no doubt.

It was until Dorcas, Lily and Marlene took their places in their non-existent scenario, that they realised this had been planned. Dancing Queen by Abba filled the room while they performed a choreographed dance and all, pointing to Mary at the ‘young and sweet only seventeen’ part, well, when even glitter fell down the sky a round of applause had been well earned from the five people crowd. 

Sirius, of course, had taken this as a challenge and was now standing up to play his own song, getting ready behind one of the sheets. Rapid whispering could be heard, faintly, between James and him. Muffliato spell, surely, that went on for other five minutes till they could hear them again. 

A snort. “This one goes for Moons.” And Remus froze, recognising the mischief in his voice. “Prongs, would you do the honours?”

“Certainly, my dear Pads, sir.” James replied, with a curtsy.

He emerged as Marc Bolan’s voice shouted ‘1-2-3-4!’ then, an electric guitar could be heard.

Sirius turned to stare at him, shirt unbuttoned, red nose, and with the face of a man on a mission.

“I’m a foxy man,

Don’t you understand,

Would take a rocket ship, 

To let me get my thighs on you…”

And he strode about the room, swinging and raising his arms, never breaking eye contact. Lily yelled, encouraging. Marlene and Dorcas stared at each other in shock, James couldn’t stop laughing, and Peter clapped Remus’ back, very entertained too. Mary had a hand covering her mouth, chuckling.

“I’m gonna change Mad Donna, I’m gonna change Mad Donna, 

I’m gonna change Mad Donna, for you…”

It was a vicious thing, him, hip thrusting while pretending to play a guitar, him, knees on the floor now, pointing towards his boyfriend, earning way more screaming as he humorously crawled all the way to Remus’ lap, a teasing smile radiating through him. 

He kissed him, completely in a trance like only he could do. Grasping, pressing, holding—it was intoxicating, addictive, it was—when they separated, the noise took him out of it, still staring at the flushed boy in front.

Later, he resolved.

“Well,” Mary said, “after that evident mating call—”

Everyone laughed, making him blush in embarrassment.

“You have to sing now, Mary!” Lily sat beside her, holding her hand. “Please just once, your voice is wonderful!”

It was an arduous work to get her to acquiesce, but in the end she stood up, dragging a stool from Peter’s side of the room. 

“If I cry, don’t stop me,” she announced. “I might change the lyrics a little, too.”

And she started singing. A very sentimental rendition of ‘Thank You For The Music’ which she said reminded her of her grandmother, teary eyed, not breaking character until it was done. Remus remembers being the first to hug her. The rest followed until there was no way of knowing which hand was who’s, colliding to the floor in a group thanks to, as usual, Marlene.

Sirius' voice cut through the noise. "Well, I think I won, didn't I?" 

The collective ugh they all released was enough to make Mary laugh again.

When the tattoo artist is done, and he certainly needs to take some time before standing up because his leg has gone numb, and his back cracks a little, he limps towards the mirror. A moon and a black dog running over it in dark punctures staring back at him, occupying the left side of his ribs, right under his arm. 

“What is it with you and moons, eh?” Erik is behind him, arms crossed but taking in the view. 

Remus gives him half a smile. “Great question.”

His eyes light up when he sees something on the other side of the room, he pats him in the back. “Rem, they got piercings too. All colours and shit.”

“Nah, I think a tattoo is enough for now—” 

“Let’s get matching ones! My treat, birthday gift, please.” And his smile is so good hearted, he is actually tempted to say yes. “Come on, it would look good on you!” 

So that’s how Remus ends up with a piercing on his brow, and Erik gets one on his septum, grinning from ear to ear. “We’re gonna pull so many people now—we’re basically unstoppable.” 

That makes him cackle. 

Things escalate. 

The next month, Remus pierces his ears, and adds more ink to his torso, and when Erik starts learning how to be a tattoo artist, Remus lets himself be tested on.  

Of course his friend immediately wants to put his new found charm to use, organising what he calls bachelor’s nights every two weeks, or whenever they’re both free on the same weekend. Sometimes it’s taverns, places he says have been opened since the 20s; other times are modern bars, or clubs, or whatever party they can crash. 

It’s one of those nights where he stumbles upon someone. A pretty face, one would say. An alluring smile, playful as it lands on him, flirty as he approaches, immediately attracted. 

She isn’t really interested in conversation with him, which is fair, he will accept this. Remus follows her through the maze of bodies on the dance floor. Hypnotized, which makes her smile cause she knows, she fucking knows. 

Her scent is particular, what he can make from it, his senses get a bit blurred when he drinks. Yet he is completely aware when he takes her hand and feels something there, like a fizzle. He leans in to talk in her ear. 

“Are you—”

She winks, and sends a little bolt to this arm, imperceptible to the people around them, making him shiver. And he isn’t really surprised, during all these years he had encountered various witches and wizards, too, some werewolves every once in a while, mostly close to the fulls. That had been interesting. 

“How ever do you want me? 

How ever do you need me?” 

Remus lets her guide him, a mere puppet of her wishes, placing his hands on her hips as she grinds them, as she raises her arms a bit, as she twirls and swings along to the music. She motions for him to keep his hands where they’re at, then turns around, back against his chest. 

“I live at the top of the block,  

No more room for trouble and fuss, 

Need a change, a positive change,  

Look, it’s my writing on the wall.” 

 

The woman curves her neck a bit, enough for the crook of her neck to be exposed, vulnerable; and he attacks, caressing with the tip of his nose. She smells like—like a specific flower, not that sweet, but strong, like musk, and amber. Remus closes his eyes.

“Where?” He whispers.

“Mine.” 

He isn’t surprised also when he meets Erik in the middle of it, snogging a bloke. He supposes it will be their flat for him tonight, he taps him on the shoulder, mouthing ‘see you tomorrow’ motioning to the door. His roomate grins and gives him a thumbs up. 

The events of the night come back in waves. 

It’s the lobby of an apartment building, it’s the kisses on the stairs, Remus’ body curving into hers, his hands trailing through her back—keys—a jacket falling—stumbling—gasps for air— 

She completely tears him apart, taking so shamelessly he curses under his breath, her hips, the softness yet the vehemence of it; so sure of herself, pushing and pulling and the way he’s been taken captive that leaves him spent afterwards, panting as he lights a fag. 

The room is spacious, curtains drawn yet a soft breeze flows through them. She’s got a tattoo on her thigh, two fishes circling around each other, and another on her ribs, just below the left breast, a dagger. Her hair, he can now see, is a warm shade of purple, and she has a mole on her back, right behind her shoulder.

As he admires her under the faint light with the pads of his fingers, he chuckles. “I’m sorry, what was your name?” 

She smiles, taking the cigarette from his hand. “You can call me Dora.”

Chapter Text

"Déjalo ya, sabes que nunca has ido a Venus en un barco..." 

- "Barco a Venus" Mecano, 1983. 

September, 1990.

The decline had come so fast and out of the blue, nobody noticed at first. Not even him. 

It could have been August, could have been July; somewhere between ivory lines on tables, pills and liquor bottles, he had fallen on the tub of their shared bathroom, still fully clothed, drenched in cold water while Erik hysterically forced the contents out of his stomach. His hand against the wall while the shower drops mixed with the tears falling down his and his roommate’s eyes. 

His mind held onto a thought through it all. Why? Why me? Why, why, why, why… 

The decline had been fast. 

Poetic, in a way. Like every heroic tragedy, a hamartia. Or a peripeteia. Like man against god, man against nature, like Remus against Remus at last. There was only so much he could take, and he had taken it all, there was no way of changing the outcome, he knew. It had been leading up to this. From that very first time he stepped into that train, from the way his own feet took him to that compartment, the fucking traitors—to the way he first exchanged words with Peter, with James, with Sirius. 

There was no way of changing the outcome but god, did he want to. 

When did all of this start? He could have a guess. All roads lead to Rome or some shit.

Mum, do you hate me now? Would you hate me now? He remembers thinking before, a contrast from his thoughts months ago, or lifetimes ago.

You promised, another part would say. And he did. But what worth did a promise made to himself in Berlin had now? Looking at the table right in front of him, opportunities lined up. He knew he could; his body would burn it off in a moment, it would be fine, right? He needed this, he needed to feel good for a while. 

In the end, he gave up. Like a switch going off in his head. What use would it be not letting himself get consumed by it? Completely engulfed like the ground reclaiming him? What use would it be fighting it? The lines were blurry now, the lows were getting lower—but the highs, fucking hell—as brief as they were, had been heavenly. Maybe he had signed his own death sentence, maybe not; what use would it be fighting it now? 

In the aftermath, he would apologise. Still wet, hands shaking while the other man avoided looking at him, gaze on the floor, instead. Voice almost a whisper, but he knew he would listen. “Please don’t make me do this, Remus. Please not again, I cannot do this again.” 

April 10th, 1990. 

Hope liked gardenias, and orchids. She loved the sea breeze and chamomile tea. And because I was lucky once, she loved me as much.  

Remus puts his fag out on the sole of his shoe, sparing a second to take in the colours of the sunset, smirking. They were way more colourful indeed. 

He hears some rumbling from inside, and for a moment, considers helping. But there were ten minutes left from his break, and his limping would get worse by the time the store closed. He needed the rest. 

Her fingers were soft when they brushed through hair, and when they brushed through the pages of the books she read at night. Like they deserved tenderness too. She loved sinking her feet into the Mediterranean water, and the taste of cantaloupe. Meloncello. She would buy coffee sweets, and would carry them in her pockets. Her purse smelled like powder, and paper; her dresses smelled like perfume.  

Remus didn’t really feel like crying, now. Her last birthday had been fourteen years ago. Today. She didn’t get to celebrate in 1977, she was dead, gone with the fucking wind, a wind that took and destroyed, that expanded, and spread. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and he had been left alone.

Defenceless. 

He didn’t feel like crying anymore, but he couldn’t let himself forget. 

She didn’t cry often, only on full moons.  

She held my hand until she couldn’t anymore, the next day there would be hot chocolate on the table. She would dance with Lyall in the living room, their favourite was Moon Love by Glenn Miller. Fitting. Maybe they never imagined it would end up like this. 

At least I never did. 

“¡Lupin!” The loudness of it takes him out of his thoughts. “¡Hacen falta manos!”

Remus checks the time. 7:30. Not a minute more, not a minute less. He stands up.

May had been a good month, he can recall now.

It had been a game of Monopoly with two of their new friends. Or well, Erik’s friends; Ana and Rafael. 

Ana worked with him, sometimes sharing the night shift at the bar and mostly taking the weekend ones. She came by the flat every once in a while for a couple drinks or dinner, depending on the day. Rafael was in the same tattoo course as Erik, and if Remus is being honest he couldn’t really figure out if both of them had something going on. Not that it was his business, of course, not after everything that happened, but sometimes he would catch the other man staring at Erik with a fond expression, breaking it almost as soon as it came. Sometimes playing it off with a cough. 

He coughed a lot. 

Remus still had some reluctance towards them, especially Rafael. Something that made his best friend chuckle because ‘he hadn’t had that problem with him’. It did not help when Remus declared it had been thanks to Erik’s ‘comforting aura’, actually making his best friend roar with laughter. ‘There’s a soppy git in you after all!’ 

May had been their first actual bought telly. One they had put under Remus’ name, settling for monthly payments they could actually afford now. It had been the face his roommate made when he told him he had never seen Back to the Future, whatever that was. Them, going to their nearest video-rental store, making popcorn in a pot and almost burning them, the phrase ‘ This is going to change your life’, and the way he immediately thought of James right after. 

He wrote about it. 

Then, he felt rage, almost ripping away the paper. He didn’t, though. It had been a gift, and that was not the way one treated gifts. 

Time went on.

June had been warm. Warmer as Erik’s birthday approached and they travelled all the way down Valencia, to his aunt’s summer flat. She was well settled—and of course they were not. But they could dream, and pretend.

Maybe that had been the beginning of it. In the Middle of Ruzafa, 1 am with pupils the size of coins. A stolen kiss in the dark, a happy birthday in the stalls and cheeks hollowed. ‘No, Remus, come here.’ Another kiss—or were they two? The lines were blurry indeed.

Erik’s aunt was an interesting woman. He supposed she was in her late fifties, she used too much lipstick, and the lines on her face were reminiscent of a youth well spent. Full of energy, she walked with them, drank wine every day, smoked occasionally, even sharing with Remus, sometimes, and laughed loudly. He could see the family resemblance, somehow. 

She had inspected him closely when they arrived to her flat, sweaty and carrying his suitcase, which he hadn’t used in a while. 

“Aunt Sarah, this is Remus.” 

“Pleased to meet you,” he began, “I’ve heard so much about you.” 

They shook hands.

“I would say the same.” She grinned, she had a british accent. “Welcome.”

June had been another difficult full moon and his reluctance to get up this time. A neglect of oneself, not really a choice; the exhaustion was all consuming. He had years of it.

It was a new cupboard full of bandages, and Remus’ hand clenching and unclenching, uneven breaths. He couldn't afford Dittany any other way. 

February, 1977.

“Remus, mi niño, you haven’t eaten since yesterday.” Effie was holding a tray, standing on the doorframe of James’ room. He, in contrast, was curled up on the bed, under the covers. When he didn’t respond, she approached, setting the tray down on the side table and sitting beside him. “Sirius sent a letter.”

He didn’t talk. Couldn’t.

He hated this, he hated this world that allowed him to keep on living when his parents were dead. He hated seeing the sun through the window, hated listening to the birds, hated feeling warmth in his body when they wouldn’t anymore, when they weren’t there to witness it. 

Remus ate that day. Mostly for the sake of Effie, she had been taking such good care of him he couldn’t be ungrateful. Hope would not have allowed it. 

She watched the whole time. 

Nobody ever really left him out of their sight, now. He could see the concern, he kept hearing the way the wood creaked outside the door while he was sleeping. Every thirty minutes. No candles in the room, they were not cynics. No fireplaces even though it was winter, still. 

He felt ashamed. Two weeks earlier, when McGonagall pulled him into her office and told him the devastating news, his first impulse had been violent; his first impulse had been to tear—at what? His vocal chords? His skin? The world?

It wasn’t until later, while sitting on a bed in the hospital wing, Poppy towering over him, that he noticed the gashes in his skin; clawed by his own hands, reminiscent of a full moon. His throat was sore, and his head hurt. He couldn’t even remember what happened.

When he gulped the last of his water, and Euphemia was almost out the door, he spoke.

“Effie—” It came out croaky. The first time he had spoken in days.

If she was shocked, she didn’t show it. “Yes, sweetie?” 

“Can you—I’m sorry,” his voice broke. Her eyes turned downwards, just like her mouth. He didn’t like it, he couldn’t handle pity, he couldn’t handle—“I just—I can’t—”

She left the tray, and rushed to hug him without hesitation. All he could do was sob. Was he destined to this? To search for an embrace as loving as Hope’s in others? To wonder for the rest of his life? 

Effie’s arms were warm, and her dress smelled like perfume.

“You have potential, Mr. Lupin.” McGonagall had said to him, once. Two months after his parents passed away. He had returned to Hogwarts by then and those reunions were getting consistent. “You do not need me to point it out.” She reached out for a plate of biscuits, offering one to him. Remus shook his head, he was still way too nauseous to eat.

Only an hour before James had been crouched down on the floor next to him, caressing his back as he puked his brains out after finding a firewhisky bottle under Pete’s bed. They had been clever hiding it this time.

“And you do not need me to tell you to not waste it.” 

“The war needs me more.” What use would he be, staying at Hogwarts another year? Life was happening outside these walls, he felt the need to get out; riot, rip to shreds, fight . He would not be a bystander in all of this, he would get justice. He owed it to them.

She regarded him slowly. “It might, but nothing is as easy as it seems.” Her voice came out stern, cautious even. “You do not owe explanations to anyone about what you want to do with your life, but I refuse to let you fade away like this when you could have so many opportunities—”

He could laugh, didn’t. “Like what.” Decided to maintain eye contact instead. What else was there in life for him, if he was honest? What else could he do? It’s not like he could get a job at the Ministry, like Sirius, or Peter. Their latest werewolf reforms had made that very clear. 

“Anything, Mr. Lupin.” She straightened up her glasses. “Anything you set your mind to.”

Late August, 1990.

Remus could laugh, now, at the absurdity of it all.

Where was McGonagall now? Where was Effie? He takes a tenner from his pocket, rolling it until the tusk traces are gone from his compact mirror lying precariously against the bathroom sink, his heart pummeling and a smile on his face as he makes it out to the dancefloor again, every single inhibition dulled, buried underneath that static sound, under that pleasant feeling that makes his blood flow. 

It starts hitting deeper as he walks towards Erik, greeting him with a nod and a pat in the back. Neither of them knows whose house is this, but they sure are toff people, the garden being big enough for the quantity of people filling it to the brim. 

His friend grabs his face, scanning him. Remus instantly gets what he’s trying to do, so he slaps him on the wrist and winks, heading to the refreshments table instead. “You want anything?” Erik shakes his head, raising the drink in his hand. 

What the hell was that about? He didn’t like feeling monitored, like a child. That’s been happening often lately, that flash of concern on his face, of worry—he hated it. Besides, it’s not like he was abusing, he did like some pick me up every once in a while, they both did. Remus didn’t understand why he was being like this all of a sudden. 

He seizes a bottle of what he hopes is vodka as his skin keeps warming up, the serotonin levels rising. God , how he missed this. 

Out of the blue, before he goes any deeper, a familiar scent reaches his nose. 

He smirks. Guess it was inevitable. 

Remus had seen Dora out every once in a while. Sometimes they concurred the same places, sometimes he would see her on the other side of the road. Other times they had barely missed each other, her scent lingering while he and Erik sat down at a restaurant. 

He went out some nights wondering if he would find her, somehow. It’s not that they would actively look out for the other, but when they met, none were surprised. Remus knows she knows why he could find her anywhere. It could be read between the lines of one of their meetings, in the way she had her legs wrapped around him with an amused expression as she noticed the bite, now pale and almost blending with rest of the scars, that one being the oldest. The ‘oh’ and then the laugh right after.

‘Of course, it had to be.’  

He swears she sometimes applies her perfume heavily on purpose. 

Anyway, it’s another 10 minutes until she is in plain sight, dancing as always, swinging as if she could see the music moving with her. Remus’ feet move automatically by now, in the height of it, like a rush. There are people around looking at her. There’s always people looking at her, that’s just the type of person she is. Let them stare, he supposes, he’s not the jealous type. Not anymore.

His hand reaches out for hers, softly caressing the palm until the fingers are intertwined, bringing it to his lips in a swift motion. A faint smirk tugs at the corner of her lip, and she knows now. 

Dora turns around, grabbing his drink and gulping down the last of it. He tries to stop her because he takes it almost neat by now, but she doesn’t wince. Winks, instead. Good-natured.

She dances with him, stealing glances at her group of friends, who laugh when Remus spots them. They seem to have some sort of silent exchange and she scrunches her nose in a fond way, asking him for a drink.

He obliges, of course. 

It’s not long until they end up in a random room of the house, barely noticing the looks of the people around as they make their way through a hallway. Lips red, breathless already as they hold on to each other. In the middle of it, he does catch Erik’s stare for a moment. They don’t hold eye contact long enough to know what is going through his best friend’s mind, but when he gets a glimpse of the now pink hair, Remus knows he has put the pieces together in his head. His face falls; he raises his drink again, and turns around hastily, not smiling. 

Remus doesn’t meditate about it, really. He doesn’t want to meditate about it. He simply lets himself be guided towards a dark room, tripping against a rug and closing the door. The silencing spell and the locking one comes naturally by now. 

It’s half an hour later, while lying sweaty over Dora, draped in a chaise longue; that he realises the place they’re in is a studio. Or a home library, if the several hundred books in the bookshelves are anything to go by.

She leaps up, her porcelain skin moving with a purpose, striding around the space before Remus turns a floor lamp on, following her. Her finger stops at the spine of a book. 

“That one’s good.” 

Remus tilts his head, reading the title.

“Heathcliff was a pain in the arse, though.” He snorts. “Not sane at all.” 

She turns to face him. “Who says I like to read sane shit.”

“Fair enough.” He shrugs. “I like this one,” he comments, pointing to Anna Karenina. 

She raises an eyebrow. “So much for being sane; a romantic tragedy. You like those ones?” 

“I love reading about them, not really living them.” Before she can question him, he talks again. “Wuthering could be a tragedy, also.”

A tilt of the head. “Debatable, but interesting point of view.” Dora shows him Dracula, brows raised . They chuckle.

“Come on, you said I killed you—haunt me then? How is that not a tragedy?” 

“It’s cathartic.” She smirks, putting a hand on her forehead, dramatically. “What about this one?” She takes out a copy of Flowers in the Attic. 

“I think Cathy should be allowed a gun.” 

She roars with laughter. “God, yes. Poor girl.” 

Dora then takes out another, Remus reads Around the World in Eighty Days and his guts churn. 

He turns away. “Nah, I didn’t like that one.”

“Reason?”

“I just don’t.” He browses through the books again. “Maybe we should go back.” 

She regards him, curiously. “Or…” 

Well, the chaise is comfortable indeed. They emerge half an hour later.

Maybe it all started after that, in the back alley of the record store, on a random Wednesday. The air hadn’t been that cold yet, but a crisp lingered. He could hear people talking near, a dog barking, the sound of the espresso machines from the coffee shop beside them.

It happens rapidly.

There’s new equipment at the store, and he’s the only one who can take care of it at the moment. In the middle of uploading and unloading boxes, instruments, records—there’s a crack. His leg gives out for a moment as he carries a box full of cds. When they clatter against the ground, he curses. The hallway is empty, so he slides against the wall towards the floor, gripping his teeth, a hand frantically searching his pockets until he finds them. There’s the sound of plastic, then he swallows. The doses have to be stronger now, being a werewolf. Quick tolerance development and all that. 

Remus reaches out for his wand, casting a numbing spell over his leg that he hopes might dull the whole thing a little, and a reparo for the broken cds. He knows the pain would be way more tolerable with potions, but they’re fucking expensive and why would he when calling your local plug takes way less? 

Some time ago, someone would have brewed them just for him. Hands so delicate and poised underneath an enormous glass ceiling; muscle memory at that point.

Some time ago. 

His head hits the pillow almost harshly as soon as he crosses the door of his bedroom, the horribly intense fatigue makes him sleep until the next day, and as soon as he wakes up, the pain is so bad he has to call in sick in spite of his boss’s insistence. This has been happening more often. His lower back stings, his head aches, and his leg straight up feels wobbly.

Erik watches him from the frame of his door, biting his lip, bringing him water when he asks, forcing him to eat. “Does this have to do with your condition?” He asks, creasing lines all over.

Remus cannot look at him, ashamed. “It’s a consequence of it, the transformations literally break my bones,” he says, against his pillow. He doesn’t have the energy to lie about it, not anymore. “They’re getting worse, the potions are expensive. I just have to sit this one out, tomorrow I will feel better.”

Erik sighs and lies beside him on the bed, taking his hand. 

He had found out shortly after Remus’ birthday, in the worst way possible. That month had been one of the worst ones, for some reason. The wolf was angry at him, tearing horribly and ruthlessly at his skin. The pain had been so bad his mind wasn’t really into it when apparating back to the flat. He splinched.

Erik had been sitting on the sofa, radio on as he read a magazine. He halted when Remus appeared with a crack, immediately collapsing on the floor.

“What the fuck?” He turned to stare at his bedroom door. “Weren’t you—?”

His face drained from all colour and his mouth shut when he spotted the blood soaked shirt, the way Remus’ knuckles were going white barely containing the painful tremors taking over his limbs. They were impossible to control, his body started convulsing, tears falling down his face against his will. 

The other man panicked, naturally. Bending down by his side, ready to perform first aid and gasping when discovering the gashes, still bleeding, gruesomely so. 

Remus gathered all his strength to mutter ‘brown bottle’ and ‘mirror cabinet’ against the floor. He had been saving Dittany for these types of emergencies, hoping with all his might that the other man made it back before fully losing his consciousness. 

Feeling his hand on his chest mere seconds later was a small comfort, Erik started shakily applying it to his torso and his arms, something close to a panic attack taking over his chest, which was rising tensely with every deep exhale. The relief was instant, it stopped the spasms enough for Remus to sigh, now stable. Holding onto the wood under him, cursing under his breath as he winced because of course his secrets couldn’t stay secrets for long.

A difficult conversation followed, it was the least his best friend deserved.

Erik didn’t take it well at first, regarding him with fear as if he didn’t know the man sitting across from him. And it felt horrible, it felt hurtful. He moved his hands through his hair, something he only did when anxious, while he repeated ‘You’re shitting me.’ He casted an accio to one of his cassettes, broke the lightbulb, then mumbled reparo . The best and worst part of all—a patronus. Padfoot running free from the tip of his wand as if he’d been trapped for an eternity, the way his fur followed physics laws and didn’t at the same time, his eyes…

He had hoped for Erik to be open, as usual, accepting of him, not many questions asked. But that was way too much to ask, he knew. He would’ve reacted the same way had he been in his place. 

It didn’t make it less painful either way.

That’s why, when his roommate stormed off the flat, Remus was left utterly heartbroken, properly crying for the first time in months. It was impossible to stop the tears now. Padfoot sat down beside him the whole time, as if he knew, and Remus poured himself a drink.

As sore and exhausted as he was, he started packing. Something he was still doing when Erik returned with a bag of takeout, a wary expression reaching his face when spotting Remus’ bags near the sofa. He sat down for dinner, as a last curtsy towards him; he would take a train later.

Nearly an hour of eating in excruciating silence went by before the other man finally talked. 

“Are you going to die?” It was soft spoken, scared.

“What do you mean?”

Erik leaned forward. “The magic thing, is it bad for you? Is it killing you?”

Maybe it was, maybe it had been all along. 

“It’s not all bad,” he tried to assure him. It was not enough, but it was all he could do. 

“I don’t want you to leave.” 

And there was that.

Maybe it had been weeks after the cds incident. With a grin and his roommate holding a yellow container with a bolt in it.

The sound of panting as both men hold each other down, the rapid kisses and the deep ones every once in a while, the increasing tempo. Erik standing over him, only trousers on as the glass container pops, the way it all feels when they both sniff from it, pupils dilated because the effect is immediate.

What the hell, is all Remus can think about for a second before reaching out to him, desperately clutching at the belt. “Off—this, off.” With enough decency not to break it. The other man smiles devilishly, letting him as it all sits. 

His eyes flutter when the sensations rocket from 1 to 100, Erik kisses him fiercely, barely gasping for air as he places himself. And Remus’ skin is so sensitive, and for a few seconds no back pain seems to really bother, and everything feels so different—as soon as he goes down again, grinding their hips together, he straight up lets his head fall backwards and moans loudly, his brain turned mush, his hips moving forward without him controlling them.

“Fucking hell, god .” Is all he manages as he drifts away, not giving a fuck about whatever noises leave his mouth. 

Yet, somehow, behind the smoke curtain, behind said mush; there’s still something. A voice that demands to be heard, a barky laugh. The prettiest grin, and a name. It repeats nonstop in his head until it’s all he remembers.

Sirius, Sirius, Sirius…  

“Did you get along with him?” He asks, boldly, as both of them lie side to side. It’s the closest they ever get to being completely unshielded, that after. Never holding, never touching besides the fleeting brush of fingers as they share a post-shag cigarette, guess it’s been a non spoken agreement. “Your dad, I mean.”

Erik does not stop staring at the ceiling. “Not in the end,” he responds. “Maybe when I was younger.”

Remus wants to keep listening, so he keeps quiet. The other man gets the message.

“He was an alcoholic,” he continues. “He fell one day, hit his head. There was nothing to do after that, they said it was a blood clot.” 

Erik sits, finishing the last of the fag then stubbing it on the tray. “He wasn’t bad, but he was no good either.”

Remus turns to face him, now completely intrigued. For a lad that usually complains about him being secretive, there isn’t usually much sharing on his end, either. 

“I would have escaped sooner, if he hadn’t discovered my savings.” His finger scratches his brow. “By then I had a good enough amount to just—fuck off, taking him with me.” Erik’s face twists into something strained when talking about the other guy, the one he left behind. “But then my dad disappeared for a whole weekend. So sudden, just a bam and he was gone. When two days had passed and no one near home had seen him I felt the need to check and indeed, the money was gone.” Remus’ stomach twists, a horrid thing stirring. “So I went out like crazy, I—” He clenches his jaw. “He was in a pub, of course. Just a town over.”

“I just lost it on him, I yelled at him, and at whoever tried to separate us, I— hit him.” He scrunches his face, arms wrapped around his knees, his palms rub over his eyes. “And he couldn’t even stand, he just said sorry, and sorry and—and then he puked all over.” 

It’s rather funny, that impulse to comfort, to ground. Remus takes his hand, the other man winces with the contact. 

“We went back by bus because no cab driver would take us, and I had to shower him because my mother wouldn’t acknowledge his existence, or mine for that matter, and—” He squeezes Remus’ hand. “Then I went back to him. I told him everything that happened,” he chuckles, it’s not like his usual way. “He just listened and I thought it would be okay.” 

“But of course it wasn’t, you already know what happened,” he adds, bitterly. “So I escaped, and nobody went looking for me. Not even my sister.”

And in this moment, with Erik’s hand gripped tightly, he wonders if all of this was really casual from the start. For him. 

September, 1990.

A day after the shower incident, while struggling with the tremors in his hands, and with a cup of tea that has gone cold, Erik sits on the sofa with him. Harshly, too fast for him to react.

“You’re going to talk,” he asserts.

“What—”

He won’t take any bullshit this time. “You’re going to tell me everything, I don’t give a fuck how long it takes. What the fuck is going on? From the start.”

It takes a while.

But he does. From the beginning, from the bite. The experiments on his body, the trips to Egypt, or Brazil, or Greece—then the mediterranean sea right after. The silent rejection at first, the denial, the fights. The embracing years later. Lessons from his father after they decided to pull him out of school, Dumbledore showing up at their doorstep and the way he could smell his parents' tears behind closed doors. 

Meeting them , meeting him . The way he had felt so good about having friends at last, about being accepted even if he was a bit shy. Them realising. Asking questions like it was cool. The several escapades under the invisibility cloak, chocolate frogs, pranks, Sirius. Amortentia. Their first full moon together, observing him, dreaming about him, kissing him in the potions room. How James grinned hours later. Peter. Muggle history interested Peter, surprisingly full of humour Peter, frightened Peter, how liking him had been easy. 

Lily. Her energy, one of the strongest people he knew. The distinguishable shade of red, orange hues with light passing through it. James, swooning over her for years. The quidditch practices, his confidence. No one could do it like him.

Marlene, and how she would get along with Erik, making him smile. The music, the parties, evenings in front of the fireplace checking notes, or sharing ponche Effie had sent somehow. Mary, and her hugs. Dorcas, and her quick wit, not even the marauders could keep up. 

Their graduation, their flat. Lily and James’ wedding, what he did right after. Joining the Order, their reunions, Dumbledore once more.

The war.

Harry. How he didn’t really liked babies until him, how it turned so easy. Sirius being a godfather, the toy broom, the prophecy. 

Regulus, the house, the losses. And the stares, his broken bones, the blood, the missions; the trust gone, the love gone. Tom Riddle, horcruxes, the fear. Retrieving the diadem in Hogwarts…

The fight, how it was all or nothing, how they hoped. The rain, the teachers, the house elves. His first instinct had been finding him, after all.

Moody, and how he found out. 

The pub, and the self loathing after years and years of unlearning. The argument, the storming out, the night he decided to leave for good—the money running out. Stranger’s houses, hostels, odd jobs, not reading magic newspapers, abandoning it all, abandoning himself, and the people, and the spells—

St. Mungo’s. Lily’s eyes, James’ eyes, the fear and the rage that overtook everything else. 

Paris, and meeting Regulus again. His offer, spending time with him, the hotel, the pain. Seeing Sirius in him, smelling him… then of course, Berlin. 

“You didn’t deserve any of it, Remus,” Erik says to him. 

And maybe he is right. But what does it matter now?

Late October, 1990.

Time went on, until it stopped.

He tried to get better, but the mind was a contemptuous thing, scoffing at him, sardonic. 

These were the days.

The flat was empty, Erik visiting his aunt that weekend and all, leaving Remus bored out of his fucking mind. After an hour or so of being alone in the living room, he downs a sip from the bottle on the cupboard, feeling particularly jittery, and grabs his notebook from his side table. 

Sirius Black loved me, once.  

Because it was true, it had been true. It had happened once. What he found had been pure love, in the most crude stage of it. In their most vulnerable state in life, too. Remus had fallen for him slowly, their love had begun flourishing in the silent glances exchanged in class, in the trusting eyes when he talked about his family, in the late night talks. In music, in the sharing of sweets and the sharing of an invisibility cloak. It had been the most grandiose feeling ever. Even after—

It was the first time his name had been written down in his notebook.

Sirius Black loved me, once. 

And sometimes I wish he didn’t. 

He cannot really write anything else. He feels so much, and yet the paper remains empty. He remembers so much, and yet the paper remains empty. Fitting . He does feel rather empty too. 

What could he possibly do? He could guess. After an hour or so, Remus grabs his jacket and storms out.  

He didn’t feel like going to their usual club, didn’t really fancy meeting someone known. Didn’t fancy possibly meeting Dora, couldn’t. So that night, he stops at a club closer to the Gran Vía; the touristic zone, one would say.

There surely would be a wider variety of people to choose from. 

It’s been a while since he’s done this since he actually has a roof over his head now, but the course of action is embedded in his head. It comes naturally at this point. He downs some vodka, mostly to feel warmer, and scans the room. 

He makes eye contact with a bloke on the dancefloor, craftily steals a drink from the nearest table, and observes him. It’s better if they think you’re with other people, no chance of them thinking you’re basically a creep looking for a fun time by himself. Which he is. Remus maintains his stare as he reaches for a coloured pill from his jacket, placing it in his tongue, showing him.

A grin fills the other guy’s face, he shuffles towards him as it dissolves. 

They kiss while the music blasts through the speakers, as sweaty bodies grate against them. It’s avid, it’s using a lot of tongue, trying to share a bit of the remaining tablet flowing through Remus’ body. It’s dancing together while everything turns funnier, teasing as he lets him put his hands on him, pushing a little, snogging some more when another drink gets placed in his hand, as he takes out a second pill secretly this time. 

“What’s your name?” The man asks, in his ear. 

And because he is properly out of it now, he answers with the only name he can think of, the only name that has ever existed. “Sirius.”

He lets himself be touched, please someone touch him, please let him be touched, let him be used, he doesn’t care. He wants to feel wanted, he wants to feel something—anything. He will take anything just for the sake of not being alone.

It goes fairly well, he has a shag assured, and overall he’s having an okay time. The lights fall down like glitter on people’s skin, the music is so loud he can feel it vibrating in his chest, and the taste, and the smells. He closes his eyes.

Until he hears a voice. And everything stops mattering because what could be more important than this?

His eyes feel heavier as he opens them, and sees him there. Two years later, sheer layer of sweat on his pale skin, beautiful lips. Why can’t he stop appearing? He blames his brain for always bringing him up when tripping, as if he was the only person he could think about. 

“Remus?” His gaze trails away from his face for a moment, noticing the hands sliding down his abdomen. His expression goes from confused to enraged. “Take your fucking hands off him,” he snarls, pushing them down. The other bloke looks confused, and frightened possibly, but Remus cannot care. He’s only looking at Sirius.

“Of course it had to be you.” He stumbles while taking a step back. “My fucking knight in shining armour.” He chuckles. “Why is it always you?”

Sirius gets closer, hesitating as he raises up a hand to his face. “Remus, are you high?”

That makes him laugh, because yes, seeing him is high, it’s fucking heaven. “And higher.”

“Fuck, I can’t—” He sees him take a deep breath, eyes wide. “Let’s get you out of here, okay?”

“Mm, tempting—but so soon…” He remembers the bloke from earlier. “I actually had something there, would’ve been nice.”

The other man clenches his jaw. “I bloody hope not.” He points towards the door. “Here, this way—”

Remus trips against his own foot, almost falling. Sirius acts fast and catches him mid way, and his face is so close now, so close he could touch him. 

“Hi, there.” He snorts. 

He curses under his breath, clearly upset. Remus doesn’t like it, his face changes when he is upset, and the face, the normal one, is stunning. 

“Your brow is creasing.” He touches it, Sirius winces. “I don’t like it, you were mean when you were upset.”

He sees something changing in his demeanour, his eyes fall a little. 

“That’s more like it, this has to be a good one.” He doesn’t wanna remember the angry Sirius, the one who hurt him, the one who cast him out, who accused him—

“Can I hold your hand so we can get out of here?”

And yes, of course he can, he can do anything, of course. Remus doesn’t say anything, just reaches out. And when they touch, there’s something there. 

“So soft,” he whispers. Brings it up to his face, tests the featheriness of it to his lips. 

Sirius flinches for a moment. “Is there somewhere I can take you?” 

“Don’t remember,” he replies, laughing. “Well, no. Not St. Mungo’s, can’t afford it.”

The other man curses, again. Tough crowd, he guesses. He slides Remus’ arm through his shoulders, biting his lip. “Mine, it is.” 

As the noises of the street grow louder, as he holds onto Sirius, looking only at him because he’s afraid he’ll disappear this time—his lower back and his leg start stinging. He cannot reach for his pills, hands too busy leaning against walls, and him. Him . He cannot believe this.

They arrive at a hotel, the floor is too shiny and the lights reflect harshly on his corneas. He closes his eyes a second, then trips. “Sorry, my leg is funny now.”

“Don’t—it’s okay, Remus.”

They step into an elevator, that he can see. There’s a corridor with carpeted floors, a card, a green light and Sirius opens the door. The place is dark, and his back cracks when he falls against the bed, against the mushy, fluffy pillows. He groans, and his companion stops suddenly, as if noticing something.

Sirius watches him from where he is standing, scanning every inch of skin exposed, calculating, pained. He immediately knows what this is about.

“You used to like them.” He tries to pull down his shirt from where he feels his stomach lying uncovered, trying to hide it. “The scars.” Remus feels shameful now, why would he even think he would, some years ago maybe they’d have been bearable; now he guessed they were just ugly. Some people did, most people did. He surely did.

When he raises his head again, he doesn’t find rejection there, there’s a glint of something else, instead. His eyes shine marvellously, and he forgets what he was about to say. He forgets everything, actually, because so sudden—like an impulse—there's a hand on the bare skin beneath his shirt. Tracing slowly, delicately; as if touching something prohibited, as if at any moment someone would come screaming at him to stop. 

Remus’ breath hitches, feeling the pads of the fingers reach him, eyes fluttering. 

“Do you remember when you sang that T. Rex song?” 

Sirius’ eyes are focused on his stomach, on the trail of hair disappearing down his trousers. “Of course I do,” he whispers, raising the shirt a bit, still touching him. 

A breathless chuckle. “ That is a good memory, honestly.” 

He gets goosebumps when Sirius’ forefinger ends up following said trail, very slowly, getting lower and lower. And his hand is familiar, and it feels almost ticklish but he wants more of it, he wants him to go lower, he wants him to take that leap, he wants him to—

“Yes, it is.” His breath is deeper too, caressing the edge of his pants, a finger toying with the belt. Remus can feel his face flushing, the rush of blood all over, he smells alcohol in him, inhaling, exhaling, inhaling… when the other man dips a finger under the waistband, he gasps, taking him out of his trance. 

Sirius snatches his hand as if he’d been burned, taking a step back.

Remus’ response is immediate. “No, don’t leave.” He grabs him by the wrist. “Please.” 

“Remus.” And it sounds more like a plea, he looks flushed too, his skin burning.  

“No, shh.” He pulls him over. “Don’t speak, please. Don’t say anything mean this time, let’s just pretend.” 

The motion is a bit strong because he still can’t control his force, so Sirius ends up tripping over him. Chest against chest, his face a mere inch from his own, blue eyes shining with pain, but also desire. They’re both breathing the same air, sharing the same breath, noses almost touching. Remus gets a rush of adrenaline when he feels him reaching out again, his nostrils flaring briefly as a response, and he is just so breathtaking, he cannot take it any longer. 

Remus slides his hand into the back of his head, and pulls him down into a kiss. 

Their heartbeat rises as their lips crush against each other deeply; savouring it as if they had been famished, as if there had been a hollowness in them until this. He kisses him with purpose, deepening their proximity, pulling him until there’s no space between and then some more, because he can finally feel him there, and it’s not enough. The pace of their lips quickens, they’re both shaking. He hears a muffled moan coming from deep inside and only thinks yes , he wants more , more of him, forever—there’s a yank, and he is left holding onto nothing. 

Sirius is panting, standing over him once again, face scrunched. “Remus, no. Not like this.”

He feels a twinge on his lower stomach, and he wants to complain with the distance; but he accepts, of course. He’s got enough conscience to know when something is wrong, he’s not a beast. Remus nods as the man in front of him sighs.

He can have him like this, in proximity only. He could have him in any way if it only meant having him again. Not out of his sight, though. That he wouldn’t handle.

“Can you stay?”

Sirius doesn’t speak, he simply stays there, lips parted, pupils blown wide. Remus motions to the spot beside him doubtfully, only wishing to keep him, to keep seeing him up close. The man in front of him mirrors his expression, a sort of need there. It’s a relief when Sirius actually lays on his side, not breaking eye contact. He offers him a half smile and he seems more relaxed.

They turn towards one another. 

Remus reaches out with a shaky hand, and he can actually touch his face, his silky hair, the bridge of his nose, so perfect, only his…

“You’re divine,” he whispers.

This is the best hallucination he’s had of him, and he wants to keep it forever, but his eyes are fluttering shut, heavy like the weight on his stomach, heavy like the grief of him gone.

“Let’s pretend you never went away from me.” He closes his eyes, still holding his face. “Let’s pretend you love me, okay? Let’s pretend you never stopped.” 

He drifts off minutes later.

Perhaps the anagnorisis of it all had arrived until this moment. October 1990. Like life catching up with him, like a moment of rapture, a before and an after starting from the moment he pressed his lips against Sirius again. The moment he slept by his side again. Body sinking in relaxation for the first time in years, his mind clearing from any thoughts. How could anyone forget about Sirius Black? How could he ever claim he had? His touch had been engraved in his soul as if it was life itself carving through it.

Chapter Text

“Tú, sin más porqué, 

tú, que bésame, 

Tú, me tienes de furriel, de un roto de tu piel.”

-“Tu”, Mecano, 1991.

The headache doesn’t really hit at first, and the heartache takes longer. There’s a noise coming from the street at first, then a groan. Remus opens his eyes and regrets it. Whoever he went out with last night doesn’t seem to believe in closing the damn blinds. 

He tries a second time, blinking until he kind of gets accustomed to the light while trying to make sense of the place he is in right now. He’s tucked under the sheets, that he can feel. He’s got clothes on, somehow. 

He’s got clothes on, and his head is pounding.

It’s not really strange for him to wake up in unknown places, he’s got several years of experience on the matter. But he’s never woken up fully clothed.

Oh, well.

Remus considers going back to sleep, not really interested in whoever might be asleep by his side because there comes a point in all this where you don’t really give a fuck anymore. He’ll remember eventually. He always remembers eventually. 

Until he hears another groan. A very faint one, for that matter, yet he freezes. 

Because he recognizes that sound. 

Because his senses are alert now, and he is actually starting to take in his surroundings, and the flashes are coming back, and oh god—

He turns his head, and the air drops off his lungs completely. 

Sirius.

Sirius, lying next to him. Hair spread out over the pillow, thin ray of sunlight over his cheek, not yet over his eyes, that would have woken him up. Remus rubs over his own in case he is imagining stuff. Because he has seen endless variations of this scene in dreams for years. Because even though he knows it in his heart, there’s doubt there, but it’s not fake. This isn’t a product of his imagination, Sirius really is here, finally. He’s here and Remus cannot be any fucking happier.

The heartache will come eventually, but there’s a minute of pure bliss, first.

There is a slight crease between his brows, he twitches every once in a while and Remus now notices the redness, the puffiness around his eyes. The dried tears.

And he remembers some more.

‘You used to like them. The scars.’

Fuck.

Irregular breathing. A kiss. 

He winces.

Sirius is fully clothed, which he is endlessly thankful for, resting over the bedspread. His hand twitches. And Remus feels it, because the other man’s fingers move between his own. 

Mortified is an understatement for the wave of emotions he is dealing with now.

Shit. 

What is he supposed to do? 

Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fucking shit.

With the caution of the most skilled surgeon—or so he would like to think—he meticulously removes his hand from his grip. Slowly, because Sirius could always tell, and he would wake up.

Slowly, slowly, slowly… 

Five.

Fucking.

Tortuous.

Minutes.

Five fucking tortuous minutes before he is finally free, releasing a shaky breath, then moving on to phase two. 

Getting the fuck away from here, as silently as possible. He’s done it before, what even is one more time, right? 

His heart starts racing. 

A flash of colour, and music, and pills—and him, emerging. Shit. He remembers talking, what the fuck did he even say? 

Shit.

Remus lifts the covers, sliding out as carefully as he can, glancing sideways every five seconds, heart pounding at this point. 

He takes two steps back, looking down at the carpet under him, thank god. Less noise that way. He notices a hole in his sock, and winces; Sirius probably saw that, fuck. 

Remus has to get out of here. 

After two minutes of searching, he finds his shoes over the living room rug of the very fancy hotel suite, of course. 

A sense of deja vu reaches him, somehow. It’s as if he could hear someone laughing at him.

‘Did you ever consider me your friend?’

Shoes in his hand.

Mind in the room two steps from him.

Heart twitching in his sleep, like he always did. 

Remus takes a last look at him from where he stands. Everything around shattering, but what difference does it make when it’s been like this for years, anyway?

And he knows he can take it, the running away now, the whole trying to forget about him as if they’d never met again. The running away now, and keeping his promise of disappearing from his life forever. The running away and sparing Sirius the horror of seeing him—really seeing him now, the running away and sparing him the disappointment when he realises he’s changed. 

Remus can take these last seconds of suffering. He still can.

He stares at him still, unable to look anywhere else. The way his chest moves every time he breathes, his soft skin, the bit of stomach showing from where the shirt got wrinkled… his hands, the several tattoos on him now, what would he even say about the ones on Remus? Would he laugh, because he surely never expected him to do something like that? What would he think about his piercings? 

Remus takes a step forward without thinking, trying to get a better view of what he thinks might be a wolf tattooed over his hip when something grabs his attention. Scars. On his body. On his torso. Mostly faded but they were brutal once, slashes without pattern; was it an animal, was it him? His stomach drops when he moves and an inch of forearm is visible. Darling, what have you done to yourself?

His breaths are even, a slight concern yet he looks so peaceful, calm. There’s no violence now, there’s not the usual noise. He is breathing evenly, and he is here, alive. Alive and with twitching hands. 

Who would’ve thought those precious hands could do so much damage? 

A tear falls down unknowingly, and he snaps to reality. He has to get out of here. There is never enough time when it comes to him. He has learned the hard way. Why is love intensified by absence? He’s right there, and Remus hates him so much; he’s right there, and Remus adores him maddeningly.

“Please, please, please take care,” he whispers, barely audible. “I—” he hesitates, knowing damn well there’s no reason to. He feels it. He’s always felt it, he’ll always do. But he hadn’t said it out loud for so long. “Oh god, I love you. I still do, Sirius, why?” 

His lips still felt the same, why? But what he said is true, it’s the truest truth in the universe. He will love him for the rest of his life, he knows. For the rest of existence; even if his heart stops beating, even if he becomes stardust. Wouldn’t it be convenient? Only then, perhaps, he would stop. Only then, perhaps, he would forget.

Forget the knowledge of his favourite songs, how he takes his tea; forget the knowledge of how his hair smells after a shower, how the raindrops sliding down a glass pane soothe him, how it feels to run his finger through his spine, through the tip of his nose. The knowledge that he sometimes hums in his sleep, that his twitching started after leaving home; that he loves russian literature, and hates eggs for breakfast.

He knows he will love him for the rest of existence, like no one will ever do; not to Remus, not to him.

He opens the front door, almost tiptoeing so he doesn’t make a sound, and walks down the corridor towards the elevator. 

What would Erik say? What would Regulus say? 

Fuck, is Regulus here? He pushes the button once again.

Of course he should’ve taken the stairs. 

He should’ve taken the stairs, even if his leg would have hurt. Because a minute after pushing the button again, he hears a door opening abruptly, frantically. And here is where it all starts, was it catharsis? Was it punishment? Were they ever in control, or was this a greater force’s entertainment? 

A sigh, as of relief. 

Steps approaching. 

“Please don’t go.” He hears behind him in a frightened voice. Breathless.

Remus doesn’t turn around, a shiver runs down his spine.

He gets closer, the voice louder this time. “Remus, please don’t go.” 

“Go away,” he whispers. 

“No.” 

He closes his eyes, feeling a pang in his chest. “Go away.”

“No.”

“Sirius—”

“I just found you again,” he insists. “Please Remus, I just found you again.”

“Bummer, really.”

He sees his shoulders sag in the reflection of the elevator. “Don’t say that.” Another sigh, tired this time. “Please just—let’s go back and talk, please.”

The ding of the elevator sounds, and the doors open. 

His tone is more urgent now. “Please don’t go.”

But the doors are open, and his heart is beating erratically, and the anxiety is rising and he needs to get out before his brain can even think about not letting him breathe again—

He takes a step forward.

Not looking back. 

“Fuck, Remus, why? Why would you do this?” He hears Sirius whine, rapid footsteps follow with just enough time for him to make it through the doors before they close.

“I'm coming, too, then.” 

“What—what the fuck—” He’s sure his eyes go wide, backing up until his shoulders hit the wall. “Who gave you the right—”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight.” 

And god, the way his heart flutters when making eye contact with him this close again. Woken up. Searching for him, following him, oh god. Right there, close enough to touch him, close enough to breathe him in… Why? He wants to ask, why? Why, why, why? Why had he met his lips with such ease, such eagerness? 

Why was he looking at him like he’d do it again? Something boils down, like a different type of euphoria. Like the wolf recognising the man in front of him, making him gasp faintly, his hands trying to grip the rail of the lift behind him. He keeps half a mind to scoff. Bothered by the sudden display of his body betraying him. 

The elevator rattles as it starts moving, he looks down. 

They stay silent while blues music plays in the background; Sirius staring at him from one corner, Remus ignoring him from the other. To his misfortune, they’re on the upper floor, so it descends slowly, making some stops along the way.

People get in, they address them, they get off, some smile, some say nothing. And the whole time he’s being watched.

It’s torture. Or bliss. Or a perfect balance of both, after some minutes Sirius clicks his tongue, as if testing the waters. “So—” 

“No,” he cuts him off instantly. Please don’t talk to me, Remus begs, he cannot deal with this right now, on top of everything. He’s got to have breakfast, first. One must not act on an empty stomach and all. 

And he’s fucking hungry.

He storms off as soon as they reach the ground floor, shiny wooden floors on the hallway, leading to marble and white paneled walls. No wonder he went half blind yesterday. 

These are not his usual streets, so Remus is a bit out of his element here. He tries to make it seem natural as he turns around the block, trying to locate himself, considering going somewhere near the flat until he realises they’re too far. He looks back to where Sirius is still following. Discards the idea. No way he could ever take him there, no way he could ever take him anywhere, what the hell is he thinking? 

Before they cross over the road, his fucking leg feels unsteady. Exactly what he needed, actually. His step falters, but he plays it off pretending he slipped on a crack on the pavement, not even sparing a backward glance to see if it was noticeable. 

Remus settles down at a deli, paying for a sandwich and some water then sitting down. It’s better here, less chances of seeing someone like Dora or her group of friends. He hadn’t seen her since the party two months ago, as a matter of fact. 

Strange, but he pushes that thought aside when another tray joins him at the table, making him want to gouge his eyes out. The other man moves carefully, doubtfully even. There’s a certain awkwardness between them, accentuated by Sirius’ relentless stare, and Remus’ attempts to ignore them as much as possible. 

They eat in silence as the owner regards them warily, trying to figure out what’s going on, probably, which really, he is accustomed to. Going out with Erik ever since May 17th and the WHO announcement. The public opinion was torn, as usual. He’s seen the news, he’s seen the programs. Most of all the faces pointed towards them every once in a while, either indifferent or encouraging or dismissive depending on the circumstances. Or the streets they’re at. 

They do like to test people’s patience on these types of situations, though; a squeeze of the hand, a cheeky peck every once in a while—mostly for the fun of it. But Erik is not here, and he would rather burn his own hands than touch the man in front of him like he did yesterday again. 

His leg keeps stinging, and all he can think about is that this must be some sort of punishment coming from high above. In a riveting half-second decision, he turns to stare at Sirius. His insides churn at the way hope fills his face, at how he opens his mouth like wanting to say something—

But Remus shoots upwards, headed for the bathroom. Not willing to hear whatever the hell he was gonna say. 

Remus grips the sink firmly, splashing his face with water before staring back at his reflection in the mirror. It’s horrible, marked dark circles under his eyes, his cheekbones stand pronounced after months of not doing so.

Right now, when Sirius has the opportunity to see him again. 

He could apparate, he thinks. 

He could apparate right now and leave him behind, surely the wisest option he can find for this situation.
Yet, somehow, he doesn’t find it in himself to do so. Why? Why is this happening? Why is he acting this way? The grip on the sink grows tighter. He is not hungover, but he’s definitely low; add that to the leg and headache problem. Could he even apparate in these conditions? Was he risking splinching again?

Maybe he should. 

Remus pushes the thought aside, he couldn’t do that to his best friend. 

Right?

There’s a minute in which he fights against the urge to simply—run out of here, wobbly leg and all, until someone knocks at the door. 

“Un momento,” he says in return, reaching for his pocket and pulling out his pills, the remaining ones from their cleaning a week ago. Riskily swallowing two, because he will need to feel as normal as he can if he’s going to spend a whole day with him as a shadow. And because the headache is unbearable at this point. Nevermind his shaky hands or the thrill when they go down his throat.

When he walks out, he is greeted by the owner of the deli. “Este baño no es para junkies.” 

Well, guess he was only looking for an excuse to kick him out. Remus wonders if he can make it to the street without Sirius noticing, until he hears someone clear their throat behind, and winces.

His fucking knight in shining armour, isn’t he.

“Has de tener muchos cojones para hablar así,” he mentions, casually. Crossing his arms, looking down at the third person, like he repulses him.

The attendant makes a motion as if to get closer to him, but Remus is faster, he grabs Sirius by the upper arm and pulls him to the door.

“It’s not worth it, let’s go.” 

Sirius doesn’t miss the undertone to it. “It’s worth it to me,” he states, dumbfounded. 

He can only snort in return. “Is it really?”

It’s not a question meant to be answered. 

Both of them walk down Paseo del Prado, orange leaves falling from the trees around the rock path laid in front of them. There’s people walking around with their families, teens using their bicycles, toddlers collecting rocks, dogs running around playing fetch and overall the view would be great and cute but he’s not thinking about it right now. 

Remus stops at a fountain, lighting a fag and severely fighting the urge to get stronger shit. It’s not that he really needs it, but it wouldn’t hurt now. It wouldn’t hurt, and it would probably feel amazing, fuck, why did he let Erik flush all of it? Fuck.

The footsteps behind him get closer. “Can you please stop ignoring me?” 

He, in exchange, keeps ignoring him. Taking deep breaths, keeping his cool, ignoring the need, ignoring his words. It’s good, right? No chance of snapping at him.

“Moony.”

He snaps. “Don’t call me that.” 

“But you turned around.” A little smirk starts to make its way into his mouth. “You turned around.”

Remus could punch him, or kiss him. Aggressively. He keeps walking, and Sirius keeps following. A kid screams in the background.

The bell on the door of the record store rings and a girl with big earrings comes in. She stops at the row in front of them, checking out the cds.

Sirius raises ‘Sheer Heart Attack’ from a pile of records and holds it up for him to see.

“Do you remember when I got this for Christmas?” 

He’s been doing that at every place they stop at, trying to make small talk that sometimes works. Remus’ heart races with every cursed word directed toward him, with every smile. With the way he knows exactly how to make him talk, what buttons to push, what to say to make him remember. 

“How could I forget?” He almost smiles, doesn’t. “You wouldn’t stop playing it, Frank really was about to hang us from the Astronomy Tower.”

Remus hears him huff. “Good times, weren’t they?”

He doesn’t respond. His gaze drops to his hands, to the way veins pop out and oh god, he’s got tattoos in there too. His lower lip lays trapped under the upper one, surely biting it while he scans the album covers. When his tongue pokes through he has to forcefully snap out of it.

They keep browsing.

Sirius hums unknowingly. It’s wonderful, and he wants to cry.

The sunset finds them sitting by the pond of the park, a place that has become one of Remus’ favourite spots. Even lovelier with the warm tones of autumn bleeding down on the whole scene before them. 

He’d be lying if he said there’s not a part of him enjoying this. 

Sirius feeds the ducks with a mix of vegetables he got from an old man sitting on a bench. His hair moves freely with the wind, they’re tortuously seated at a distance from each other and Remus has never wanted anything more than to hold his hand at this exact moment. The man in front of him is almost thirty one, for fuck’s sake, he shouldn’t be this gorgeous even now. 

In his mind he’s got enough bravery to walk up to him. To sit down beside him and maybe wordlessly reach into the bag too. 

He doesn’t, of course. He lays down, and pretends he doesn’t notice him staring, replaying that made-up scenario like a hidden quench.

Why, he keeps asking himself. Why does he love him still?

Remus, he hears. Something tickles his hand from where he’s still comfortable draped in the grass. 

“Remus.” 

Then it hits him. He opens his eyes, the sounds of a particular noisy cricket reaching his ears. 

“You fell asleep,” Sirius mumbles, “the sun is down.”

Shit.

“Just resting m’eyes,” he slurs, definitely awake. 

“Sure.” 

He sits, glancing around wearily. There’s still people around at least, so it mustn’t be too late. Some are leaving, though, the ducks are pretty much gone. And Sirius stares at him, silently, a bit shy. 

Closer. 

“Can we talk?” He asks. 

“Sirius.” 

“Please,” the other man insists, “we’re not that far from the hotel, I just want to talk.”

A cold breeze whips at his face, as in reminder. Remus pats the grass for his jacket until it dawns on him. 

He hasn’t carried anything around all day. His hands have been empty the whole time. 

“You left your jacket at my room,” Sirius says, like reading his mind. His lips start curling into a smirk in realisation.

Well fuck it, really. Fuck it all. Remus staggers to his feet, cursing his stupidity. Why would he do this to himself? How isn’t he as bothered as he could’ve been? 

On the other hand, what else is he supposed to do? Could he be able to leave him hanging? Could he be able to let him go? Had all this happened like a sort of domino effect? Had it been luck, the way they had made their way back to each other?

How could he do this to himself? God, he hates him so much, he’s so fucking beautiful.

Remus is standing near the dining table half an hour later, eyeing some maps and tools on the surface, not really understanding what the hell Sirius would do with them.

“So, business or pleasure?” He asks, humourlessly. 

There’s no answer for a solid minute. “I’m not here by pleasure, I came looking for you.” 

He snorts, funny that. “Business then.”

Sirius doesn’t laugh, though. 

He stares at him sternly, instead. He’s not joking. He’s not joking, and Remus wants to die because that means his wards got weak. ‘I just found you again.’ 

“How the fuck did you find me?” He doesn’t really intend for it to come out so defensively, but there’s a thin layer of desperation on his part now.

Sirius doubts for a moment, but starts talking anyway. “Honestly it was a mere coincidence, well, meeting you there I mean.”  His face lowers. “I had—hair,” he mentions, a bit ashamed. “It was a total leap of confidence, I had tried before, but this time it’s as if I had a gut feeling.” 

Remus stays silent, he continues.

“I tracked your DNA once again, and the spell pointed somewhere over here.” His finger points to the open ‘Madrid’ map on the table. “Honestly I thought it was rather odd, since I couldn’t find you there for a week.” He scratches the back of his head, and he looks like James. “I didn’t quite caught your scent, but I had to trust the spell, and yeah well, found you in different circumstances but—” 

He locks eyes with him.

“I’ve been searching for you since then.”

Remus grabs his jacket, itching to get out of there. “Well, congratulations.”

“I want to apologise.”  

His hands are suddenly shaking, and he takes a deep exhale. Straight to the point, then. “Look Sirius, if there ever was an opportunity to apologise, it was that night.” He rubs at his temple, tired already. “And I told you, I told you I wanted to fix things and you hurt me. Knowingly.”

“I did, and I’m sorry.”

He chuckles, bitterly. “It ain’t enough.”

Sirius takes a step forward, closing more of the distance between them. Stare resolved by determination. “Then let me fix it.”

“What the fuck is there to fix?”

He raises his arms. “This! Us!”

“There’s no ‘us’ Sirius, there hasn’t been for nine years in case you haven’t noticed—”

“Believe me, I have,” he grits out.

“Good,” Remus agrees. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—” 

He starts making his way out. 

Sirius’ response is sudden, his hand darts out in a second. “No, wait.” Grabbing him by the shoulder. “Wait, give me a chance—”

It immediately puts him on edge. He turns abruptly, pushing his hand from him.

“But I did, didn’t I?” He hisses. “I gave you all, Sirius, everything was for you.”

“Remus—”

“My life, my body, my soul—” There’s a suffocating, dreadful sense of despair flowing, now. And he knows he didn’t mean for it to escalate this quickly, but what could he possibly do about the beating of his heart? What can he do about the sudden flashbacks ranging between the good and bad? What can he do with this—outburst that threatens to get out? “It all belonged to you, and then you decided you didn’t want it anymore so I’m sorry if I don’t feel like giving you another chance.”

The man in front of him looks conflicted, as if he is trying to hold back words; and he looks too calm still. Too calm for Remus to be lenient with him because he doesn’t understand why he would be so collected, like it doesn’t completely rip at his heart, like he doesn’t wanna scream and rip at his vocal chords. Like he doesn’t deserve the emotional turmoil.

Well, Remus can be spiteful for the both of them.

“I was—I was going through something.”

“You were going through something,” he repeats, almost viciously because weren’t they all? There’s a minute of nauseating silence. “And why would I ever listen to anything you have to say?”

“Because I care, it hasn’t changed for me!” He exclaims. “Since that first kiss, since moving in together—”

“I never should have done that.” 

That’s what does it.

Sirius stops, like an alarm turned off. “What?” His eyes are frantic now, searching his face. “You don’t mean that.”

But what use is lying to him? As painful as it is, he does. “I do.” 

“You don’t mean that, you can’t—” He takes a deep breath, staring at the floor. “You—you told me I was—”

“I’m sorry, but I do.” His lip won’t stop trembling. “Are you really shocked?” 

He doesn’t respond.

“You don’t even know half the shit I had to endure, are you really shocked?” Remus tries to talk around the lump in his throat. “I thought that was it for me, Sirius. And I really loved you, I did. But I regret it so much, are you really so shocked about that?” 

He flinches at the mention of loved, in past tense.

“So it meant nothing, then?” 

“It meant everything. That was the problem, of course.” 

“So you regret it.” So you regret me hanging in the air, a silent plea. 

The response comes in a strained whisper. “Are you really so shocked about that?” 

He almost folds, as if the air had been sucked out of him. “Well, I am! I am, because I don’t, Remus.” His voice breaks, and it’s horrible. “I have many regrets, many, but you’ve never been one of them. Never you, never fucking you.” 

And how could he? How can someone regret a relationship where they basically kept it all? Of course he doesn’t regret it, he still got James, he still got Lily. He still got the flat, and a brother, and people that care about him. He’s got heat in winter, and enough money to buy whatever he needs—

The winner does take it all in the end.

“Of course you don’t, you had it easy.” 

Sirius shakes his head. “Who says—”

“Oh, don’t you fucking dare now, don’t you fucking dare tell me you didn’t.”

“Remus—”

“Ha, go on then, tell me all about your hardships, tell me about the new fucking scar in James ear and how Lily surely took care of it, tell me about all the fucking reunions and warm dinners I know you had, tell me all about the people you went out with, the people you surely fucked in our bed—”

“I never—” But he isn’t finished.

“Your lives are so happy and so merry—” he continues, being interrupted.

“How would you know—”

“Cause I went back!” It sounds like a whine, trapped in his throat. “I went back, Sirius! I stood there, and you all seemed so fucking happy without me!”

He lets out a sob, and immediately tries to stop it with the back of his hand. To contain it, not to let the stream fall. Sirius stays very still, looking at him. His voice comes out confused, careful. 

“What do you mean?”

Remus lets out another sob, against his will, against his better fucking judgement telling him in red warning signs not to cry in front of Sirius.

But the stream had to overflow at one point, at one damn cursed breaking point and he cannot believe it’s in front of him. Tries to fight it as long as he can. It’s no use.

Another.

And another, and another.

And when they come out, it’s painful. It’s gasping for air while he tries to keep his balance against the wall. It’s feeling so fucking ashamed as he loses control of it, as he nearly retches and the tears keep falling and he can only hold his stomach and the man in front of him looks so pained, so full of sorrow and fucking pity and worst of all, love—

And he still tries to approach, as if that could make it better. 

Maybe it could, and that’s even worse. 

“No,” Remus manages to blurt, before he can get any closer. “Don’t you fucking dare.” He sobs again, and it tears through the muscle, it tears and tears—

“Remus, please don’t cry.” It comes out scared.

And the audacity of him saying something like that, of him staring in distress; of him doing all of this and then getting upset when witnessing the repercussions on him, the fallout. He was supposed to be the one he grew old with. Their life was supposed to be homey reunions, tipsy secrets over a truth or dare game, not Remus needing alcohol to get through the day. It was supposed to be takeout sundays with a nap right after instead of Remus praying for love in whoever’s arms were willing to take him. It was supposed to be dinners with Euphemia and Fleamont instead of Remus starving for days, scars traced by him instead of new ones made by other hands; the building of something beautiful even after all the destruction, not the blood in the back of an alley, the voice that kept him alive—the chance of being delicate again, of holding onto each other as they did, bliss instead of misery and now it was this—

The trembling in his hands, the limp as he walks, Regulus, telling him ‘your stride used to be assured’, his difficulty opening up. And the painkillers, and the drugs, and his struggle every full moon, and the fucking painkillers and the alcohol and the blood and not being able to listen to his favorite songs again because they’re everywhere. Erik staring at him scared, the things he does for a fucking bottle of dittany, the stealing and the thoughts in his head, and the self hatred—and he cannot even think straight but they were supposed to love him and they abandoned him and then wondered why he left. 

He only asked for love, he only wanted love.

He’s heavily struggling for breath now. 

And he is still being watched. Those fucking blue eyes that have been engraved like a subliminal message in his mind. Ocean eyes behind a water curtain, so worried, lip trembling as he says “Moony, please—”

He stands up, enraged. “Don’t you dare say that to me.” 

He needs to punch something, or take something or he needs to scream or to destroy or to run away again—to—

“Don’t you dare break me and not bear the fucking burden.” 

Please don’t dare show me tenderness, then take it away again, don’t show me mercy because I will fall for it. Don’t you dare feel sympathy for me because I cannot handle the consequences, don’t you dare touch me again.

Because I will let you. 

Sirius takes two steps back, and the lightning reveals salt traces shining. Salt traces he wipes, hand barely still.

“I’m sorry.” And he lets out a sob, too. “I’m so fucking sorry...”

Remus sighs, something obstructing, so heavy in his throat, in his eyelids, his heart. He wipes his nose, looking at the floor then at him. “It ain’t enough, Sirius.” 

He makes a choking noise. “You think I do not know?” His palms are pressing at his temples. “You think I have forgotten?”

Please don’t.

I will let you break me once more.

I will let you.

Remus can’t stop panting. He needs—he needs—

“I'm sorry.” 

Don’t. 

“I’m sorry.” Sirius hurts, so full of torment and grief and he takes another step back. Away from Remus. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

His feet act before he even knows what’s going on. A wobbly step, then another as the other man keeps mumbling his apologies. Why? He’d ask of him if he ever could. 

Why would he beg like this? Why would he care? This is not the man he fought with that night, the one he had been conjuring in his head when missing consumed him whole; why would he stare at him like this? Why would he keep searching for him nine years later? Why would he keep having faith?

“Please believe me—”

Remus crosses the room in three long steps, grabbing him by the jacket and pushing him against the wall, arm pinning him down. “Shut up.” 

It comes out so pained.

“I’m sorry.” 

He pushes him again. “Shut up.” 

But Sirius Black has never been good at doing what he’s told. There’s a tear running down his lip, and his hand is on the arm blocking him. 

“I’m sorry, Moony,” he pleads.

He needs—Remus gets closer, like a gravitational pull that brings him closer to his face, towering over him.

He needs—

Moves his head downwards, nose almost touching his jaw. His face is scrunched in agony, in tension trying to contain himself, his limbs shaking because he doesn’t know what they would do if let loose. 

“Please forgive me,” the other man murmurs, in his ear.

And when he opens his eyes, Sirius is already staring. Sky blue, tormented. So full of sadness, of adoration, of—their foreheads meet, noses brushing. 

Sirius’ breath hitches. 

Remus’ gaze drifts down to his mouth. To the parted lips, the tongue wetting them. “Please forgive me, Moony.”

“I fucking hate you, Sirius Black.” He whispers against his skin, his beautiful skin. It comes out strangled, mixed with bitterness. 

He traces his jaw with his fingers without thinking. Slowly making his way down his neck, carefully, like caressing porcelain. Sirius’ eyes flutter, in response. Remus can feel the chills running down his spine that react to his touch, pulse racing. 

“Say it again,” he hears him mumble, his exhales coming out so controlled. Remus is barely in control of his body as he glides his thumb through the other man’s lower lip, head leaning to the touch; soft, so soft like he remembers.

“I hate you.” 

But his brain has turned to mush. His hand cups the other man’s neck, and pulls him desperately into a kiss. 

Clumsily, at first. None really ready for it yet. 

But they fall into it so easily. It’s unearthly. 

It’s the fingers knotting through Sirius’ hair, pushing him against the wall as he lets his tongue in, it’s the clash of teeth as he pulls, and his mouth opening just for him.

It’s the heat against his lips, going deeper and not being able to stop, literally melting into it. The hands in his back pressing, like urging him to go rougher, to devour as their bodies curve together and their stomachs start rolling… 

There had been a muffled want, there. And when it unleashed, it unleashed completely because he once stopped kissing Sirius Black, he once stopped touching Sirius Black. And he’d been fucking starved ever since.

In a second he is pushing him against the table, parting him like the red sea, tracing up the thighs, up the torso, hasty thumbs against his hips like there to ruin, there to hold him down. 

“I hate you,” he mutters. “I fucking hate you, god.” Their foreheads meet again, bodies pressed bordering on painful, lips bruising containing the responses coming from deep inside. And Remus wants to catch them, consume them all—to descend, submerge—

Because Sirius’ blood ran deep within his veins, because when he completely abandoned himself, he could still find him there. In his rightful place, in the very core of his fucking—everything. 

He lowers his aim to his jaw, to that goddamn spot under his ear, to his neck while Sirius lets his head fall backwards, chest heaving. A hand on his hair pulling while the other grips the table, grounding him.

“Fucking—hate me like you mean it, then,” he says between pants. Hips bucking seeking anything the other man can offer, longing, longing, longing—

Remus kisses him fiercely, need rapidly building down his lower stomach as he unbuckles with crazed fingers, as he simply rips open instead; buttons falling everywhere, hearing a gasp.

There’s a second in which he completely stops, taking in the view before him. Sirius whines as in complaining with the separation, tugging at his head again as if he doesn’t want him to see—

But Remus does. 

His eyes fall everywhere, in the gouges on the pale surface, the way he responds to his touch. How it all tenses and relaxes at the tip of his fingers, eyes closed, skin prickling as he gulps and grips the table harder with each deep exhale. Like letting himself be vulnerable again, completely defeated. 

He’s so tangible now, so real… his eyes open with a glint of embarrassment in them. 

And Remus knows.

He won’t let him feel ashamed, not with this.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he breathes, and Sirius blinks, as if taken aback. He opens his mouth to say something but he cuts him off, meeting him halfway there, lips crushing, completely overcome. He’s gone, completely gone, getting lower and lower—

Now, Remus Lupin has never been a religious devotee. But for him, that could be arranged. For him, he would pray, he would get down on his knees and plead, and supplicate like a man completely demoralized. For him he would implore.

He would worship, or attack. Destructively.

Which is exactly what he does, relishing in the way his hands pull harder in response, how Sirius squirms as he fiercely keeps him in place; a rasp and a string of curses as he tears apart, as he takes care of the undoing, and undoing and—if it’s gonna be sinful let it be the dooming kind. 

It’s a few ‘pleases’ and a few ‘sorrys’ and a few other wretched noises before the change of scenery—a softer one, a worthier one. Remus carries him to it, plunges him against it like a felony waiting to happen, like a crime, searching for a culprit. And he’d always take the blame. 

“Moony—” Sirius tries, but Remus cannot listen to what he knows he wants to say. So he kisses him again, he kisses and kisses, not caring about anything else but the pliant lips as he pushes his tongue in, as the other man moans in his mouth. 

And it was all lust. Full-on unfiltered, frantic lust and they were both bathing in it, scratching with it, panting with it.

It was all lust with an undertone to it, and it tasted like anger, and it tasted like hate, and it tasted like regret and worst of fucking all it tasted marvellous, it tasted violent, it tasted like a long lost love, and it tasted like going astray, and it tasted like fate.

Because both of them knew. They knew each other’s bodies like the palm of their hands, they knew exactly where to strike, and where it would hurt but where it would feel so fucking close to heaven and fuck, did they hold back. 

He saw rage in those wonderful, wonderful eyes but he also saw guilt, shame, and it was so raw, so powerful—he also saw them beg. And at the moment, that was all he could pour his focus on.

Him, begging. Him, shuddering. Him biting hard, hard enough to draw blood and hard enough for Remus to whine with pleasure. Him and his short-lived smiles and him and his strangled moans as he—arched—his back—and good lord.  

It was him and his crystal-like skin, glowing in the moonlight with his hair sticked to his forehead and his neck and it was him, and the new black traces scattered around his body and it was him almost blurting out something doomed, something prohibited in the haze of emotions that was their minds at this specific moment and it was him, and him and it would always be him.

And then it was Remus, frenzied on need—delirious as he buried his nose on his clavicle, barely able to emulate anything that isn’t feverish infatuation, barely able to even fathom the existence of a name that isn’t one of the prettiest star and it was him witnessing a miracle so full of divine, spiritual innuendos yet so fucking full of sin and profanity and blasphemy—

Because loving someone this way was like going to a higher power itself and waiting for either salvation or damnation. It was all or it was nothing, it was total renunciation of oneself and total abandonment of reason, it was sacrilege incarnate. 

It was a complete fall from grace.

And he had fallen a long time ago.

As he let him take the reins, as his eyes rolled and his adam's apple laid exposed, as he let Sirius run his hostile, arduous crusade against him, Remus was pretty sure he had seen heaven, once. And as the only spectator of such offence, when it all started to take a very known form, a very known premonition—he sunk his fingers into the hollow of his cheeks, almost naturally, instinctively. Gliding, longing. 

One word, only. 

“Sirius.”

And he knows. 

And time is no longer time, it’s just him. 

Those few seconds before the wave hits, then the fall. The known shake of a spasm, the gasp that comes with it; as if it could still shock them, as if that hadn’t been the point of it all. What normally manifested itself as a shock of electricity might as well morph into a supernova at this point. The grip of teeth so forceful, the recoil. And the noises. And his eyes as they melt. And his lips, so swollen, so—and his hands as they clenched, and searched, and found. And found him. And the shared breaths, and the unspoken words—

And it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough.

The hunger was engrossing, growing deeper every time he kissed him, growing restless from all that time away, all-consuming when touching him again, overflowing, uncontrolled. He swore he could even feel a sizzle running through his veins, magic buzzing through them. This made sense, this was natural, this was destined.

Because being loved by Remus Lupin could be ravenous, yes. But being loved by Sirius Black was like touching heaven while being stranded on hell, and wasn’t it the best type of damnation? Having a glimpse of it knowing they’re tainted, knowing they’ve always been doomed then repeating it, and doing it all over again. And again and again. Until the sounds were erratic, until there was no shame, until his abdomen contracted and he couldn’t stop shaking and the sweat fell down like tears. Like they were on a race against time and nine years had been a lot to catch up on. Like they had a lot to say and not enough words to express it.

Then, the aftermath later. 

The bruised skin, the faint traces of red now interlacing with ivory and black lines, his hair all tangled, the ghost of kisses all over him. 

For a while neither says anything, everything in a trance, the moment so fragile it could be shattered with the faintest of breaths. 

Sirius breaks the silence, always braver than Remus, reaching out with an olive branch this time. He is lying on his chest, the noise of the city in the background, street lights reflecting on the gashes, the old scars; the profane interventions on the canvas made by his own hands minutes before.

But Remus is turned, now. Stare fixed on the walls of the bedroom, missing the view.

“I never stopped, Moony.” He hears him mumble. “You—you said yesterday. But I didn’t.” 

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

“It’s everything, it’s always been everything—and it’s yours. Even when I didn’t want it to be.” He swallows, then takes deep shaky breaths. “I could never forget, how could I?” 

“How could I forget?” 

Remus’ hand twitches, so he grips the sheets, staring at the wall. 

Always the fucking wall.

“Tú, y sin ti yo no, 

Tú, y sin ti ya no,

Tú me has hecho dimitir, y hoy yo se dice así,

Tú, tú, tú, tú.”

Chapter Text

“Que aunque empeñados en soplar, hay llamas que ni con el mar...”

-”El 7 de Septiembre” Mecano, 1998.

If you happened to ask Remus Lupin about his opinions on marriage at eighteen years old, he probably would’ve looked at you with eyes wide open and a fretful expression creasing his face. Truth be told, he had never thought that long ahead—truth be told he never actually considered himself the marrying type.

And it’s not that he didn’t believe in the whole concept of it, it’s not that he rejected the idea of it—but ever since childhood he always thought he’d end up alone, and well, that pretty much summed it up. He had never considered such sentiments would ever cloud his mind, and he definitely never thought he’d end up buying a ring himself at twenty, wondering with sweaty hands if Sirius would ever say yes. 

It had all started pretty much the day of Lily and James’ wedding, with a blurry speech (courtesy of him), and Sirius’ shiny eyes looking at him all the way from the altar. Tears rimming and a shaky lip, with smiles and a bottle divided into four men, with fairy lights and ties—untied. With laughter and a ‘Nah Pete, that’s so not fair’ leaving Remus’ lips after feeling a whiplash on his upper leg. In a time when loving came as easy as breathing and the fear still hadn’t settled deep within their bones. 

Summer, 1979.

“Everything okay, Prongs?” Sirius had asked as soon as they found him sitting alone in the greenhouses of the Potter’s, hair untidy—even wilder than normal if that was even possible—and a bourbon in front. 

As soon as James heard his voice, his shoulders seemed to relax a bit, offering them a half smile, assuring yet gloomy, somehow. “I’m nervous,” he confessed, hands through his hair, a sigh that lasted a little too long. “I don’t want to fuck it up.” 

Remus locked eyes with his boyfriend, and both melted in the spot. How could he think something like that? If there was ever someone who loved deeply, unapologetically, it was James. His love was loud, all encompassing—fierce, because he knew his friends doubted their worthiness sometimes; intense, because it simply came so natural for him.

If he could ever see himself through their eyes, maybe he would understand. 

“You won’t,” said Remus, softly. 

He stood up in a swift motion, pacing through the room. “What if it feels too rushed to her? What if we did this unconsciously because we’re afraid we’ll lose? What if—?” He stopped, and chuckled, unsure, “aren’t we supposed to have more time?”

Sirius grabbed his arms, forcing James to look at him directly, having a whole conversation with their eyes in a second. They spoke a language undisclosed to anyone but them, as if telepathically, they even blinked at the same time sometimes; it was amusing and eerie to see. 

“But James, we will win,” he declared, a grin on his face. “We will live, and we’ll be happy, and you’ll be happy because you deserve to be happy. And there will be a goddamn wedding today, chin up.”

They hugged, a smile wrinkling their cheeks. Remus met his friend’s eyes over all, a question permeating them, like a child that is afraid of the dark, he knew Moony wouldn’t lie to him, not even in a situation like this; so he nodded, all affirmations more like wishful thinking, they knew. But the faith was still fresh, and they were still nineteen, and he knew his friend wanted this above anything else—and Lily would be getting ready by now and they would make sure everything ran smoothly. That’s what friends are for. 

James offered an arm, and Remus embraced both of them too, a wet laugh coming from his best friend, planting a kiss over Sirius’ head. 

Peter arrived then, shirt a little creased, and face pink as if he had been hurrying. “Are we doing hugs already?” He asked, as he joined in.

They weren’t men of many words, but he knew actions spoke louder, and the love definitely screamed. All marauders were here, watching the first of them take a leap towards adulthood; raising their own glass of bourbon, and tying each other’s ties, buttoning each other’s shirts as if they never left that gryffindor tower, as if childhood was something they could still grab with their bare hands. 

The ceremony was mostly a cosy affair, no more than thirty people all gathered around a clearing since it had become dangerous to host large gatherings. There were tiny lights all around and, as Remus noticed later, actual fairies carrying some of them—how did they get in the magical creature’s good graces one might never know. Dumbledore had been invited, as did Alastor, who was a relief to see for the attendees, most of them loosening their holds on their wands. 

He took a seat next to Peter on the front row, the two of them exchanging glances and silent greetings with the girls who were on the other side of the aisle in matching dresses and holding little bags. There were not many known faces around, he guessed James’ family occupied most of the seats since Lily’s parents had died and of course there was no way her sister would make an appearance. 

“Were Alice and Frank invited?” He asked Wormy, who seemed to be almost chewing his lip in anxiousness. The other boy nodded, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.

“In the back, next to Moody.”

Remus made a mental note to greet them later.

Sirius was already in his designated spot at the front, smiling as Effie and Monty patted their son on the back and talked in hushed tones about god knows what that had James’ lip trembling as he looked at them with so much tenderness in his face. Something churned into the very depths of his soul.  

Remus remembered all those days spent in their dorm, his friend returning smug from the hospital wing because her lip had tugged at the end when he fell down the stairs—or James literally screaming into his pillow when she finally accepted to go out with him—Lily sitting in a foetal position with Marlene and Remus by her side because it just couldn’t be possible she had said yes. He loved them dearly, he had rooted for them dearly too, so to see them taking it a step further made something in his chest swell. 

The day had gone a little bit like this:

James, crying as soon as he saw Lily walking down the aisle, cheers from everybody around, and Monty kissing her on the cheek as he left her in front of his son. A sort of binding ritual with rings to match, a spell with them in the middle and a kiss that would make it official. Pretty much like a muggle wedding, but with some extra steps.

Halfway through the ritual, he locked gazes with Sirius. The other man staring at him intently, a precious smile in his face and eyes radiating with joy as a golden light wrapped around. And time seemed to stop, for a moment. Everything felt ethereal. Something powerful seemed to pass between them, and Remus’ eyes watered, somehow. 

He looked divine, so handsome in his attire, so poised in his stance. 

The urge to kiss him fluttered ardently when he saw him tearing up too, and it felt as if his hands started buzzing, not breaking eye contact as he itched to ask if he was thinking the same. If he had felt some sort of pull just the same.

The lights from the spell withered, and they were taken out of their trance. 

There was a kiss, from their friends. There was a yell, from Mary. There was the look Effie gave Monty and the way he offered her a handkerchief. There was the way Sirius jumped and embraced his brother like he had done so many times, there was the way he let go of him and rushed to Lily right after, hugging her too and whispering something in her ear that made her laugh.

By the time Remus could finally walk towards them, he had decided that he would marry Sirius when all of this was over.

Hours later, with the champagne still in his mouth, probably his tenth serving of it—Remus cleared his throat, and prepared to talk. His vision would start to get blurry later, and by the time the music began, he would be utterly pissed he would actually get up and dance ( willingly ) with them. But right now there was silence, and there were little dots of light flying around and the man in front of him could possibly make him cry from the love he felt for him.

“The first time I heard Lily Evans’ name, it was from the mouth of James,” he started, “and let me be honest, at first I didn’t have faith that we would end up here.” He gestured all around, faint chuckles could be heard, more so from James; grinning like a little kid. “But I have learned love has funny ways of getting into the system, and when it comes, it stays.” He then turned to look at Sirius. “No matter the storms, no matter the distance, no matter the time.” 

“What you guys have cannot be replicated, I see it every single day—the magic exists, and there’s a hundred million soulful moments in that—in the sharing of a lifetime, in the universes between waking up and going to sleep knowing they will be there for you through it all.” 

They were looking at him melancholically, the smirks gone, immersed in Remus’ words for them. Lily smiled.

“And if anyone gets to share all of that, it’s both of you. I love you, and I’m proud of you, and I’m thankful for you. I wish you the most pure bliss, forever,” he slurred, slightly.

There were shouts coming from the corner where the girls were sitting at and claps from everyone else.

He stepped out of the little podium, Sirius already waiting for him there, so he grabbed his waist and pulled him up into a kiss. 

They weren’t men of many words, but the love screamed indeed.

Buying the ring months later had been an arduous affair, since he couldn’t use silver and tin was way too cheap. He browsed through stores, compared designs; Sirius didn’t really use golden jewellery, so in the end he settled for a platinum one. From a pawn shop, since his inheritance had been limited and most of it had gone into the flat’s payment. Still, it had been a chunk of what was left of it. 

He didn’t mind.

He chose the prettiest one, with ornate details that made it evident the ring had been worn by someone sophisticated, once. 

He wondered how it ended up here. 

And wondered where he would hide it. There really weren’t many places in which he could hide things from Sirius, since he had a tendency to stress clean when he was feeling overwhelmed, no corner was left safe from his scrutiny. 

So he hid it in plain sight. He put it in the chain hanging from his neck with a glamour spell so Sirius wouldn’t notice, and wore it every day. 

Every single day.

Right in front of him, in the morning as he cooked breakfast for Sirius, in the afternoon after they returned from a mission, at night with his head tucked under his chin, legs tangled and his faint noises like he did when he dreamed. 

He could do this for the rest of his life, he thought. 

He would do it easily, loving him would come like breathing to him. 

Remus thought about his parents, about Lyall’s escapades with him to buy a gift for Hope, a necklace for an anniversary, flowers, a cake from her favourite shop… how they would drive around town, his four year old self staring out the window, counting the cows they saw along the way, or the red cars, leaving fingerprints on the glass. His father laughed with him, cleaned the windows as many times as was necessary, and bought a book full of animal illustrations from the pretty store downtown. 

He hugged the two of them, tucked Remus’ curls behind his ear—‘he’s got your freckles, honey.’—and mum would grin. ‘Well, he’s got your eyes.’  

Would it be this way with Sirius? 

“Marry me,” he whispered, low enough not to wake him and felt a thrill rising up his spine. 

He had never said it out loud. 

The man between his arms twitched, and the ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth; as if he knew.

Remus caressed his face, touch light as a feather, careful because seeing him like this was sacred. The face he showed the world could be one of mischief, full of energy as he walked, head high when entering a room, a pat on the back when greeting someone. But who saw the calm that emanated from the simple motion of stirring his tea in the blue light of dawn? Who noticed how he bit his tongue when he was too focused on the assembly instructions of their shared bookshelf? 

The rest he could let the world know, but these moments were only for him to see. This Sirius was only for him to see.

He imagined the way he would ask him, he daydreamed about going on a trip with him, he daydreamed telling James and Lily about it; pictured them planning their speeches, pictured Wormy drunk drooling on the table, Mary gleaming in a bright dress…

He wondered how it would feel, standing in the midst of a golden light with him, tying—binding—devoting, forever —

“Marry me,” he would mumble silently as Sirius browsed a magazine in the living room, as he smoked a fag while preparing coffee for him, as he turned the tap of the bathtub on and raised a brow in silent invitation. It turned easy, it would come like breathing to him. The bone tingling was still present, but it had always been more thrill than fright—and one of these days he would say it out loud. 

Of course he never had the chance. 

Days turned weeks, only increasing the amount of anxiety from everyone around. People wouldn’t go anywhere alone, wizards would whisper on the streets, some would hide behind large dark coats and others would eye them suspiciously. 

There was a failed raid. 

And another one, then an attack, then another, then— 

Then they sent Sirius on a long trip, the type of missions that were scarce because it meant no good to be sent somewhere for so long; people didn’t usually return from those types of trips. His understanding of dark magic was no secret to the Order, and so he left for a trail around Europe—following any leads, following weird gatherings. It was a risk, but no one could do it like him; Remus knew. 

It didn’t mean he wouldn’t worry. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t go half mad a week into it, literally starved for him, running his head through thousands of horrible scenarios—Lily had been no different. James had gone with the group, too.

It had been one of those days in which apparently both had been feeling jittery, and the phone simply wouldn’t do, and Remus needed a hug, or a break, or a slap or whatever else would help take his mind off the situation—that he decided to go see her.

Lily and him held onto each other, the rush of blood almost deafening his ears—a shared look, an understanding mouth in a thin line— barely registering the sofa he sat in, the walls closing in on him, and the rushed feeling in his chest… he wouldn’t lose him, right? He would get to ask him someday, right? Surely life wouldn’t be so cruel to them above this—?

His ears ringed, and his breaths shallowed. He stopped caring about anything else as he lost control again, hands clenching—impending doom above him. He could be gone so easily, he could be sent back home in pieces just to haunt him—the air suddenly wasn’t enough as he opened his mouth and tried to inhale. There was noise in the background.

Minutes later he was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, feeling his skin clammy, blood in his nails as Lily towered over him repeating his name; and in the haze of it all, past the ringing, past his own heartbeat and past a sharp, uncomfortable sound—he heard it. 

“What is that?” He asked, heaving.

“What is what, Remus?”

“It’s like—”

It was confusing at first, since the sound was still thin; gentle. But he heard it. 

And then he turned to look at Lily. Face horrified, surely, making her frown, thinking it was all the result from his panic show earlier. 

It wasn’t. 

He got up, shaking. Shaking because instead of only his and Lily’s heartbeat, there were three . 

His gaze slowly lowered to her belly, and then to her. And it was all over her face. 

“Remus—”

She had so much to lose now, Remus couldn’t understand how she could still be collected.

“How long?” He asked, his voice weak. 

She pursed her lips, but her eyes were kind. “It’s probably been two months now, maybe a little more—”

She was cut off by him tightening her into an embrace, a wave of emotions flashing across his mind. 

“What the fuck,” he chuckled. Then, he felt panicked. “What the fuck?!” Happy again, petrified, shocked, excited— “Does he know?” 

She raised her head to him, and her gaze was filled with tears. She nodded, with a smile; wiping the water curtain away before it fell. 

His eyes began to water too. “What the fuck, Lily,” was all he could say, making her chuckle. 

“Well, good to know it’s doing well, I mean—until now it all seemed so abstract…”

They drank their tea, and she explained, and she looked so frightened but so sure; and Remus couldn’t do anything but stare, and listen, and listen—

“God, Remus please stop making that face,” she taunted. But he couldn’t, it was all he could think about now. His hands trembled. Lily tilted her head. “How—how does it sound? Is it—good?” 

“It’s perfect,” he assured rapidly. 

“We’re waiting for him to come home to tell everyone.” And her expression changed, suddenly remembering. 

It was his turn to be strong, he grabbed her hand and gave it a soft squeeze. “They will come back, Lils.” Wishful thinking .

They had to, right? Now they had to. 

It was two weeks later, not even crossing the threshold of the Potters, that Sirius was already grinning; squinty eyes filled with excitement as he rushed to him, hugging desperately for the first time in almost a month.

“MOONY—you won’t believe—I’m going to be a godfather!”

At the same time that James twirled Lily through the air, kissing her temple. “He knows,” he heard her say. And both locked eyes. 

Remus nodded, and they hugged too. His friend had a new fresh air to him now, as if invigorated, even more assured than before. He remembered their greenhouse conversation, and when they pulled away, he could see Prongs had been thinking about it too. 

“What do you mean he knows?!” Asked Sirius, his chin resting over her head. 

So they served some tea, and Lily retold the events of that evening. 

He was by her side in an instant. “Do you think I can hear it too?!” 

There hadn’t been many opportunities to ask, by then. 

As soon as they crossed the door of their home, Remus was all over him, desperately disposing of their jackets, pulling at the belt as he pushed Sirius against the wall.

“Don’t ever leave me like that again,” he breathed in his mouth, barely separating from him as they kissed deeply. 

Sirius was fisting his shirt, panting just as desperate. “Mmm, did you miss me, Moons?” He could feel his cheeky smile against his lips.

Remus decided to simply rip the shirt, needing to touch him because it had been a while. “I was on the verge of dying.” Sirius’ breath catched as he started placing kisses down his jaw.

“I see—” he let his head fall back, granting him more access.

“Promise.”

His abdomen twitched when he reached the tender spot on his neck, and his knees buckled. “I—” 

“Promise me,” he demanded, voice raspy in his ear. Somehow they made it to their room.

“I prom— ah .” He gripped the sheets as Remus went lower. “God, yes.” 

A smirk appeared in his face before it all. “What was that?” 

“I promise— fuck .” He folded into himself. “ Please .”

The greetings extended for a few hours.

After all, after taking a nap and then re-emerging from their sleep induced coma, after kissing some more—Remus made some tea in the kitchen, and Sirius made coffee. They met in the middle, and exchanged cups, leaning against the counters, Sirius’ back against his torso. 

He gulped, and stopped. Contemplating. “It’s crazy to think about, I mean Prongs with a mini Prongs?” 

Remus smiled. “A Prongslet.”

“A stag-gy.” 

“Ugh, that was so bad,” Remus laughed into the crook of his neck. He loved having him like this, he started planting kisses on his shoulder. There were some minutes of silence before it suddenly occurred to him. “Would you?” 

“What?” 

He pushed him a little with his nose, as in you know. “A mini you.”

He snorted. “Oh, a padslet—a—”

“Sirius.”

He sighed, “I don’t know, I always thought I would. It was understood.” A grimace made its way to his face. “But to have the option now… I don’t know, it gives me the creeps to even think about it honestly. Maybe I… maybe.” His precious eyes glinted in the dark, so much emotion behind them—perhaps love was not even enough to describe it. 

Something tugged at his stomach, maybe he could—maybe this was the moment—

“Sirius…” 

Suddenly, a patronus entered the room, announcing an attack against the Bones family, so they put on their coats, and were out the door in record time.

He never really got the chance. It was never the time, and never the place. Things would get better, and then horribly wrong—times would get desperate, and uncertain, and definitely not happy enough for Remus to think about asking him. Then Regulus returned, and Sirius needed his support more than ever. 

Everything started going to shit. 

It was maybe until September that he finally decided to abandon his whole plan. It’s not that he didn’t love Sirius anymore, but he couldn’t really stand being around him. The feeling was muted now, as if through a glass, an opaque one, the kind you would try to clean only to fail because the smears had been building up for a while now.

“I’ll be gone. For a few days,” he announced, filling a thermos with coffee and a splash of rum. 

“Mm.” Sirius was sitting on the table, a mug with tea by his side. 

“There’s food on the fridge.” 

A nod. Nonchalant.

“Are you even listening?” 

Their eyes finally met, lingering for a moment too long that had his soul yearning—but it was soon broken off. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. But neither of them knew what he was sorry for. 

“Sure you are,” Remus scoffed, and walked out. He actually could stay, but the moon aches would start setting two days from now. And he didn’t really find it in himself to be here for it. So he would pay for a hotel room, and he would meet with the pack a day before the full. 

Not many words, the silence deafening.

And who had turned away first? Who had stopped reaching out first? Was it punishment to know? Was it shame the reason for not telling anyone? 

Everything turned colder, and any hope was soon swept under the rug in an embarrassed motion, why did he ever think someone would want forever with him? If he had the choice he wouldn’t marry himself, he supposed. 

He wandered aimlessly, he showed up everywhere he was needed, barely holding eye contact anymore. 

But he kept a hold of it, and admired it from time to time, imagining how it would have been like. 

Remus would reach out to it as Sirius walked out the door, not sparing a second glance at him. He would reach out to it after a quick, detached shag with his shirt still on, the last time it ever happened, not any trace of desire from him—all that love that they had felt months ago vanished. He would reach out to it in the bus he took that night, considering blowing up the radio that seemed to mock him so mercilessly. 

He couldn’t get rid of it, honestly. 

Not even in the most desperate times, not even when it would’ve bought him a whole comfortable week in a hotel; or when the hunger was too much to bear, not in his darkest moments when the voice in his head yelled and assured that he had never loved him. 

So now, to have him near like this again was a concept his mind was still trying to grasp around, letting him rub circles in his back with a timid hand. 

Brushing past the sharp shoulder blades, over the pronounced spine. 

Remus was not beautiful, he knew. And the self neglect all these years had only made it worse. But when Sirius caressed those parts nobody else had ever been gentle with, when he felt the muted touch of his lips, making the hairs of his arms prickle—he let him. And he kept pretending, and he imagined once more. 

No one else had ever been this gentle.

These days, as tumultuous and stormy as they were, would be a sort of calm before everything fell apart. 

A calm he would miss for months to come, before nights spent staring at the sky, before plans would be set in motion in front of him with no way to stop them. With no way to stop time. 

And him.

November, 1981.

It had been more by chance than coincidence that James had acquired a brand new copy of the new Queen record since it had been sold out everywhere for all he knew. But he knew a guy, who knew another guy who was happy to smuggle things in exchange for a tiny monetary retribution. He clutched the black cover, and met Lily at the entrance. Harry would spend the night at his parents’ house. There was a casserole at the table where they usually put the keys in and she was tying her boots. 

Glancing up they met eyes, and she smiled apologetically at him; losing Remus had been a tough blow on them, more so with Peter captive and everything else falling apart. Lily couldn’t really get more than three consecutive hours of sleep at night; the war had never stopped in her mind, a scream—a green light—an all encompassing sound that somehow sounded like nothing at all, and she would wake up drenched in cold sweat, gasping for air. James would hold her most of the time—when he wasn’t dealing with his own issues too, his cassettes on the stereo playing as he drifted off somewhere between stained glass windows and rubble filled hands. 

If anybody ever thought war was usually loud and thunderous, had never been in one. As soon as it ended, there was only silence. Everything was too still for their taste, everything felt so still… James kept waiting to be called in for another mission, Lily kept fiddling with her fingers, itching for the books she had become so accustomed to in that house—it was all over, but it seemed their minds lived stuck, still.

They knew this was not the healthiest way of dealing with it, but what more could they possibly do? 

At least they fidgeted, at least they felt . The same could not be said for the rest of them.

Sirius had been so quiet lately. It was preoccupying. Not eating, not sleeping until he was so exhausted his eyelids dropped on their own, not smiling anymore—there was no sign of the once noisy, strident boy. Life had been so still lately, but Sirius had been worse. 

So this time, they needed to do something. 

When everyone arrived at the flat, Regulus was already opening the door, the smell of something sweet in the oven reaching their nostrils. He had kitchen gloves on, something none of them ever thought they would witness, and nodded with his mouth pressed shut. Dorcas and Marlene embraced him with a hug and let themselves in, sparing a moment to say hi to Sirius from where they stood on the hall. 

Their friend was seated on the dining table, sleepless nights under his eyes, in his complexion. He was wearing one of Remus’ jumpers and his hair was a mess in his head. He was lucid, though, and something flicked through him when he noticed James in the doorway. 

“Hey Pads,” he greeted. “Brought dinner, one of your favourites.” Lily kissed him on the forehead and followed Regulus to the kitchen, mumbling something that sounded like ‘ strawberries ’ and ‘ buttery ’. He smirked and murmured something in french with the word ‘ fraises ’ in response. ‘Ugh, you’re sooo pretentious.’

It was an effort to get him to eat properly, but they were patient. With each bite he ate, more colour returned to his cheeks, and more liveliness settled behind his stare. All they had these days was patience. That’s what friends are for.

When it was time for their plan to come into effect, Mary browsed the enormous collection of records in search for something rhythmic, something reminiscent of those nights in creaky dorms and packed common rooms. Something cool yet neutral enough to not bring a certain someone up. 

That meant no Rolling Stones, or Pink Floyd, or The Beatles, or The Doors, or—oh well.

They tried with a Sweet song, clapping along and even head banging, to no avail. 

“Ooo tough crowd, I see…” she joked, settling for the latest from Earth, Wind and Fire. It couldn’t get more Gryffindor than that. 

He strummed his fingers. 

“Come on Pads, dance with us!” Begged Lily, taking one hand and gently pulling it towards her. James took the other, and they both started swinging to the last of the song. Mary took charge of moving the shoulders along.

The beginnings of a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, and Mary poked him on the ribs. “Don’t be a Codger, Black!” She knew he was giving out.

So it really was no surprise that when James took out the heavy artillery, he finally stood up. The bass notes came first then the vocals permeated the air as he raised a brow in mock imitation of Sirius, and stared straight at him, making a show of himself as he strode towards the group from the stereo. Pointing to his chest and then Sirius with the first verse.

“Pressure, pushin' down on me,

Pressin' down on you, no man ask for”

Someone had turned off the lights, and the room was now illuminated by orangey hues from the only two lamps they had on their flat, a cosy scene in the bloom of winter—a relief between the precarious, an ease. 

He started silently enunciating the words, dancing in that James Potter fashion that would make girls swoon. Marlene took Dorcas’ hands and started singing, too. Sirius felt a tug of the hand, and was pulled into a circle full of the people he loved—all there with him, all there for him. 

Dorcas could be seen having a silent conversation with Regulus, groaning and pulling him from his place on the sofa. The younger Black maintained a nonchalant facade, but all of them knew better: he had planned the whole charade for his brother in a moment of desperation. 

They all agreed in a heartbeat. 

Everyone yelled ‘Let me out!’ together, urging Black to do the same.

He didn’t dance, but let himself be manoeuvred like a puppet; snorting when Marlene started imitating Mercury, clutching a banana from the fruit bowl on top of the table, bought two days ago by James because he insisted potassium did wonders for the body in situations like these. ‘Kick my brains around the floor’ she hollered, hoping her girlfriend would laugh.

As everyone jumped to the rhythm, as Mary swayed herself back and forth raising her arms slowly; as James wrapped his arms around Lily and crooned in her ear, as people twirled around, Sirius paused a second to take it all in.

There was so much love around, it was in the eyes, in the silent exchanges between them; in the softness of the words and interactions.

There might have been a war just weeks before, but not right now. 

There might be remains of it that jostled at their brains, and minds, and bodies; but not right now. 

They would never be the same, but at this moment they were together, and that had to count for something, right? Of all the people who died, of all the people tortured—it had to count for something. 

Sirius felt his heart flutter when Regulus ended up next to him on the never ending moving circle, more so when he put a hand on his shoulder and bobbed his head a little. Lily shrieked in excitement, and they raised their heads for the next yell.

“It's the terror of knowing what this world is about,

Watching some good friends screaming, "Let me out"

Pray tomorrow gets me higher, higher, high”

They were not complete, and they wouldn’t be complete for years, but at this moment he would smile at his brother; he would go along the whole thing ignoring the ache in his heart. 

Mostly at this moment. 

“Love you, Reg,” he whispered. And his brother’s eyes lit up like he had never seen before. It was the first thing he had said in a while.

“Keep comin' up with love but it's so slashed and torn,

Why, why, why?”

Sirius thought he caught Remus’ scent in the middle of it, completely dazed, but it might as well have been the jumper he was wearing. He closed his eyes, and kept swinging with his friends. Mary held his hand, and offered a luminous grin when he found her gaze. They sang the next part together, and his heart sank.

“Can't we give ourselves one more chance?

Why can't we give love that one more chance?”

Outside in the shadows, someone lit up a smoke, inhaling deep and letting it sit on his already empty lungs. He chuckled once, sourly as it came out. Of course it was like this, of course it would be like this. His guts twisted when a very known barky laugh cut through the freezing air.

He walked off as Bowie resonated past the windows, where to? He didn’t know. He wouldn’t know for a long, long time. 

“'Cause love's such an old-fashioned word,

And love dares you to care for,

The people on the edge of the night,

And love dares you to change our way of,

Caring about ourselves,

This is our last dance,

This is our last dance,

This is ourselves,

Under Pressure.”

Chapter Text

Remus slept so soundly. On the good days, at least. And he ate so much when he woke up, as if starved for ages sometimes. 

He walked around without a care in the world most of the time. Not afraid to take up space. It came so—naturally.

Sirius scrunches his face. 

He used to kiss him so delicately. 

But he is so kind, still. That hasn’t changed. He still smiles shyly at people when they take too long staring at him, he says thanks. Always. He stops and gives money to beggars on the streets. And he lowers himself so they see him, even though it’s evident it hurts to do that, he— 

He limps now. And it’s bad. And Sirius knows he doesn’t want him to notice. But how could he not? How could he not notice? Why would he ever think he wouldn’t notice? 

Everything had gone so wrong. 

He was drunk, and he found him. While drunk, while hazy. His thoughts had been—dumb. Straight up foolish when instead of scrunching his face Remus had smiled. Well fuck it really, all rehearsed protocol went down the drain, he got scared, he urged to escape for a moment. Sirius got… 

Truth be told he got his hopes up when Remus kissed him that night, when he looked at him like that—God, his heart hadn’t beaten so hard in his life, he thinks. He returned to him for a second. 

And he slept so soundly. 

He’s got padfoot tattooed on his ribs, for fuck’s sake. How could he not get his hopes up? 

Sirius did care, that hadn’t changed. He still loved him, that hadn’t changed. And he wouldn’t let him out of his sight again, he would fight for him, this time. 

Like he didn’t that night, like he couldn’t.

Books, and a plant. He cannot see the titles, but they’re fairly big, next to the window. And a stereo, a good one. Urgent clattering from the room adjacent, then a scoff. Remus moves to the other, the one that doesn’t really smell like him. So natural, not even doubting for a second. 

Of course it had been painful waking up the next day to rejection. ‘Can you stay?’ turned ‘Go away.’

It only took a night for him. 

But he had him now, right? Remus had accepted, he had said yes. He would not go yet.

Sirius doesn’t really know where they are. Which is silly, because he has spent the last week near. Probably five or six blocks over—monitoring the other five or six blocks over. 

He had been so close.

Remus led him here doubtfully, that he could tell. Glancing around like he was hesitating. He hates that it’s so difficult to read him now, there’s a lump in his throat every single second he spends by his side. He used to look at him so—so differently. He used to look at him like he held the world between his hands, and for some years he did. For some years he believed, for some years he held him. 

There’s a rolling stones poster in the kitchen. And there’s a rug. Green. A television. 

And he can smell someone else’s scent through the things. But he cannot move from here, he promised. Well, close enough. He just said okay.

Remus comes back from the bathroom with a small backpack and eyes nervously looking at him. “I need to pick up something,” he says. “I’ll be quick.” 

His voice sounds so pretty. There’s a jerk of his hand, subtle. Is he—anxious? Of having him here? 

“Okay,” Sirius responds. “Can I—can I sit?”

“Yeah.” It’s spoken half absently. Searching for his keys, checking his wallet—there’s a picture there. He couldn't see it well because it was gone in a second, but he noticed. He is out the door in a heartbeat, where to? He doesn’t know.

He hates to talk to him like this. As if they didn’t—as if yesterday he hadn’t been tearing ruthlessly at his skin, as if he hadn’t been chanting his name half delirious, as if… as if he didn’t have the marks to prove it, still. The marks of his passing through him.

Why would he say these things to him? ‘fucking beautiful’, ‘divine’… If he didn’t—feel them, maybe? ‘I love you’, he had heard, in his dreams before waking up to an empty bed. Fucking torture, truly. 

Sirius tries to be good. Arduous work.  

He tries hard to stay still. Sitting, staring at the ceiling, focusing on the noises from the street for some minutes. 

But eventually he gets up. 

He moves to the stack of records. 

It used to be so important to them. Music. They had bonded over it when they were young, it had been like a companion, a fifth marauder, so to say. It had been important. He shamelessly sorts through the cassette tapes, a little smirk at the corner of his mouth. 

Pink Floyd, of course. The Cure, The Alan Parsons Project? He can see it. Led Zeppelin, Dire Straits, Sex Pistols—even some George Michael. Soppy git. Black Sabbath, Slayer, Judas Priest—did he get a heavy metal phase during the eighties? The Doors, Whitesnake… no Bowie. He might guess why. 

The Queen Is Dead, Dynasty, Willy and the Poor Boys. Yes, he can see it. He can still see Moony there.

Sirius eyes the books near the window. But the real tingling in his gut is telling him to go to his room. 

So he does, he walks to Remus’ room. 

And in a second he wishes he hadn’t. It’s just so—there’s so much energy in here, he can feel it. It’s him, all over the place, the scent, the—way it all comes together, somehow. The bed is unmade, an ashtray sitting on the nightstand next to it. 

His part of the room had been so neat in Hogwarts. Except on exams week, when he locked up with curtains drawn and wouldn’t emerge until hours later. He remembers. This place is messy, which could be a result of his… looking for something? Minutes ago. Of course. 

He huffs.

There’s more posters on the wall, and he loves that he can picture him putting them up. 

A fag between his lips, a bit of tape, his frown because they look crooked. Doing it all over again. 

It’s addictive.

Dirty shirts, and how he takes them off. Some sort of notebook—oh, the black leather jacket. And the boots. He slides a finger down the seams of it. It smells so much like him.

Remus got his little collection of books even here, and some of them are worn out, like he always did when he read them over and over. He used to obsess over them so much. 

There’s some George Orwell, Kafka? A dictionary for translating things to spanish. That makes him smile. There’s little notes on the edges, pieces of paper tucked between pages, everything ranging from flyers to even a document regarding the flat; restaurant numbers, a karaoke night at a place nearby. Words circled. ‘Libros’, ‘vinilos’. To make conversation? He supposes. ‘Calle’, ‘derecha’, ‘izquierda’. Tres calles a la izquierda, dos a la derecha. In a note. Handwritten by him, shaky. C. Parador del Sol. 

Me llamo Remus. Tengo 30 años. 

There’s a copy of Frankenstein. Even more worn out than the rest, if that’s even possible. And heavier. Sirius feels his stomach muscles cave in. There’s notes on it. In fact, it’s heavily annotated, it’s heavily highlighted—he sits on the bed and starts reading. 

“The fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone.”

Oh. 

Sirius can feel his face flush, the hairs in the back of his head stand up, and tears start gathering at the rim of his eyes. His fingers keep passing through the pages, desperate.

“Why did you form a monster so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust?” 

Some are underlined roughly, circled. When? Some scribbles read. When?—When?—What did it?—Why?

“Why did I not die? [..] Of what materials was I made, that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture? But I was doomed to live—”

Why am I still here?

He closes the book harshly at the same time as a voice asks, “what are you doing?”

It startles him, how much time has it been since he left? 

“I’m sorry, I just—” His voice comes out broken. Remus watches him from a distance. “Do you—you’re not a monster.”

He snatches the book from his hands, scoffing. “Says you?” 

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who gave you the right to be here, honestly, since I told you to stay in the fucking living room.” 

Sirius lets himself fall on the bed, he supposes he deserves it. He cannot talk. But he wants to tell him—he wants him to see. 

“I understand, you know.” His eyes are closed. He breathes, like Effie told him to do. “Now I do.” 

A moment. 

“I know.”

“I have felt that way before.” He breathes.

A sigh. “I know.”

“No you don’t, Remus.” He sees him now, he can face him now. “You think I spent all these years being what—doing—seeing all these guys? I couldn’t.” 

Remus stays very still. 

Everything had been so cold. Sometimes he felt like he never got out, like he touched the bottom, like he swallowed everything. The hands had been so urgent—like—urgent like—fuck. He breathes.

“You mean you never—?”

He snorts. “No, I did.” He did, in dark stalls. In dark rooms, in dark—where he couldn’t really see them. Where they wouldn’t really see him. Where he could pretend, where brown eyes became hazel if he wanted, where curls would tangle beneath his fingers and he could pretend. “It was so hard, but I did.” 

Remus sits down too.

His hands aren’t trembling anymore. There’s some sort of—rush in him. A sort of haste. Did he run here? He smells like joy, perhaps. 

“Did you do them yourself?” 

Did he do them himself? Rhetoric question in his mind. Somehow, he had; somehow, of course he didn’t. They did. As he fought, as his lungs burned and his brother looked so horrified… So cold, everything, everywhere. 

“Depends.” 

“Sirius.”

“No. I didn’t,” he whispers. Can he be vulnerable with him? Can he—let himself fall again? He has to, if he wants this to work. Effie told him. She had been the only one he notified about his plan. His mother, and his father. 

‘I found him’, he had announced. Dinner still warm on their plates, steaming. An untouched glass of wine. ‘And you’re going for him’, Effie had understood in a moment. 

‘I have to.’

It was only him, it would only be him. 

But maybe this was not the moment. He had disguised his staying here with a business trip, he was supposed to be meeting other people. That had been the deal. Regulus occupied the wizengamot, and Sirius met with people. Causes. Associations. The Black name would not be one of fear anymore, it would not be connected to horrible deeds and corruption. Much to Walburga’s dismay.

Regulus could find out. Or not. He can be cautious, he can be sneaky too. But fuck, he’s spiralling right now. 

“Don’t really wanna talk about it right now.” 

“Okay.” 

It’s not easy, really. Nobody said it would be, he expected it. But it still is, and Sirius feels overwhelmed. He wants to try. 

“Why did you go, Remus?” The light above him looks ancient. Yellowish. 

“Are you really asking me that?” 

“I’m talking about St. Mungo’s.” 

Four years ago. Four years since one of the worst heartaches in his life. Losing him once had been agony, a wound festering. It had been the sickly tone of his temples, and waking up with the smell of dittany still lingering. There were just so many voices—and her. Above everything. He needed to shut it off, he needed to shut her up, she didn’t control his life, wouldn’t control his life. But he deserved it, didn’t he?

‘Why did I tell him to leave?’ He had sobbed to James. ‘Why would I tell him to leave? I didn’t want him to leave.’ And he screamed, and he broke things—and he—it was everywhere. Was it possible to even feel twinges of heartbreak in your palms? 

It had been Regulus sitting with him on the kitchen floor. ‘Please tell me what’s going on.’ An empty bottle. The clink it made when put down. ‘I’m just like her, aren’t I?’ 

“You know why I couldn’t stay.”

‘I destroy everything I touch.’

He breathes. “Was it me?” 

There’s a weight shift, and Remus is also lying next to him. “Not entirely.” 

Not entirely. He didn’t elaborate. It was almost mad-inducing, it could make him deranged. But Remus was trying too. Their shoulders were almost touching.

There wasn’t any more screaming, not any vicious words, he—they could work with that. And he wanted to know all about it. He wanted Remus to talk to him, to trust him. ‘I am alone’. No he wouldn’t be, not with him, not anymore.

“They wouldn’t let me see you.” 

“I didn’t want to.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “See you, I mean.”

Sirius closes his eyes, feels an ache in his chest. “You almost died, Remus.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Did they not tell you?” 

His tone starts getting sharper. “I didn’t, I was fine.”

Different approach. “How long did it take to heal? Lycanthropy and all.” 

He doesn’t say anything.

“You were severely malnourished, Remus.” Fuck, how it hurts to be saying this. “And bleeding out, and dehydrated—you were dying.” 

Losing him the second time had been so silent. There were no voices this time, there was nothing. But there was pain. In a way, he had expected it. He knew he wouldn’t get him back so soon, so easily. But he had gotten his hopes up. 

And how dangerous it is, to hope. How mental, how nonsensical, but also how extraordinary. How it burns when it gets broken. It can evaporate so easily, into thin air. But he was here right now, Remus had always been the rightful carrier of it. For him.

“I wouldn’t have forgiven myself.” It’s not that he felt entitled to see him because he was dying, he just—he just needed to be there. He couldn’t just let it all happen. “If I couldn’t—if I didn’t—” 

If he couldn’t stare into his beautiful eyes one last time. If he couldn’t kiss him one last time. If he couldn’t tell him that he loved him. That he would always do.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t—” Sirius turns to face him. “You didn’t, you’re here. I’m grateful you’re here.” That had been his relief after all. Yes he left, but he was alive. Alive enough to hold a grudge and be petty. 

Lily had laughed with tears in her eyes when he said that. That’s why they lowered their guards, that’s why they had left him alone. And he had been so—brutal. 

But he deserved it, right? There was no noise, there was nothing, he had to shut it off too. He deserved it, it had been his fault. 

He limps, he’s scarred. If he never—God, if. It’s always the if, isn’t it? His fingers twitch. It had been deserved, he never did anything to himself just because. Not in his mind. 

His fingers twitch.

There’s a few moments in which they don’t say anything, until he feels something warmer crawling up his palm…

Fingers calloused. Skin harsher.

Remus is holding his hand. 

Remus is holding his hand, and he loves him so much.

There’s a little gold in his eyes when he turns to him again, pupils a bit dilated, sun reaching the mountains inside. That’s how it looks like to him, anyway. Valleys full of dust, like a desert. Dunes. He could stare at them forever. 

And he can control himself. There’s a lot of self control going on behind his head right now. 

But it does not reach his body. 

His fingers are on the scar above his nose in a second. You’re not a monster, he wants to say to him. But would he believe him again? His eyes seem urgent when looking at him like this—

“Moony…” 

He pulls away, harshly. 

And it’s so difficult to read him now. He wants to cry. I’m sorry. He wants to cry. 

“Where is this place we’re going?” The other man asks. 

We’re.

He can work with that.

They apparate near the hotel. Remus scrunching his face, hand immediately reaching to his leg. He stops. Straightens himself, mouth a thin line that Sirius pretends not to notice. But takes mental notes. 

He walks a bit slower. 

He can be cool, he decides. Yesterday he almost smiled at him, didn’t he? 

Sirius caught him staring a lot. 

At his hands, at his neck—he looked at everything, actually. He got a proper show. And he had that—lovesick? Face about him—Fuck, this is gonna be hard. Please look at me, he wanted to say to him. Not his hands, not his collarbones. His eyes. 

Let me see you again.

He can make it right. If he lets him, if he stops pretending last night didn’t happen, if he simply looks at him again.

‘Got carried away, sorry.’ As he got dressed.

Sirius wanted to die.

‘Oh.’ He covered himself with the covers, suddenly very aware.

I never should have done that. 

But the apologies were real. The tears were real, his almost blurted out love confession had been real. He kissed him to shut him up. 

Sirius.

‘You’re not a bad person, sweetheart.’ Effie had said to him. ‘You are a good person, who bad things have happened to.’ And most days he believed it, he wanted to believe. 

‘I’m sure he sees it, too.’ 

“Sirius!” 

That takes him out. 

“We’re here,” Remus calls. He is standing near the entrance. Sirius is several steps ahead. 

“Oh. Right.” 

He’s ridiculous. But he can be cool. He offers half a smile in apology. Doesn’t receive one back; a head, turned. Sirius’ eyes start prickling, watering, but he blinks it off.

Still smiling.

He cannot blame him, honestly.

It’s a couple of minutes later that Remus fully makes eye contact with him again, panicky glint in his stare, giving a step back. 

Because Sirius has a car. 

Not his, it’s rented. But a car nevertheless. Shiny cherry red impala, because he’s dramatic like that, and it reminded him of his motorbike back home. 

He doesn’t think Remus can apparate that much anymore. So this is the best option, really. Of course there’s mixed feelings on the matter. 

“Do you even know how to drive?” 

“Nah, this is my first time trying, actually,” he lets sarcasm bleed into his words. “That’s why I did the extra effort of renting a car.” Sirius gets in. The bellhop stacks the last of their luggage into the trunk and closes it. A smile and a generous tip later, Remus is sitting next to him. He turns the ignition.

“Any requests?” He asks as he turns the stereo on. 

The door, closing. “No Curtis Mayfield.” 

Sirius snorts, oh he jokes. He changes the transmission, and starts driving. Push it by Salt-N-Pepa can be heard through the stereo. He drives.

It’s actually kind of fateful that he found him before this. Being honest, he wouldn’t have come if he didn’t, and not because he didn’t care about the cause. He did. But because he had been restless lately. He had spent nights wandering around till the sun came out again, he had spent days calculating coordinates, organising…

He had wanted to find him before the full moon.

Remus shifts in his seat thirty minutes into it. “Is it gonna be a long drive?” 

Sirius thinks about it. “Shouldn’t be.” 

“How do you know?”

“I got coordinates, and I’ve apparated before.” 

“You don’t even have a map, or anything—”

“Can you just trust me?” 

Remus tsks, falling back into the seat. He closes his eyes, frowning. His knuckles are white. 

He is in pain.

And Sirius doesn’t know how to help him. 

Would he even let him? Everything feels so precarious. ‘I hate you.’ He had nearly hissed, so intense. An ‘I despise you’, an ‘I don’t like you’ wouldn’t have done it. Hate is strong, it’s potent enough. It’s consuming. In some sick, twisted way, at least he felt strongly for him, still. And it had come so—breathy, against his neck…

“Can I do something to help?”

He frowns even harder. “With what?”

A sigh. “Remus, I know that face.” 

Problem is he doesn’t know what’s wrong. The next moon isn’t until November 2nd, still some days from now, and he always got so… touchy? He half expects him to snap, until he doesn’t. 

“Can you stop at the next petrol station?” His eyes are still closed, his breathing even. 

“Of course.” 

So they do, they stop at the next station. Remus heads straight to the bathroom while Sirius stays outside, while he loads up the car, and waits. And keeps waiting. He waits until, of course, his hands cannot stay still and his feet cannot stay still, and they inevitably lead him to the store. He buys a few sandwiches. For Remus. And some chocolates, and some fizzy cola gummies. The sour kind. For Remus. Water, and crisps—a coke, beers. What does he like now? 

He’s got all the options. 

He goes back to the car. 

Sirius likes driving. He had learned a few years ago, and never really left it after. It’s soothing, it usually helps with his mind, it helps him think. Most wizards would deem it unnecessary, since the floo network exists, and apparating exists, but he really enjoys it. London Traffic and all. He’s got to have something to romanticise about life, doesn’t he?

When Remus is back, he looks way better. He sits once again, and doesn’t flinch. 

“It’s probably going to be an hour until we arrive,” Sirius softly speaks to him. Everything feels so precarious. 

“Good to know,” he replies. Thinks better about it. “Thanks for telling me.” 

His smile is inevitable now. And he remembers. “Oh, I bought sweets, and food, there’s some options in there, didn’t know what you would like.” 

“Thanks.” 

He turns the car on again, and they get back on track. Remus eats a sandwich. And another, and another. Sirius opts for the crisps. 

“When did it start?” He’s honestly reaching too high, he knows. “Your—leg. Does it hurt all the time?”

Remus’ shoulders tense, he stops chewing. “Not right now, Sirius.” 

He nods. Chastising himself for it. Just a ‘thanks’ and there it is again. The fluttering as if he was a teen, still. As if he was still watching him across the classroom, across the common room. How the corners of his lips tugged when a girl approached him. Not many did, not like it happened to Sirius or James, for that matter. The full on smile when Sirius arrived shortly after, drink in hand, handing it to Moony. His Moony. 

‘Thanks.’ A wink. Heat, pooling. ‘James please get me drunk.’ 

Elton John plays through the radio now. Bennie and the Jets. He taps his fingers to the melody. 

There’s a fizzling sound, then a tap, opening. He sees Remus take a long sip from one of the beers at the corner of his eye. How his neck moves when he swallows, the tension in his jaw… He stops tapping. Grips the wheel harder. Flashes of his neck tightening coming back to him in full swing, teeth gripped, every tendon and every vein visible; a drop sliding. His sounds. He had been so—he knew. Of course he still knew how to push him to the edge. On the brink of insanity, on the brink of blurting out—yet it had been full of—he kissed him. His back, every bit of tender skin, and he meant it, he knew. It was still there. Or was it? Was it still there? Somewhere? 

He had felt it, the magic permeating the air. That doesn’t happen often. That never happens, actually. It had been as if—it recognised him, and Sirius had gone along with it. He let it flow freely through his body, he let himself go freely—

“You okay?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

Remus points to his hands. 

He flexes his muscles, suddenly aware.

No.

“Yeah.”

Sirius keeps focusing on the music. He wants to ask him so many things. When did he get his tattoos? When did he have his ears pierced? The one on his brow really did something to his insides when he saw him that night. His thoughts had turned—interesting, so to say, he is no better than an animal sometimes. 

He’s got what seems like the skeleton of a thestral, too. Lonely creatures. Over his hip. 

A star on his chest. He knows what star, they both know. They won’t talk about it. 

He needs a distraction.

“You listen to George Michael,” he mentions, mostly to tease.

The other man leans against the window, hand in his hair. “Of course you checked out the tapes.”

That draws out a little smile from him. “ ‘Course I did.”

“Well, then. ‘Course I do.” He puts a fag between his lips, then raises his brow as in may I? Sirius nods. “He’s passionate about his music, gotta give it to him. And it’s good.” He fumbles into his pocket for a lighter. Rolls the windows down—lights it.

He shouldn’t, actually. He’s not supposed to smoke in this car. And yet he doesn’t give a damn because Remus wants it. 

Whatever Remus wants he will do. 

“Lots of metal in there, too.” 

His expression changes. “Oh, yeah.” He takes a drag. 

“Can I have some?” 

He was trying to quit, actually. 

“You don’t have any?” 

No, he doesn’t. He grabs the box, brushing his fingers against Remus’ palm. Pulls one out, lights it with a snap. Wind in his hair, still gripping the wheel… he raises his head to exhale. 

Remus coughs. 

And Sirius grins. He still got it, doesn’t he?

It’s an hour and a half later that they find themselves in the middle of an enormous meadow, bags at their backs and a sheer layer of sweat at their foreheads. Remus doesn’t look in pain right now, but they walk slow. 

Past the meadow, rim of the trees—if you hear the river you’re too far. 

Easy. 

When they’re close, Remus stops. Inhales sharply. Exhales.

“What—who—” clears his throat. “What is this?”

God, he is so excited to talk about this.

“They like to call it Ruminalis.” He smiles. “Fits you, huh?”

They walk. Past the kitchens, the dining, through the gardens, through green grass and dirt. There’s kids running around, teens, adults that still seem a little lost as they carry tools through the orchard. Some he knows, some even smile at him. Some eye Remus way too long—not recognising his scent, he understands now. He spots one group of kids, most of them like Harry’s age. 

Oh, and Harry. He misses him, if he’s being honest. Sirius wants to bring him here, someday. He would enjoy it, he thinks. His godson is sensitive like that, like Lily; generous with it, like James. And so intelligent, he—Sirius carries pictures of him in his wallet, as if he was his own. Would Remus want to see them? Someday?

“It’s a sanctuary of sorts. Werewolves from all ages come here, it’s—the planning of this place would put most communities to shame.” He grins, proudly. “We’re funding it, Regulus and I.” 

They funded lots of things, now. That was the only thing that mattered, for some years. Rebuilding. Regrowing. The faith, the world—the love. He threw himself into it when the noise had been too much, when the words said to him by his mother started to get a much lower pitch, coming from a freckled face and— 

He tried to be good. Arduous work. 

But he really felt so—he had destroyed. Rebuild, his brain kept insisting. All those longing stares that had gone ignored by him—thinking he could—that there was a possibility. His brain had gone half mad. 

It’s ridiculous to think about. Knowing what he knows now, knowing what he knew then. 

“Is the Ministry—aware?”

“Yes. Regulus is pushing. He’s on the wizengamot.” He was pushing for lots of causes, actually. And he felt so passionate about them, Sirius could see it. How his eyes shined when he triumphed, though it could be his competitiveness, one might never be sure. Regulus, who used to be a closed book to him, pushing away until they were both bleeding. Regulus, who lowers himself to Kreacher’s height when talking to him. Because he wants to see him in the eye, because he truly is grateful for him—and Kreacher always understood him in some way Sirius can’t figure out. They took care of each other for some years. They still do now. “He’s done a whole lot of work and research on lots of magical creatures, actually. Lily has been studying some of it with him, it’s impressive.”

Sirius would’ve never forgiven himself if he had lost him, too. 

Remus is not looking at him, stare fixed on the space between his feet. He’s got a frown in his face and Sirius wishes he knew what was going on inside his head.

“James has pushed too. In interviews.”

He snorts. But it’s bitter. His guts fall through the floor, why can’t he read him? It’s been nine years but he thought—he always thought. 

And it’s horrible to know it’s his fault. 

Those half hearted arguments, everything he pretended not to notice because he was afraid. What would he have done if he—was what they thought he had been? Sirius stopped preparing his coffee. Remus started adding rum to it. And it hurt. It was an expanding ache in his chest. What would he have done? He would have cried, that he knows. He would have yelled. 

Worst of all he would’ve kissed him. He would have begged. He would have given a piece of himself to bring him back, to bring that once happy boy back. He would have loved him the same, he still did. And he had hated himself for that. 

Sirius had gone half mad, during that time. 

He would stare at his hands as he prepared his own coffee, and something would still pool deep within him—desire. And he hated himself for that. 

He would stare at him as he drifted off in the living room. Whole cigarette consuming between his fingers—and he would think—he would feel the need to comfort him. 

But he never did. 

So he stopped looking at him. And he stopped talking to him, and he stopped kissing him, and he stopped—

And he now hated himself for that. 

When he trembled, when he cried. When he remembered, and when he started—he drank the rest of his rum bottle. Because he had touched it, once. Because he had put his lips to it, once. 

Remus eventually stopped.

He eventually stopped reaching for him, he stopped searching for his eyes, he stopped brushing his hand against his’ on ‘accident’. He stopped trying. And somehow, that had been worse. 

Sirius got angry, then. He would snap at the smallest thing, at the smallest opportunity. Fight for me, he wanted to scream. He didn’t feel like fighting until he entered a room, he didn’t feel like burning everything until he entered a room. He didn’t feel like closing the distance between them and—tear. He didn’t feel like fighting until he entered a room. And he didn’t feel—anything. Until he entered a room. 

I wasn’t myself for a long time, but I came back.

I’m back.

Would he even care? 

Would he even care when nine years had torn them apart? 

During the momentary periods of sanity after he left, all he did was remember. He hadn’t fought for Remus, in the first place. And he now hated himself for that. 

Sirius takes a step forward. “Moon—”

Something like rage starts filling his face. And oh, maybe he does hate him after all. He prepares for the downfall before it comes—

Until they’re interrupted. 

“Sirius Black!” A voice can be heard behind him. “We were wondering if you would come, after all.” 

He grins. 

Remus tenses up. 

Chapter Text

November 1988.

The weather in Berlin always seemed to have a mind of its own, really. Who would’ve known rain could also freeze your arse off in the middle of winter? He did, and he still went to the fucking launderette either way because he had been using the same jumper for two days by now and he was not about to leave a bad impression on his new roommate. 

Remus started folding his trousers (which were not much) while sniffing from his runny cold nose. If he was being honest, he regretted rejecting Regulus’ clothes. They would have helped him in these types of circumstances, surely, but he had decided to be petty and spiteful—

He was in the middle of changing his jumper to a clean one when he heard keys and then a cough from behind. Turning around abruptly, Remus caught a glimpse of Erik looking at him before almost knocking off his alarm clock from his bedside table in an attempt to cover himself.

“Hey,” he heard him greet from the living room. 

“Hi,” he returned, offering a small nod. Ridiculous, really—not anything the other man hadn’t seen before.

That was enough for him to approach, apparently. Still outside his bedroom, enough distance for him to feel comfortable, close enough to still make him a little nervous. “I was thinking—well. Considering, more like it—do you like concerts? There’s a place near here, they do um, some bands play.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, it’s nice. They don’t get too barbaric, I was thinking we could—go?”

Remus took a good look at him. Underneath his coat he could see a band t-shirt, a jacket and some chains adorning his torso. “I can handle barbaric,” he responded, finally.

Erik grinned. 

And so it started, a new friendship—one that would turn into a reason to keep going on eventually. Erik was easy to trust, like all good natured people were. He carried a weight on him, like all good natured people did and Remus thought he sometimes understood. He drew his hand back if it made Remus flinch, he only nodded when Remus didn’t want to spend money on clothes, and didn’t force him out of bed if Remus felt like staying there all day or when the pains started getting deeper. 

A month after meeting, he started preparing two cups of coffee. Neither of them would say anything as he left it on the counter and went about his day. Remus kept their beer stash full in exchange, and so their dynamics started settling. Most times, Erik was in charge of the food, other times Remus prepared breakfast—he started covering the electrical, and Erik took hold of the water bill. Most of it had been silent, but that first year they fell into a sort of routine; working well together.

It was two weeks after Christmas that Erik coerced him into baking for them when he told him about one of Hope’s recipes for scones. A simple thing he had done so many times before but seemed to go completely wrong this time. They had gone sour somehow, and the texture was weird. 

It didn’t stop Erik from being his usual courteous self and still endure a whole piece of it, though.

“Mhm, they’re nice—” he assured, nodding.

Remus had tried downing his own with a glass of milk, grimacing. “Hm, no they’re not,” he said, a hint of humour in his voice.

When they looked at each other the laugh was uncontainable at that point. As they calmed down he spoke again.

 “Well, I swear they were good, it’s just—I haven’t done anything in a long time.”

The other man just nodded and patted his back, grabbing another bite, hiding his face with a gulp of coffee. 

“Stop it! I can see your face twisting—”

By now the two of them knew most about each other than the people they had left behind. By now they could communicate with stares and mannerisms like all best friends did—and being honest, Remus noticed he had been looking for something like that all his life. Yes, he had Sirius once, who definitely knows him way too well even now—but nobody else ever understood him like that. Nobody ever tried. Not even James. 

“You have to get in the water, Rem!” He called from the sea, immediately being shut up by a wave knocking him over. 

Sarah had gone to the shops that day, and so Erik grabbed two towels, left a note and got out the door with Remus; insisting on taking a beach day for the two of them, forgetting to put on sunscreen and ending up burning his skin until it looked pink. 

He had to shower with cold water for a week after, and Ana teased him saying that he looked like a shrimp. Rafael, in exchange, told him that it suited him and Remus could only roll his eyes in response, making his best friend snort. 

That day though, had been one of the best ones. Erik came up to him and almost dragged him to the shore. Clothes and all, no regard for the book he was holding, or the nicked sunglasses on his face—so he wrestled him, and both laughed as the sand made their way through their trousers and even ended up at the very depth of his socks. “Birthday gift, come on,” he tried to claim.

“I don’t want to get in, though,” Remus confessed, minutes later, “not here, at least.” 

He saw the way his face changed in assimilation, looking at the people around. “Oh, right. I’m sorry.”

Then, he grinned. 

And so they went to another beach, and walked until they reached the most distant spot—a deserted one, a perfect one. The waves seemed harsher here, but his friend didn’t mind. Only pushing and taunting him until Remus finally got into the sea, whistling as if it really was something to celebrate and splashing each other’s faces.

Oh, how he helped him heal. 

So natural, not even noticing at first—not even purposefully. For years Remus’ body didn’t really feel like belonging to him anymore and he guessed Erik must have perceived some of it. Letting him do advances on his own, never pushing. He noticed things, buying coffee sweets when he saw Remus liked them, buying books and the fucking diary, even. 

How he helped him tear down his walls. 

And how he would miss him for times to come. After the all consuming pain, after an exposed secret and a piece of neatly folded paper announcing a fate—

Head against tile again, throat sore; head pounding from crying so much. Why, he would think again. Why, why, why—

October, 1990.

Meeting Mary again feels as if his heart had been thrown mercilessly out the window; as if he felt it stop beating for a moment then resuming. She had been gripping a bucket of paint she immediately dropped when catching his eye, gasping and taking a step closer. 

“Remus?” She asks, sounding dubious, glancing between Sirius and him because she now understands she had interrupted something—“I can’t—I can’t believe this.”

Remus stands there, too shocked out of his mind to do anything apart from sensing the poignant urge to run. He watches as the two people in front of him exchange glances, her eyes widening. Sirius nods once, and she smiles. 

A smile that is rapidly wiped away. 

Because Remus turns around, getting the fuck away from any situation involving them. Any of them.

“Shit,” he hears Sirius say. 

“Shit—shit.” He takes long steps until he’s by his side. Not hard for him to do, god how he hates his leg at times. “Moony—don’t, wait!”

Sirius seizes his forearm harshly, stopping him. “Go ahead then, apparate,” he challenges. 

Remus grips his jaw, trying to calm himself because honestly the goddamn audacity—

There’s a shift in the air around them.

Palms sizzling and the atmosphere getting stagnant as they look into each other’s eyes—Sirius’ lips turning upwards very slowly as he scans him mercilessly. Why is his stare so goddamn intense? Some time ago it had felt like a blessing, like some sort of reward in a rather cursed world. Back when he could actually reach out and tuck a strand of hair gone stray into his ear, when he would kiss his temple as he hummed or—

There are certain impulses he needs to get under control. Like holding his hand as they lied together on his bed, what was he thinking, honestly? What did he think would happen? He almost got lost in his eyes again, he almost—lost control right there and then. Again. And to have him there all lovely and shit… suddenly the height of it all hadn’t been enough like the high of having—god.

He starts thinking about the flat as the rush of blood fills his ears—

And he can’t do it, he knows. 

His leg will ache, his lower back will ache, his head… bringing Sirius alongside him will only make it worse. 

Splinching himself, that he can risk. But him—

He hopes whatever cynic force controlling his life is having a good laugh. 

The spell breaks, abruptly.

“Let go of me,” he snarls. “If you know what’s best for you.” 

“No.” 

He pulls. “Let. Go.” 

“No.”

Remus hears a chuckle, and he remembers Mary is there, looking really smug with her arms crossed behind them.

“Oh, I see the dynamics, then,” she taunts. “Come on, Sirius. Leave him alone.”

That makes him turn around. “What—Mary.”

Her voice turns serious. “He didn’t apparate, that’s enough proof he won’t go. Release him.” 

Sirius does. 

“Now, don’t you have papers to sign or anything? In the best way possible, sweetie. You know I love you.”

There’s a second in which Remus thinks Sirius will snap. He breathes heavily, eyes shut for a moment. And then he looks at him again. Worried. 

His lower stomach twists, so he settles his feet, adopting an attitude. He won’t go, he knows he can’t. Not at the moment, maybe that can be fixed—but he won’t say that to him. Why would he say that to him, anyway—

“Please don’t go,” Sirius mutters under his breath.

And well, there was that. He deflates. And the man in front of him understands. Eyes glinting with something unrecognisable to him before he takes a step back. There’s another conflict incoming, they both know. But right now Sirius sighs, heavily. Nodding to Mary, and him, and disappearing around a building. 

It’s until he’s out of his sight that it hits him. His absence. Settling down like a hole, spreading until he feels it everywhere. Silence. There’s never silence with him, is there? He’s always tapping his fingers, he’s always humming—

“Well, Remus,” Mary clears her throat. She takes a good look at him. And he’s getting ready, expecting all kinds of questions about his whereabouts, about what was going on inside his head— “How are you, love?” 

His shoulders sag. 

It’s actually insane how quickly she lets him in again, how easy it comes to her to talk to him. She’s changed her hair, which is now divided into two buns with the rest falling down on her shoulders, coloured elastics all around in good fashion Remus has seen in magazines. She looks so pretty, and healthy. 

The thirties fit her well. 

She stares at him a lot, like everyone does. And a part of him wants to assure her that he won’t go, that he doesn’t really understand why he even accepted coming here in the first place but he somehow is glad—he’s so confused at the moment, honestly, but it’s as if he felt something pulling him there—to him.

The vicious part wants to leave everyone guessing. Wants to keep them on their toes as some sort of payback that he knows won’t bring any kind of relief.

And yet he still considers. 

“I honestly thought I’d never get to see you again,” she admits. “It’s been what—nine years, right? To the day, almost.”

Remus grimaces. “I know.”

“You look a bit different.”

“I know.”

“Older.”

That makes him snort. “Yeah well, look around you, we age rapidly.”

She smiles at him. “Did you arrive here on your own?”

“Not really.”

Mary keeps silent, like she wants him to explain. But he won’t, he doesn’t want to because he knows it will sound ridiculous. There’s no real explanation to why he’s here, all he knows is he regrets everything he did last night yet he feels so good about it, and he regrets telling him he didn’t, and then Sirius seemed like he didn’t wanna let him go either way, so he didn’t wanna let him go in return. Then he heard him ask, and he said yes in a heartbeat—

“Oh well, so did you find him here?” She asks, completely unaware of his current meltdown.

“Not really…”

“So he found you, I suppose?”

He nods. 

That explains nothing, but she takes it. 

Mary chuckles. “Did he even show you around before terrorising you?”

“Not really.” Blimey, does he even know another way to respond?

“Do you… want to?”

Not really, he thinks. Remus looks at her and shrugs. “I suppose.”

“Brilliant, let’s go.”

So they do.

She explains the way the kitchen and the dining hall work, how the tasks are usually divided between everyone living here, how their school system works, their greenhouses, the stores—everything works like a little city, and Remus is obviously mesmerised. He can see the Black’s influence in the architecture of the place when entering the library, like the art nouveau pieces he saw with Regulus in Paris. There’s ornate columns that merge into the floor, a stained glass oval dome that colours the wood under their feet, a massive tree in the middle with leaves the tones of spring even though it’s almost winter—and a second level wrapping all around with balconies that have hanging plants in them. There’s tables all around, bookshelves spreading out all the way to the ceiling, armchairs and sofas filling up the cosy space. 

If he had a choice he would probably stay there the rest of the day.

He doesn’t, though. He keeps walking with Mary until they reach the infirmary, a truly extensive wing with different areas that she happily flaunts, saying hi to fellow healers and patients as they make their way through the also ornate and tinted halls. There’s a certain halo of mysticism all around, machines beeping, a musky and citric smell, like oranges and clove—

“This is my area,” she reveals, pride in her voice. “We’re mixing muggle technology with wizarding techniques, since St. Mungo’s won’t let us yet.” 

“For werewolves?” He asks, actually interested. His painkillers are the closest he’s ever come to muggle medicine really functioning on him, it won’t help at all during the full moon, but on normal days he cannot function without them. 

“And wizards, we’re still on trials but yeah, we think this might change public perception on muggles. Everything has been changing for the last nine years Remus, it’s a new world.”

Remus learns the names of different people as they go and even talks to some of them, his favourite being Isabella, a fifteen year old with an American accent that is being subject to one of the tests. She has scars like Remus, too, but certainly not as many as he had when he was her age. 

“I don’t think they might find a cure, honestly,” she whispers to him. “But anything that might help with the pre moon headaches is very welcome to me.”

Remus can feel a smirk making its way to his lips. “I second that.”

“How are you feeling this month, Isa?” asks Mary, checking things off a list.

She lets herself fall on the bed. “Dreadful sense of despair, anxiety levels rocketing, I keep hearing a voice in my head telling me to—telling me to—” she makes a motion as if her stomach was heaving. “I feel it in my vocal chords—the howling—”

“May I remind you that you volunteered for this, sweetie?” 

Remus snorts. 

“I feel fine, Dr. Macdonald.” She grins. “Even better if I could go early into the dining hall—”

“How’s your brother?”

That takes her by surprise. “He is well…?”

“Oh, suppose I got confused then, we must have another Leo with a sprained ankle in bed number five.”

Isa groans, loudly. She then mumbles her goodbyes and makes her way through the hall. 

“Twins,” Mary mumbles, an amused expression reaching her face. “Don’t tell them this, but they’re my favourite.”

“I can see why.” 

When the bell rings, (announcing that it’s time to eat, he learned minutes ago), Mary sighs with relief. She gets up from a desk where she had been organising documents and samples and spins around to where he is sitting. She’s very focused on her work, and Remus wants to ask, of course. Does he remember her mentioning something during the war? Was this always the path she wanted? Did he not pay enough attention?

Remus rises from the chair he had been using, scrunching his face and instinctively reaching out for his pocket. He stops, and takes a look at her. She raises her eyebrows, but says nothing. 

They stroll through the grass.

He wonders where Sirius is. Not that he really wants to know and not that he really wants to see him right now but he—wants to. And it’s truly getting unbearable because who would’ve thought he would react this way? He was cool when he saw him that night two years ago, he was cool when he left him there and went with Erik instead and fucking hell. He hadn’t thought about that. He’s seen him. They’ve seen each other, they probably would recognise each other and oh lord. 

Remus grabs a tray and follows after Mary. Trying hard not to show how horribly his mind is doing at the moment. She greets people, they stare at him. He nods. He says hi, he tells them his name—which is certainly too much for him at the moment. When he accepted the other man’s request he didn’t expect to be dragged all the way here to a fancier version of the Manson Family cult. Not that the other packs any different.  

He spots teenagers with their hands and arms covered in paint like the bucket Mary was carrying. He sees young adults chatting with their group of friends, some people smoke, some read, there’s groups of kids with their parents around—pins, a gameboy, teashades, cd’s, caps, coloured coats—there’s a whole variety combined. Humanity mixed together in a single dining room, all ages, all nationalities—a place where laughter resonates like it once did in a very similar setting almost two decades ago. He can guess how the groups work. There’s packs inside the pack and he wants to learn, his senses tingling with the known pang of curiosity again.

Only—there might be something missing.

“Where is—Sirius?” He asks, finally. 

Mary smiles before she takes a bite out from the steak on her plate, totally expecting it. “Probably in the city hall arranging things for the fundraiser coming up.”  

“Okay,” he replies, trying to sound nonchalant. He knows it fails. 

“He might stay this time, though.” Hazelnut eyes scan him. “He appears, signs papers, stays a day or two and is usually gone.” 

“You do stay a lot, right? In here.”

She shakes her head. “Only during the full moon weeks, I actually work in a hospital.” 

He nods again. Slowly building up the puzzle that are the lives of the people he abandoned. 

Now, he knows it’s probably not a good idea, mostly because he’s a little out of sorts at the moment, but when the food is gone, and he probably has answered Mary more than two words absentmindedly, he asks her:

“Is there a phone I could use?”

That’s how fifteen minutes later he’s sitting at a desk in an empty office, receiver sitting between his cheek and shoulder while he waits. 

There’s a click. “Aló?” Sarah’s voice picks up.

“Hi, Sarah.”

“Remus?” Some rattling can be heard on the other end, ‘Erik, Erik—it’s Remus.’ Rapid steps, more rattling. 

“Where the fuck are you?” Is the first thing his best friend asks, “you didn’t answer the phone of the flat—Ana said the place seemed empty, what the fuck Remus?” 

“I’m okay—I’m—I’m not in the flat.”

“Well, that’s obvious.”

“I’m okay, I didn’t want to worry you…”

“Bit late for that,” he interrupts. “Ana stood in front of the flat for an hour, in case you were at the shops or something. You didn’t come back, Remus.” Erik lowers his voice, whispering to him, “I can buy a ticket, I can go back tonight—”

“Don’t,” please. It’s all a mess. “Just wanted to tell you I’m taking some days, I—found someone, a friend, from before. We’re okay, there’s some kind of sanctuary here. People like me, I’m gonna spend the full moon here.” 

There’s silence for a good solid minute. Sharp breathing. 

“I swear, Remus. I swear to you—please don’t lie.”

“I’m not.” 

Guess that was on himself. He had turned unreliable in some way, but he was telling the truth right now. He wasn’t lying right now, if only there was a way of letting him know—

Maybe it was.

“Wait, hold up for a moment—” he tells him. “Mary!” 

He motions for her to get closer when her head pops out from behind the door. 

“What is it?”

“Mary, this is Erik. Erik, this is Mary,” he talks into the phone. “Can you tell him everything is fine and I’m here with you?”

She takes the phone dubiously. “Oh, okay… hi?” 

A raised brow. “Yeah, hello.”

“Yes, it’s fine.” Her eyes dart throughout the room, focused. She nods, even though it’s evident he can’t see her. 

Then, she smiles. “Oh, did he now?”

Wait, no. 

This was taking longer than he expected. 

“No, no—I’m glad. He’s—yeah. Yes! Exactly!” A laugh. What the hell?

She’s now leaning against the desk, smug smile on her face as she twirls the cable around her finger. “Well, I’ll tell him to ring you tomorrow. Hm. No, it’s real, yes.”

All of a sudden her eyes are opened up like plates. “Oh! Talking about that—did you know he used to—?”

“Nope. That’s enough,” Remus stops her mid sentence, taking the phone from her. “You can wait at the door again. Please.” 

Mary snorts, rolling her eyes. “Sure. Bye Erik!” She screams into the receiver. “Talk to you tomorrow!”

“You really are not doing that.”

When she closes the door, he returns to the call. 

“Charming friend of yours,” Erik taunts. 

“What did you say to her?”

“Nothing really, we talked about you.” He’s smiling, he can hear it through the phone.

Remus doesn’t smile, his voice gets lower now, whispering. “What did you say to her?” 

Something shifts, his voice is stern now. “Oh. Not that.” And Remus winces.

“Good—thanks. Guess I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

“Promise.”

“I promise, you git. Give Sarah a kiss for me”

Erik sighs, “I will.”

When he’s out the door Mary pushes his shoulder a little. “Nice lad.” 

“He is.”

She tilts her head. “Is he—”

“Don’t. He’s not, he’s my friend.”

“Sure.”

They keep walking. Crunchy leaves the only thing filling the heavy silence they forcefully fall into. At least he’s got this situation under control right now. Erik will stay with his aunt, he will ring him daily—a temporary fix, so to say. Like a vacation from his normal life. He can simulate here, he can imagine—

“Look Remus, whatever thing you have going on—doesn’t matter to me, okay?” Mary interjects. “It’s better than you being alone. We all thought you were alone.”

He can’t really look at her right now. “I was.”

“Remus…”

He sighs. 

“Sirius has no idea, does he?” 

No, he wants to say. He lets himself fall to the ground. “Fuck.” 

There’s so much he hasn’t figured out yet, there’s so much happening right now, and worst of all—he doesn’t wanna let go. He’s so happy to see Mary again, he’s so—of having Sirius near again. But what will happen when it all inevitably comes crashing down on him? He should have known he was about to have another low—the happiness never lasts. The goddamn hope never lasts. Nothing ever fucking lasts for him, nothing ever works out the way it should, he’s feeling anxious again, his hands are trembling again—his throat is closing—

“Oh, love.” Is the last thing he hears before everything rings out of focus. 

He’s struggling for breath. Once again. 

His chest heaves, and nothing comes in. He grips the grass around him, he folds onto himself, he grips, and grips, and grips—

Breathe.

But he can’t, and he can’t—and he might die right now—and what will it matter? He struggles, his chest, his throat—

Why does this keep happening? 

He doesn’t know how long he’s there until he feels a hand on his back. Between his shoulder blades, motioning up and down, up and down—

“Hey.” It’s Mary. “Hey, you’re okay.” 

It’s Mary, and it’s humiliating. He wants to run again, he wants to get away from her and from here and from everyone—

“Shit. I’m sorry,” he says instead. Head buried between the crook of his arms, panting. “It happens sometimes.” 

“It’s okay Remus, you think you’re the only one that has these?” She chuckles, good natured. “You’re late, love. We were all a mess after.”

He wants to scream because no, they weren’t. They were happy, they were together—

“Lily gets them too, sometimes.”

That makes him look back. And he guesses she understands his desire to know more, because she keeps on talking.

“Marlene had a phase in which she couldn’t stop clutching her wand, she started looking for doors, windows—exit signs everywhere she went,” she continues, sitting down beside him.

“James is a quidditch star, like we all expected. But he had to wear things in his ears, loud noises startled him.” Then, as if remembering something, “he once got hit by a bludger because of that, actually. Sirius was in a proper state because of it—they got him good, his ear suffered for a while.” 

He tenses up. She doesn’t notice, or pretends. Her gaze is now fixed on the ground and her hand is casually moving around. As if choosing a victim.

“Dorcas is an auror.” She plucks a large piece of grass and starts wrapping it around her finger. “She doesn’t like boasting about it but we all know she’s Moody’s favourite. She… got really silent for a while. Like Sirius. It was so weird, for some time she only talked to Marlene or Regulus.” 

Like Sirius. 

“And Regulus, oh my goodness—He looked normal and collected, somehow. He took care of her, and his brother, also. Well, it’s all a mess really—James was also there.” ‘Obviously’, says Remus, she offers him a half smile. “He’s got something within, though, I can see it. No one really understands him, except, of course, Sirius—and Dorcas or even Lily on occasion. I don’t know anything about him, to be honest.”

“He’s always been weird,” he replies.

Fondly? 

“Lily says he’s shy. I think he’s just a Black, through and through.” She shrugs. “She had nightmares at first, weird ones, always the same thing. She provides us with our potion stash, also. She’s very proud of that.”

He can only nod. Registering everything in his head for a moment before asking, “and what about you?” His breathing is normal again, he rests his head into his knee.

“I studied, and I’m head of neurology at the hospital where I work.” She makes a motion as if wiping over her shoulder, Remus feels his lips twitching into the hints of a smile. “It was a while since I stopped wincing at the sight of blood, though.” 

“Some weeks after the fight we all started gathering, and we simply didn’t stop. We see each other at least two times a week—pretty sure we got a weird codependency thing going on, but we managed.” 

We managed. 

He feels a hand running through his hair, delicately. When he faces Mary again she’s already staring, so calm, so warm—“So yeah, we’ve dealt with all kinds of things, love. Really, this is okay, I’ve seen worse.” 

Somehow, all that information makes him feel calmer, not because it’s good to know they struggled too. It’s more like feeling seen. She talks to him like he’s still part of it all. Remus nods, and when she asks with her expression, he lets her wrap an arm around his shoulder. She smells so flowery, still—he can feel his eyes stinging, so he closes them.

“When did it start? Your career.”

There’s birds chirping nearby.

“During the war, actually,” Mary explains. “I didn’t want to let myself be consumed by it in case we—”

And she then says perhaps the most shocking statement of the day, boldly, because she never was one to hide the truth. “I almost ran away too, you know?”

That startles him, but she’s not looking at him anymore. “I almost did, when everything felt like too much. The opportunity presented itself so I went along with it, and I almost left it all.” 

She pulls a little flower off the ground. “I don’t blame you for leaving, sweetie. And I did try to bring you back that day, but—I’m sorry for how badly things went. I’ll never blame you for what you did, for choosing yourself instead.” 

She places the flower in his hand, and before he can even think about what he’s doing, he hugs her. Tightly. Deep brown curls against his face, gardenias filling his nose as the golden hour showers them with light. She seems surprised at first, but falls quickly into it; her fingers returning to Remus’ curls while her arm wraps around his neck. 

He doesn’t tell her that it wasn’t really choosing himself when he mostly felt betrayed, that it wasn’t really choosing himself when he started drinking to dull the thoughts in his head, that why would he choose himself when so many have profaned what was left of a mauled man after the war, that why would he choose himself when the lines on his face grow deeper every day like the urge for whatever drug works best, that why would he choose himself when all that’s left is a mere vessel of the life he once carried within? 

“I’m so tired, Mary.” And it’s a confession he’s never said out loud. She doesn’t say anything, but she holds him tighter.

It’s half an hour later that they meet Sirius again. He’s walking around with a bunch of people saying something like ‘tables’ and ‘light fixtures’ while counting with his fingers, approaching the spot they’re still sitting in. Mary places flowers between his curls while Remus fiddles with a tree branch. His eyes darting towards him like a gravitational pull every time he enters his vicinity. 

He’s always moved so naturally. Confident, making the world bend over at his fingertips, winning people over with only the slightest bit of effort. When somebody like Sirius Black speaks, people listen. Which for now still seems to be true, he claps his hands with a grin that makes him look so—assured, and the people around him disperse. As they do, he meets his eye instantly. 

He caught him staring. 

His stomach feels funny, and his heartbeat increases.

He averts his gaze.

“Oh, he’s back,” announces Mary, patting him on the shoulder. 

“Thanks for the heads up, I almost didn’t notice him there,” he says in response. 

“Ha! Forgot how mean you were, you—”

“Hi.” His voice interrupts. It resonates through his chest, there’s a thrill—

“Hey there,” Mary thankfully takes the lead. “Everything going well?”

Remus stops talking as Sirius goes on about the planning process behind the upcoming event. There’s moments in which the other man stops as if asking for a reaction or response from him specifically, but it never comes. He swears he can see his shoulders sink lower and lower every time, yet doesn’t bring himself to care. A lot. 

He makes a point by ignoring the never ending lurch and squeezing sensation.  He makes a point by covering a small chuckle with a cough.

At dinner and yet another glance around at the hundreds of people around, he spots Isa in the back, on her feet and pretending that she’s falling while her group of friends laugh. She then points to where he knows the hospital is and Remus understands she’s talking about her brother. 

He smirks into his plate. Yet more meat with a side of vegetables, mashed potatoes and a bowl of soup. There was also the option of adding a pasta plate, which he obviously accepted. A biscuit with marmalade sits next to his glass of flavoured water, and as he devours all of it he tries to forget about the people sitting next to him. A satire of sorts, one would say in other circumstances. 

He makes a point by not reaching out to the extra biscuit Mary leaves conveniently close to him.

The moon can already be seen through the sky as Mary hugs Remus goodnight and pats Sirius on the back with a warning stare. Dangerous like her alone, amiable, still. Like meeting at a cosy room where complicism is already in motion with knowing stares and she’s barely getting a notice of it. Lifetimes ago, it feels. She walks away while nerves shoot all over, realisation starting to creep up that he’s now standing alone with him again. Heat flaring, not really understanding whether it’s the bad kind or the worse kind, eyes shutting off before glancing back to the expectant ones already waiting for him. 

“Well, guess this was long overdue so—can you please tell me why you’re ignoring me again?” The question comes defeated, as in long pondered acceptance.

But Remus can’t. And he doesn’t know why.

He tries to walk away.

“Oi, where are you going?” He hears Sirius groan, following him. “Are you enjoying this little fetch game, Moony? Do you want the big bad dog to keep on catching you—?” 

“Don’t follow me.” 

“Bad news, I will.” He takes long steps to keep up with him. “I—I thought you would actually like this place.”

Remus can only huff. “It’s not the place I don’t like, believe me.” 

“Is it me you don’t like?” He asks, sceptically. “Cause let me remind you how fucking desperate you sounded yesterday—”

That inevitably sets him off. “It’s the situation, Sirius! It’s the goddamn irony of it! What—you all hated me for months then realised wolves deserved a second chance under your belt? Do you think money will fix whatever was going on inside your heads?”

“I do not think—I never hated you—”

Liar, a merciless version of him wants to say. “Oh, didn’t you?” He settles for, instead. “Weren’t you the one telling me about impulses and shit? Weren’t you the one who told me you all believed I was the spy?”

“I know what I did,” he snarls. 

“Do you? Do you really?” 

Sirius’ lips clench and unclench. Like he wants to say something but thinks better of it. 

“I’m trying to make things right, Remus. I’m trying to—make something out of—what other way could I go about it?” He runs a hand through his hair. “You wouldn’t—you were nowhere to be found.”

“And I was happy that way,” he lies. 

That strikes a nerve, he can tell. “Were you really?” There’s no more scepticism, not any heinous intent. He almost sounds doubtful, even. Letting a certain stillness flow through the air, like he actually wants to know. 

When Remus doesn’t answer he asks something else. “Why did you leave me there, Moony? That night in Berlin.” 

Remus sighs, as if expecting something of the sort to come out. “I do not want to talk about that.”

“Why?”

“I do not owe you anything!” He hates how easy it is for him to lose his cool in front of him. “You didn’t want me, Sirius, did you forget? You told me to never come back, did you forget?”

He is received with a sorrowful expression, desolate in the downwards direction of the shoulders. In the slump. His breaths come in short, hushed paces.

Remus continues, “I don’t owe anything to you. If you really wanted me you would’ve talked to me, you would’ve tried—” 

“But you left that night!” Sirius cries. “You saw me, and you decided to leave holding that wanker’s hand—”

“His name is Erik,” he blurts out before thinking. Remus watches as his face changes, as it falls. “He—he’s been there for me when no one else was. He’s a good man, and he’s all I got.”

He turns to leave but thinks better of it.

“Don’t judge me for the things I did to survive, Sirius. It was a hollow way too void to fill—what was left of me.” He can feel tears rolling down his eyes. He doesn’t care. “It was never under my control. I have no family, I had no friends, I was completely alone. And I thought I would never see you again.”

There’s a moment of pure stillness in there, assimilation taking over both of them. It’s only until Remus takes another step back that Sirius seems to snap out of it. “Where are you going?” 

“I’m not leaving, if that’s what you think. Not yet. But I won’t share a room with you if I can help it.”

He grabs his bags from where he dropped them on the floor a minute ago and heads towards the dorms. A boy that recognizes him from the dining hall shows him to an empty room and he lets himself fall on the individual bed. 

Truth be told, maybe he’s desperate. The last moon had been really harsh on him, he returned to the flat a day after, not having enough strength to apparate and letting himself faint from exhaustion. Erik carried him to his bed and applied dittany the way he had been doing ever since finding out. Both of them knew he couldn’t go on like this. It was an unspoken argument between them, but what could he do? For years he had turned his back on the magic world, he had escaped from wolf packs in embarrassment—he simply never seeked them out again in fear of being—blamed. Recognised.

Somewhere along five minutes and an hour, his hands start trembling uncontrollably. Whether it’s the tears or the gloom sentiment all over, it’s unclear.

He doesn’t need it, it’s all he thinks about. It’s not necessary for him. It’s just a low, it’s just the pounding of his heart. It’s just the feelings that have resurfaced, and nostalgia’s way of getting into his head. 

He doesn’t need it. 

•

•

•

His hands shake. 

•

He tries to get his breathing in control, he paces. 

•

Minutes pass.

•

•

He tries to stop it. 

•

No use.

•

There’s a snort. Because fuck it, right? Fuck this. Fuck everything, fuck everyone and fuck himself. Like a switch going off. Remus casts a silencing spell on the bathroom, and falls on the floor. His hands shake, and he reaches for a little bag in his pocket. 

Fuck it. He’ll leave it tomorrow. He’ll flush it tomorrow. 

Today he can let himself go. 

Chapter Text

1966.

“This might hurt, okay?” 

Remus nods, and closes his eyes. Clutching the teddy bear in his lap harder before his breath catches when the known sting of a needle breaks all concentration. He’s never liked this, but he likes the bad nights less, so he endures like the big boy he is. Like the big boy his parents tell him he is. 

He can hear the soft sounds of mum trying not to cry behind the door, and he doesn’t like it. He can endure this, he can show her that it doesn’t hurt that much and she can be happy again, like she is normally with him. She hasn’t been happy these days. 

He starts feeling dizzy. The room feels like moving. 

“Can you lie down?” 

He tries to nod again. There’s a weird feeling all over, like it tickles. He takes a look at his arms still cradling his teddy closely. There’s glowing purple lines all over them, and he starts getting nervous. 

“Don’t fight it,” the voice says, and he is starting to lose focus. His eyes close slowly. 

Maybe this will actually stop the pain. Maybe when he wakes up he will be a healthy kid, like the ones he used to see at school. Like the ones he used to play with.

It doesn’t.

He wakes up the next day bleeding from deep claw marks in his arms, he glances all around and finds his teddy completely destroyed at the corner of the room. When he tries to get up, he whines in agony. There’s another slash in his chest, and on a normal day he already knows better than to look at it. 

But it can’t be helped. 

It’s all starting to settle in, and it feels so bad, so so bad—a tear falls down his face, even though he doesn’t want it to. He can be strong, he can be a good boy, he can be—there’s a sob. And suddenly he can’t control the stream coming out the back of his throat. 

Remus doesn’t want this. He wants car rides with his dad, he wants to run around with his friends again, he wants to pop his head out the window with the glass rolled down and stick his tongue out like a dog because it makes his parents laugh. He wants one of the sweets his mother carries around, he wants to take coloured pencils and draw the sheep that sometimes appear near his home. He wants to stop shaking. He wants to stop hurting. 

He keeps sobbing as he hears a click from the door. The same healer from before entering the room with a frown upon his face. It takes a few seconds for him to find the little boy with his knees tucked under his chin. He doesn’t want him to see, he doesn’t want him to touch him. 

There’s tears rolling down his cheeks, but he doesn’t mind. He puts a fierce stare on. 

“Leave me alone,” he tells the man. 

His teddy is destroyed. He sees him approaching. 

“It’s okay, Remus.” He crouches down in front of him. “How are you feeling?” 

He doesn’t answer. 

“Well, perhaps this was to be expected,” he says to somebody standing at the door. Another healer steps into the room, taking notes. “No changes whatsoever in behavioural patterns, transformations still gruesome. The beast still attacks the carrier, still tries to escape its enclosure—” 

The sound of pen against paper can be heard. 

“Leave me alone!”

“Rising anger still present on the subject. Dittany still needed for the wounds.”

Nobody listens to him. He hates this, he hates to be seen like this. Grownups are so mean sometimes. He hates it, he just wants to get out of here. 

“Where’s my mum?” He asks, angry. “I want my mum.”

“You will be able to see your parents in a moment, Remus. We need to cure your wounds first, don’t we?” He extends a hand to him. “Come here.” 

That wouldn’t be the first nor the last healer to perform tests on him.

Wood creaking under the feet advancing towards him. “So you kinda remember, then? Being a wolf?” Sirius is standing way too close, his attention totally focused on him, making Remus nervous. 

“I don’t. It’s like a blackout.”

Greece. Yet more sounds of scribbling. ‘Remus Lupin, twelve years old.’ 

Sun leaking from the windows, hitting the eyes until they look lighter. “Can you transform at will?”

He clears his throat. “Nope.” 

Egypt. ‘Prone to violent outbursts.’

Sirius bites his lip, thinking. “Can you hear things from a long distance?”

“Oh, that I can do.”

His eyes glint. “Wicked.”

Brazil. ‘Resists treatment.’

Nervous hazel eyes scanning him. “We can stop, Remus.”

A frown. “What do you mean?”

Peru. ‘Transformations remain unchanged.’

Clink of a cup against the saucer. “The tests, son.”

Cinnamon smell coming from the oven.

“We know they’re painful.” Hands, holding.

Alaska. ‘Up the dose.’ 

“We’re so sorry, darling.” Tear rimmed eyes.

India. ‘Restrain the arms.’

 “You were too young.”

Remus. Lying on his side in a quiet sterilised room. There’s a ticking noise coming from a clock nearby, piercing his ears every time the hand moves. He’s stopped crying by now. 

But the healers will be back. And the full moon will be back whether he wants it or not. 

He stares at the wall in front of him. There’s nothing else he can do. There’s nothing else anyone can do, actually. 

Tic, tic, tic…

He’s got a new scar on his left arm dragging all the way near his thumb. Healed by now, but it’s noticeable. And it’s horrible. He wonders what the slytherins will say about it when he returns from the break. 

Tic, tic, tic…

He’s cold. 

He’s so cold, and he’s hungry. 

Remus is woken up by a weird feeling in his nose. Lifting up a hand to scratch it, he finds—nothing. He swears he felt something tickling. He blinks, fixing on the ticking clock over the door that tells him it’s 8:00 am already. 

He doesn’t remember falling into bed. 

He gets up.

The tile of the bathroom feels cold to the touch, so it is a relief when warm water comes out easily. The last days of October always seem to pass in such a rush to him. He tries to ignore the needle-like sensation of knowing what day is coming. Such a good time to find him, wasn’t it? He takes some painkillers from the pocket in his trousers and downs the pills with water from the shower. Like clockwork by now. Remus gets dressed up in his brown wool jumper and dark jeans, not even looking at himself in the mirror before heading out. The reflection might be a downer at this point, and he doesn’t have the energy.

He thinks he could actually feel furious if he wasn’t so damn numb right now. 

At the dining hall he takes an assortment of plates from the serving area and fills them up with whatever he finds on the counters. Stopping for a moment at the coffee machine before finding it’s already empty with no more refill. 

Oh well.

His walk is actually very composed as he spots a very known head of curls and heads towards her without a second thought. Some of the tables are starting to empty, so it really shouldn’t be that surprising to spot a raven haired someone sitting next to Mary, leaning against her as they whisper in hushed tones. He does stop in his tracks for a while, though. As if dazed.

‘Sirius, I swear you’re just so—infuriating sometimes—’

‘Give him time, then!’

Suddenly she blurts out, “Oh, hi, Remus!” She’s beaming. “Did you sleep well?”

It startles them, both stares meeting for a moment. Bloodshot eyes staring back at him, puffy edges with deep bags underneath—Remus’ shoulders sag, his throat closes. Before he can even take a whole step forward, Sirius turns abruptly to the windows at his left.

He sits down warily, fixing on the way the other man picks at a piece of strawberry absentmindedly, ignoring him on purpose for what seems like an eternity fit into a few minutes until he finally brings it up to his mouth.

Realising he probably shouldn’t be staring at him like this he tries focusing on his food, ashamed.

Sirius sighs, like somebody who is actually very tired, and stands up. 

Immediately concerned by the noise and by the red rimmed eyes, Remus doesn’t notice at first. He follows him with his eyes while his guts twist, something deep inside yearning to go after him, to stop him, to try to mend everything—he won’t, obviously; so he returns to his plate only to find a mug full of warm coffee lying in front of him. 

Oh.

He doesn’t need to ask who left it there. He doesn’t need to check twice before knowing—two sugars. He doesn’t need a second whiff to identify the brand. The one he used to buy when they lived together. The pricey one he hasn’t been able to secure again since they don’t have it in every store—and most of all because it’s expensive enough for him to really consider if he needs coffee after all. It’s really involuntary the way his eyes close while he sips, knowing very well Mary will notice and not really bringing himself to care.

A lot of things might have changed since those early mornings, but he remains a creature of habit. A morning coffee being a regained pleasure, one that he always seemed to get exactly right. 

Mary’s voice takes him out of his trance. “So, are you coming with me to the infirmary today or…”

Remus shakes his head. “Think I’ll see what I can get.” 

“Alright then.” She shrugs as she finishes her porridge. 

When he’s done he leaves his tray in the back, rinsing his plates and heading out to the activities board. Time alone. It’s exactly what he needs, actually. Work. Something to keep himself busy. He slides his finger down the list, checking out things he can actually do in his head.

Gardening:

Daily vegetable picking in the greenhouses starting 4:00 am.

Composting and care of orchards starting 9:00 a.m to 1:30 p.m.

It’s of extreme importance not to disturb the growing mandrakes.

(Obligatory use of the complementary earmuffs is required for hearing hypersensibility issues.)

Textiles:

Wrapping up our people for the incoming winter!

Intermediate skill with sewing machines required. 9:30 a.m — 1:00 p.m

(And a sense of fashion please!) A note on the side reads. 

Woodworking:

Volunteer workshop for chair and stool making—our school’s new wing needs furniture!

No experience required. 9:30 a.m — 12:30 p.m.

Daily lessons.

Kitchen:

New personnel required! (We don’t condone eating raw steak during business hours.)

Vegetable cutting skills as a plus! Anything as a plus, really. 

Kitchen:

Do think about it!

Library:

Re-shelving duty during the day: 10:00 a.m —12:00 p.m.

Re-shelving duty during the night: 6:00 p.m — 8:00 p.m.

Help our community by returning books at scheduled dates. No take outs during the full moons.

Infirmary:

Archive arranging starting 8:00 a.m. Healer training starting 6:00 a.m.

There’s more sheets and more jobs ranking from temporary to actual formal ones, and by some sort of impulsive burst, he chooses woodworking for the sake of making himself feel useful. Something he ends up being kind of good at for being the first time he tries.

The work is divided into two, so he meets a woman named Rebeca, who wears what seem like golden rings around her braided hair and some bracelets, clinking as they shape the seat of the stool they’ve been working in for two hours already. They don’t talk much, but every once in a while he catches a glimpse of her scanning him. He nods, and returns to whatever he’s supposed to be doing as she smirks timidly.

Apparently she has been living here since 1988, abandoning the muggle world almost completely after getting bitten during the war and struggling to find shelter since then. By now Remus feels trusting enough to share he got bitten at five years old and has also experienced homelessness. A big step for him, as Erik would say. 

They fall into a sort of understanding silence after that. And Remus feels a kind of contentment at being seen, really seen by a stranger he probably won’t make a deep acquaintance of, yet seen nonetheless. Both of them work really well and part ways when it ends.

He heads to his room for a quick fag break and takes out his notebook. Most days he doesn’t write much, there’s weeks in which his pen doesn’t even touch the paper—but when it does, it sometimes turns out fine. Poetic, even. Freeing.

It’s one of those days. Remus loses himself in analogies and homologies that have a lot to do with dusk and pearly shimmers before the known bell rings, announcing.

He gets up, his stomach recoiling because he doesn’t know if he’s ready to face him again so soon—

Sirius does not appear for lunch, like the day before.

Whether that makes him feel better or worse he’s still debating, Mary eats with him in silence, a nauseating guilt stretches over as he thinks about what he said to him yesterday. He knows it’s impossible not to feel angry, not to wonder about the things that could have been—not to feel like the floor has been moved under like tectonic plates trembling, causing everything to crumble around him when their eyes meet.

It’s surreal. 

And he doesn’t want to be petty, he doesn’t enjoy being vicious. But it comes with such ease against his better judgement—like a part of his brain looking for retribution, literally going for the kill, biting till he feels the known metallic taste of blood. Hitting the artery with might and watching it bleed out. 

It’s useless. 

And he’s done it twice already. And Sirius let him.

He cannot trust himself around him, he has learned. He’s always saying the wrong things. He speaks in harsh tones instead of searching for an understanding, he wants him close yet he doesn’t seem to stop driving him away. It’s the war all over again, it’s the half hearted sharp comments again, it’s the stares again—

He can’t stand it. Sirius looks like he’s healed. He still looks like a goddamn angel, if there’s ever been one. And Remus would probably play the ill-omened lover that falls deeply against all odds, the profane detour from divine grace because it simply can’t be helped for a creature like him to be attracted to the light. How can it be helped when he’s always felt so drawn to him? When he’s never felt so attuned at someone’s movements the way he had been to his? When he has felt so unbalanced since the day his stare turned away from him? He had forgotten how addicted he was. How ready he had been to drop everything if it only meant having him near. 

There’s no way this won’t blow up in their faces. There’s no way Remus can’t hurt him again, whether it’s his violent desires for—what, really? He doesn’t really know what for. It simply boils down his bloodstream, so easy to get lost in it. Like a downfall. It’s so sick and twisted what goes on in his mind when he sees him if he’s honest. What can he do? He knows he’ll let him ruin his life again. He knows if he begs for forgiveness he won’t be able to defend himself, he knows he’ll fall again with just the right amount of temptation. He’s got him fumbled by the weight of his righteous anger. No way out of his all consuming grasp. 

Sirius will start asking questions eventually. And he won’t be able to lie. And they will hurt each other, he knows. He knows, he knows—what could he even say to him?

It wasn’t really his fault. All that happened to him. It could’ve been the detonator, not the fire; and yet his brain still longed for justice, as if he could ever find it, as if it really existed somewhere in the middle between blood stained finger crevices and soft fabric clutched within them. Between tear blemished eyes and mouths wide open, between razor sharp edges and legs wrapped tightly—

On another note, he couldn’t fathom the damage of losing him again. It was tiring. He looked for him everywhere he went. Nothing ever acquiesced, nothing had even been enough, nothing ever filled the never ending gap with the shape of his body and soul—the void in his stare because he used to be full. And it was tiring.

Besides if there ever was retribution to be paid, if he ever thought about everything long enough to get angry—if he ever moped about his circumstances long enough for him to want to destroy the world in what unfairness was about, the list would be endless and far too impossible to ever come to fruition. The world had done him wrong, he knew. Sirius Black had done him wrong, he knew. His friends had done him wrong, he fucking knew.

Perhaps what he didn’t know was how to forgive easily. They’ve been here before. Not even long after their first kiss, with an open wound exposed for him to reach and James holding him as he sobbed in his arms, the nights spent alone cold and exhausted. Another hollow where his heart used to rest, eviscerated. He knows how it feels to be abandoned, he knows how it feels to be vulnerable. Can he even live with that uncertainty again?

Perhaps what he didn’t know was how to act when the situation concerned him. Maybe they simply didn’t work out anymore and were too stubborn to see it; it didn’t work out once, what can they even say against the facts? Love doesn’t conquer all, love is not enough to keep a relationship going, he has learned the hard way. And Remus is scared. What will he do when he eventually casts him out again? When they fight again? When he notices Remus is not the same, but some cheap imitation of the person he used to be? Will he beg this time? Will he finally get down on his knees and say something he knows will regret later? He can’t handle having everything again to simply lose it a second time, he can’t. If there’s one thing that could actually kill him, that would leave him completely hopeless and burnt out and bleeding in the back of an alley again—

He can’t risk it. Simple self preservation.

He won’t risk it.

He’ll spend the full moon here, and he’ll apparate at the first rays of sunlight, perhaps take everything out of the flat for a while and disappear for a couple weeks. He’s got nothing to lose now. What noise will the eventual silence make when pushed too far? He doesn’t want to know. 

After excusing himself to the office with the phone and continuous prodding from Mary, they both sit face to face on the desk chairs while she looks around for a pen. Remus, in contrast, is tapping his fingers against the wood, receiver in his ear as his good leg bobs incessantly. When Erik picks up the phone this time it’s evident he’s in better spirits. 

“Mmm, you actually kept your promise, I see,” he says after the click. 

He tsks. “If that’s how you’re gonna greet me—” 

“Ugh, you sod.” A chuckle. “When are you getting back? I didn’t ask yesterday.”

“To the flat? Probably the third—fourth, actually.” Mary looks up from where she had been scribbling something down, tongue against her cheek in an effort to not smile. “You know what? No, not fair—you’re distracting me,” he says to her, a hand over the transmitter. She laughs, unable to hold back any longer.

“Oh, is your friend there?”

“Yes, she insisted—no, I’m not going to pass the phone.”

“Hm, bugger,” he huffs. “It’s getting boring in here if I’m honest, might return to the flat—”

No, he wants to scream. “Oh, thought you liked that place we went to. Can’t remember the name.”

“Not the same when I’m alone.”

“Sarah should go with you.” 

“Don’t you dare say that to her, she might actually do—I swear Rem, she pulls blokes like flies. It’s humbling.”

That makes him laugh, actually laugh.

“What about your new found charm and all that?”

“Hopeless, lost its appeal days ago.”

Remus snorts. Then he stops, abruptly because the other man’s voice gives a twist.

“Think I miss you, Remus.”

Shit.

He tenses, laughing overstrung. “Who’s the soppy git now, eh?”

“Don’t start, you get really mean sometimes, Mary here can agree with me.”

Remus turns to her. “I won’t ask her.”

“Ask me what?” She perks up. 

His face adopts a grave stance, like letting her in on a secret. “If you believe the earth is flat, my friend here is convinced—” There’s a yell that makes him separate his ear from the receiver, wincing.

“You fucking prick!” He hears, and laughs. Mary hits his shoulder, rolling her eyes.

“No, but really though, maybe I should go back. Or visit you, where did you say this place is?” 

Remus stands up, alarmed.

“I didn’t,” he chimes in. “No need, really. There’s no buses or anything over here, It’s not even on the maps—”

“How you got there, then?” It’s actual curiosity, he knows.

He snaps either way.

“I apparated,” he lies. “You know, that thing I do when I disappear and shit.” Tries to cover it up with a chuckle.

He knows him well, too well for his own good.

“Oh, you don’t want me to.” Disappointed.

“It’s just difficult, that’s all. I’m fine here, I promise.” He doesn’t want to look at the pair of eyes fixed in his back. “It’s far away from—society, and the city.”

The line goes quiet for a moment, then: “Have you been feeling better?”

“Yeah, all good.” 

“Well then, I won’t keep you.” A sigh. “Later, Remus.”

Erik hangs up, not even waiting for an answer.

“Why is he so worried about your whereabouts and all that?” Mary asks when they’re out.

“He just gets nervous.” Not a lie. “He doesn’t really understand magic.” Kind of a lie.

“Oh well, sounds like my mum,” she mentions, shrugging. “The other day she asked me if I could materialise a car out of thin air because she wanted to learn how to drive.”

They make their way near the dorms and Mary walks with her arms wrapped around his elbow. 

He lets her, and they prepare some tea in the common area kitchenette he hadn’t even noticed when he arrived.

“Do you have a room nearby?”

“Nah, some staff have different accommodations. Like me.” She smiles. “I have a suite, Sirius has a whole ass cabin.”

He clears his throat.

“Where?”

“Me? Near the hospital, of course. Him? A bit farther, I think Regulus likes the woods, so they built it near the margin of the whole place.” She points over his shoulder. “That way, it’s a walk.”

They keep sipping. The room starts to fill up with people from all over the place. He sinks further into the couch he’s sitting on.

Remus decides to go to the library hoping it might clear up some confusion in his mind because at this point it’s ridiculous for him to still be keeping to himself. Did Sirius give up on him already? He hates this. He hates that he hates not having his attention. He hates that it hurts so much. What did he think would happen? He was not supposed to see him again, he was not supposed to touch him again—oh, but he’s selfish. 

He’s so selfish when watching him, he’s selfish when wishing him all to himself again. He’s selfish when daydreaming about what he would do if he ever caught him alone—it’s maddening. It’s happening too fast. And he can’t stop it, he can’t stop thinking about him, he can’t stop lingering into the thin line of keeping his mental stability and storming out looking for him in some type of animal aggressive manner. How dare he, really? 

A part of him deep within enjoyed learning he never stopped looking, enjoyed learning he tried hard and actually did an effort—and Remus decides that he can indulge in the hidden nature of these sensations. He has earned the right to after all this time. Mary scans him as he tries not to limp all the way there. If she’s disappointed by his lack of talking compared to the day before, she doesn’t mention it. 

He locks himself in the bathroom for a very needed pick me up and continues. He had been feeling low, that morning. It made sense now. No, it wasn’t him. It was his brain looking to fuck him up, wrenching at his weakest point like self punishment. 

It’s like he’s constantly at war with himself. 

There’s the rational part of him, the one that understands all he’s looking for is an attachment, a detour from the growing mess that is starting to creep up in his life—a known experience simply for the familiarity of it, the safety. 

The other part literally craves for him. There’s no other way to say it. The other part can barely sit still knowing he’s out there—somewhere—and not with him. It’s constantly screaming at him to go get him, it repeats their encounter in his head over and over and over again till he has to forcefully snap out of it, it longs for the moment he recognises that glint in his eye again, that subtle, subtle twitch of his lip that says okay, this is happening.

This part mostly says fuck it, what about it? Like a shameless drive that leads him there because there’s no other use for his hands if it’s not for touching him, because what other use can his body have if not for regaining the place he knows is rightfully his? What other use can his mouth have if not for kissing him, what other use can his brain have if not for thinking about him? Because he knows how fragile it all is, because he cannot fathom his suffering—it was never a pretty thing to witness. Because he knows deep in his gut he was not lying, and he wants him to say it again. He longs for those words dripping down like honey from his lips even against his better judgement, even if they keep themselves at variance— 

They fit so perfectly, they’ve always had. And it’s addictive. 

He’s not really focused when he arrives at the library, which looks truly magical with its floral light motifs, casting everything in a warm yellow glow, so different from the blue hour streaming from the windows. The tree swings softly in the distance as he makes his way to a nearby section, not even knowing what he’s doing when he grabs a random book. 

Sirius must be somewhere, he knows. He could trace him as soon as stepping in. 

People come and go, carrying books, carrying backpacks, opening notebooks, taking notes—and Remus goes with them. He walks around, picking some books as he goes, scanning the shelves and the hallways for any hints of black, curly hair. He finds nothing. He continues. 

It’s twenty minutes later that he’s finally there, some rows ahead from Remus, pale hands returning a tome to its place then grabbing the next one. Completely unguarded, focused on what he’s doing and nothing else, which grants him a better view. Sirius clicks his tongue and leaves, levitating other two books behind him. 

And he’s so beautiful. Curse everything, really, if he can’t kiss those lips one more time. 

Remus flexes his hand, left completely astonished. Hairs prickling, sour taste in his mouth as he inhales deeply because his scent is still lingering. He closes his eyes for a moment. 

By the time he has finally grounded himself, and can actually move forward from the place he froze in—Sirius is long gone. So he glances down to the books he had been holding. ‘Rayuela’ and another book in—greek? he doesn’t recognise stare back at him. 

Silly, isn’t he? 

He doesn’t really know where everything is in this ridiculously enormous library, so he gives up and wanders once again, actually enjoying himself. Taking it all in this time. The light motifs are Lillies, he notices now, and smiles even if it comes with a sigh. 

In the end he can’t even read that other book, since it’s in spanish. He grunts as he gets up from the armchair, limping lightly as he tries to approach the desk near the tree—but doesn’t even make the whole trip because a light catches his attention. 

And he gets a whole view of the table Sirius is currently occupying. 

Like a perfect opening where he’s at the centre and unaware of it. God, he’s absurd. It’s like he’s at Hogwarts once again, his heart pounding and skin flushing as he scrutinises his movements closely and without shame. Because it simply fits so well—and he’s greedy. Greedy as he takes his time observing his hands caressing pages, his eyes moving through them, his arms stretching as he writes on parchment.

He watches him as he bites his lip—and smiles softly beside himself. A small huff of air leaving his nose, almost a snort because why the hell is he even doing this—

Then Sirius looks up. Spell broken.

His face changes. Sirius composes easily, as he always does, and closes the books. The muscles in his jaw tense as he looks somewhere else and starts picking everything up. 

He’s out the door in less than two minutes and Remus feels like dying. He understands why he’s being like this, he knows it might be hurt more than anything else—but it still pulls at his nerves. It still hits him hard like a bludger once did in his gut when James insisted they all went to the pitch. It still hits him harder as he leans against a bookshelf, confused; as he then hurries his already weary pace down to the dining hall in a convinced pursuit for answers. 

It shouldn’t really be a surprise at this point that Sirius skips dinner, too. But it is, and Remus gets worried at last. Unhinged and distracted until he’s consequently venturing into the cabin Sirius occupies because of course he cares about him, of course he doesn’t want him to suffer on his behalf—a sort of deja vu attacks him. He has to take a second before stopping at his door and knocking twice. 

“I know it’s you,” Sirius says from the other side, as if expecting him.

“Can I?”

His voice is soft as he answers, “I’m not sure I want to see you right now.” 

Oh. 

Oh.

No, he doesn’t like this. His heart literally twists, falling to his stomach. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Sirius.”

There’s a huff, but it’s not exactly mean spirited. “No, you did. And it’s not—I can’t be mad at you, really.” He sniffs, and Remus’ heart sinks even lower. “It was just a surprise, that’s all.”

There’s the sound of wood creaking, getting closer and closer until he feels the door move a little, Sirius’ weight leaning on the other side of it.

It’s heartbreaking to hear the way his voice breaks, Remus’ body immediately jerking with the uncontrollable compulsion to hold him. He can’t. “I didn’t come here to get in the way of your life or anything, Remus. I understand if you have someone else, I understand if it’s him—” 

“It’s not like that, not exactly.” He’s desperate, he doesn’t want to ruin this. Whatever this is.

A sob, muted. “Please don’t tell me.” 

They fall into a weighted silence, thick with shared melancholia, will it bring tears? Will it bring compassion? Will it bring peace or unfortunate confessions? Remus doesn’t really know, and doesn’t care. He wants to hear him, he wants to relish in the richness of his smell. If he’s got his time counted, he’ll make the best of it. He’ll adjust. He sits on the other side of the door, wincing when his leg ends up at a weird angle on the floor. 

“I didn’t want you to leave that night,” Sirius confesses. “I didn’t mean it.” 

“Oh.” Whatever thing he expected, it wasn’t that. There’s a lurch, his breath catches. There’s a few seconds in which he feels completely desensitised. Until he starts feeling the very known wrench in his throat, eyes stinging—why the fuck would he say that? Why the fuck would he admit that to him? What use is it now? If he knew, if only— “But you still said it.” 

He sobs, once. “I know.” 

There’s air missing from his lungs. “There’s nothing to be done about it, Sirius.”

It’s a few moments until he replies back. “I thought you were leaving me either way.” Low, so low as if not to be heard. 

It’s an effort not to snap back at him, he clutches his hand until the knuckles look pale. “Well, I wouldn’t have.” That’s the worst part, that’s the unfairness of it. “I don’t think so.” 

How dare you say that when I almost— he nearly blurts out. Thankfully he’s interrupted. 

“No use wondering now, I guess.”

He closes his eyes, trying to wrap his head around it. “Not really.” 

Crickets chirping near, trees rustling. The night starts to settle around them, the temperature drops. Sirius keeps crying. Remus makes an effort not to.

“I ruined everything, didn’t I?”

Yes, the part looking for vengeance wants to say. If he knew, if he had stayed—if only—

He reaches out for his necklace, remembering with a dull ache that he doesn’t wear it anymore. His hand remains empty, he tries to be rational, to not let the anger control him. It’s an effort. “The war ruined everything, Sirius.” It’s spoken between gripped teeth.  

“I’m sorry.”

There’s no real answer to that, not one that would benefit them anyway, so he stays silent. Monitoring the other man’s breathing as he closes his eyes again. Inhaling, exhaling—inhaling, exhaling—

A few minutes go by.

“Can we—talk normally for a while?” He hears, doubtfully.

That brings him back. “About what?”

“Tell me about your life? I never asked simple things, like if you had a job or something.”

“Actually, I don’t,” he tells him, almost chuckling. “Got laid off.” 

“Oh.”

“S’okay, it was kinda shitty. I think the owner had it against me.” He groans a little as he shifts his weight to his good side.  

“What was it?”

“A record store.” He shrugs, even though he can’t see him. “Thought it’d be nice.”

Remus keeps talking for a while, focusing on the good stuff only, telling him about the people, the short ladies from the launderette, the old man from the store at the corner. The river he enjoys sitting at, the same he took Sirius to, his weird ex coworker, how difficult it is to understand another language—and he listens, not even interrupting when Remus expects him to. It’s as if there was a spell in the late hours of the night, a fragile break from whatever they are during the day—an indefinite pause of hostilities. He talks and talks until he’s sure it’s pretty much past midnight. He talks until he’s sure Sirius has stopped crying. Inhaling, exhaling—

“Honestly, Madrid fits you.” The other man concludes as he finishes talking. 

That makes him smile because there he is, there’s his voice again. 

There’s an undertone when he says, “Well, it’s not the same as London.”

He regrets it instantly.

“Remus, please,” Sirius whispers against the door. “It’s okay if you—I understand. But please come back.” His tone is desperate. “Please come back.” 

Remus sighs. “Don’t ask that of me.” He can’t. There’s no way he can ever get that life back, it’s gone. And he has made peace with it. Nine fucking years of making peace with it for his progress to be shattered in the span of three days, he can’t—he won’t. 

He hates this. They stay there again, speechless. Expectant. He breaks it this time, offering the only thing he can think of to make the situation better.

“We can agree to a truce.”

“Can we, really?”

“All I can offer.”

He can hear the disappointment in his voice as he breathes, “Okay.”

He scrunches his face, repentant already. How the fuck is he supposed to be civil about him? “Good night, Padfoot.” Remus forces himself to pronounce.

He stands up abruptly. But thinks better of it. He stays there for a moment, trying to compose himself, trying to control the urges. 

If Sirius opens the door he’ll barge in. 

No, if he opens the door he’ll stay. If he opens the door he’ll kiss him, he’ll hold him close until his lips are sore and raw and maybe he’ll confess—he swallows, tense. 

He can feel him close, he thinks he hears the latch moving—and then it stops. 

There’s another sigh, bitter. “Goodnight, Remus,” the other man mumbles, and walks away.

Remus bolts out as fast as he can, disgusted with himself. No, he doesn’t want a truce, he doesn’t want a ceasefire. He wants him. He wants him more than anything else in the world, he wants him there when he wakes up every morning, he wants to hear his laugh again, he wants him to sleep in his arms, he wants, and wants, and wants—

And he gets nothing.

He sleeps alone.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, Remus made a promise. The kind of promises one might not realise how much weight it carries at first because he was about to turn sixteen—and everything feels so easy when one is sixteen. 

It had started on a silent night, the fluorescent light that comes from the early morning hours tinting everything a pale blue with pink glows. They had all slept together on the hospital wing in what would be their last night together for some time after begging and promising Poppy they would behave. Not that it was difficult, she had stared at Remus straight in the eye and nodded because this time the situation justified it. 

It had all happened two days ago, and Remus still felt like sinking every time he remembered. 

By some sort of coincidence, he woke up; rubbing his eyes softly with a hum as James and Peter seemed to compete on who could snore louder next to him. He started drifting off again until a weird sensation settled on the back of his head, urging him to open his eyes again as if he was in danger. So he did. 

Sirius was awake, looking at him from his place on the bed (which Remus remembers had been next to James—but now, was apparently right beside him.) He had such a melancholic look to him, Remus was immediately on edge. 

His hand went to the bandages on his arm in a heartbeat. “Are you okay? Are they hurting?”

“I’m okay,” is all he whispered in return. He was looking at him relentlessly—making the hairs of his neck prickle. He didn’t do that often, no—he never did that, as a matter of fact.

“I can call Poppy if you need—”

“Don’t.” He averted his eyes to the window. “I’m okay, Remus.” 

He wasn’t, that was evident. There was no way he would go back to sleep now, and if the other boy noticed he said nothing. He fiddled with a loose thread on his pyjamas for some minutes, a question burning his tongue like silver—a sticky sensation he couldn’t help but notice because he was there and he’d be going away in some hours.

“Why would you do it, Sirius?” He asked, impulsively. Did he not know? Couldn’t he feel it too? “Why would you even think to do that?” 

It was obvious he already expected it. “He got some sort of mark, Remus—like some type of allegiance. He showed me.” And of course, of course it had to do with Regulus. He had noticed how his friends seemed to protect him now, how they stared at him now—it made sense. Sirius was trying hard not to sob, scrunching his brows. “It should have been me, if I never left—it was meant for me, he’s way too young—”

“No.” Remus was full on sitting now, still whispering harshly. “You’re not like them, it couldn’t have been you.” 

This time Sirius did sob, just once. “I don’t want their blood—I don’t want—” He pressed his palms against his temples, elbows over his knees. “It was my fault, I just know it—I wanted out, I didn’t want to be me.”

Remus got closer to him, his arms aching to hold him, to wipe the tears from his face. He didn’t, he couldn’t. That was not the way one usually treated friends, right? He gripped the sheets instead. 

His voice sounded shaky this time. “Can you please tell us if you’re feeling like that again? If you feel like you want out again?”

“I don’t know, Moony—”

“Me. Can you tell me? Please?” He was desperate, he grabbed his hand and like an impulse held it up to his lips. “I know I can’t fix that, but I’ll be there.” 

“I—”

“I will.” He pressed his hand closer. “I’ll be there, I promise.” 

He gasped, faintly. “I will, too.”

Sirius left to the Potters after that.

October 31st, 1990.

“Remus.”

It sounds so soft, that’s the first thing that registers.

He opens his eyes. Groans with the light pouring out the windows from the very open blinds adorning the room. 

“Fucking hell.” He stretches, feeling weight in his arm. “Don’t you ever close the damn curtains?”

“Guess I was pretty much occupied with other activities—” A poke. “Hey, you really have to make an appearance at breakfast.” 

“Fuck breakfast.”

A sigh. “You’ll be cranky all day if you don’t. And Mary will notice.”

He’s drifting off again.

“You still snore close to the fulls.”

His voice sounds husky as he replies, “I do not.”

“You do.”

Remus feels him rising from his spot, the way he stops him comes like instinct by now. “Stay.”

“The night is over, Remus.” His tone is guarded, he can tell. “You said it yourself.” Sirius frees himself from his grip, and he can feel the twisting churn of regret already making a home out of his lower belly.

He watches as he walks to the shower, his wonderful, soft hair falling in weird directions over his shoulders, tangles distributed in the same places he dipped his fingers in yesterday. 

Now, he didn’t mean for this to happen. But his mind is a contemptuous thing, truly fucking him up in the worst circumstances. A plus when it is about Sirius Black. It should have been expected, it could have been preventable; but there’s no way he can help himself when he has him near. 

He opened the door. That’s where it all started. In the middle of meeting his eye and the lips crushing desperately like it pained them not to. In the rigorous way of not talking and not feeling or rather feeling immensely. 

In the half spoken truths and confessions, neither willing to hear too much and not bearing not hearing at all, in telling him he couldn’t stand not touching him and the divine sound it took out of his throat. He was made for this, he’s sure. This was always meant to happen. 

There’s the sound of the tap opening, and a minute later of a bottle popping. He grasps the opportunity to take out a bag from the pocket of his jacket. His hands can barely avoid making a mess before he finally stops trembling. Not that he does too much, honestly. He lays down again and focuses on the sounds from the bathroom; something gnawing at his heart because he’s truly tired of pretending—but if he closes his eyes it’s as if he was 20 again; home without missions or responsibilities for the day, pillows the smell of him and an ashtray almost full next to them, soft hums and hot streams of light raining down on his face.

Yet Sirius doesn’t hum. Somehow. 

So in a bold rapture Remus walks to the shower, biting his lip in nervousness just as it starts hitting, stepping in and reaching for him, bringing his hand up to his chest and waiting for Sirius to open his eyes. 

It always sends a chill down his spine having his attention like this. It’s inevitable the way he wets his lips and immediately pushes him softly against the wall, hands travelling teasingly that make his breath catch as he kisses him, joints pushing and pressing where it matters the most.

“This isn’t very ‘truce’ from your end,” Sirius breathes against his neck, as if his hands weren’t pulling him in at the moment; as if his arms didn’t receive him naturally as soon as he felt him enter the room.

Remus stares longingly at the drops sliding through his abdomen, towards his lower navel—feverishly, more like it. Jealously. “Neither from yours, is it?” He traces that same path with his tongue, breakfast long forgotten.

No, he didn’t intend for this to happen. But how could he not be glad it did? It was always meant to be this way, who else would be doing this if not him? For any other it could be considered a profanity, almost laughable, truly. Who else would ever know him so deeply as if rooted from the same soul, as if sprouting from the same seed? Who else would have him flexing his back muscles maddeningly with ‘Moony’ spoken religiously as if chanting in prayer? No-fucking-body. 

Only him.

Only Remus.

If he’s got his days counted he’ll surely make the best of them, if what he wanted was retribution he would enjoy every second of it. 

Truth be told it had started a little bit earlier than that. The day after their peace treaty, after a very quiet and brief breakfast totally not focused on the way his hands gripped a sandwich. Hollows forming where his fingers dipped into it like they do in skin. Remus left a mug in front of him and bolted in mock imitation of what the other man had done the day before. A smirk tugging at his cheeks even above his mood because he was able to do that now. He was able to see him now. 

The day before.

“Are you excited for the party?” 

Mary had worn blue iridescent eyeshadow that day, matching with the purple hoops hanging from her ears. Remus was sitting on a chair in the corner, wiping his nose from where it got runny from his little moping session yesterday, no less. 

“Maybe,” Isa responded. “Will there be punch like last time?”

“You’re fifteen,” Mary reminded her. “The punch is for adults only.” She returned to her annotations, as if uninterested. “Besides it will interfere with your brain function and medication—”

“Don’t tell me you never had a bit of fun when you were my age.”

“If you’re talking about alcohol, no I didn’t—I waited till I was of age, sweetie. You should too.” Her stare was decided, yet she smiled. 

“That’s boring.”

“That’s life.”

Then she left again, promising not to take any substances (doubtful) and not to misbehave during the whole event. (Doubtful-ier). 

“You are such a liar,” Remus taunted Mary as soon as the girl was out of earshot. “You did firewhiskey shots like—”

“That’s in the past!” She laughed in response. 

“It’s nice that they trust you like that, though.” 

“Their parents abandoned them, apart from their friends they have no one.” She shrugged, turning to the file cabinet. “Guess I feel for them.” 

He focused on the floor. Oh.

“Did you sleep well, Remus? You look a bit dishevelled.” She got closer to his face, he flinched back instinctively. 

“I’m fine, just a cold.” A sniff. “What did you bring me here for?” 

Mary eyed him for a moment too long, stopping at his leg for a tick and headed to another cabinet, taking out a small vial containing a shimmery looking potion inside. “I know you’re a proud bastard who won’t accept help, but I’ve seen the way you limp now and I only wanted to try to see if this works for you—”

She didn’t need to elaborate. “Honestly at this point I’ll try anything.” 

She pursed her lips, fidgeting her hands while he sipped. 

The relief was almost instant. It didn’t take away the limp completely, (that must be his bones at this point, he thinks) but the pain disappeared as if evaporating into thin air, even the mild sensation he always got when the full was close. He stood up. He paced. He turned to her.

Mary grinned, completely pleased with the results. “It’s one of Lily’s.”

Remus smirked slightly, painfully. “Had to be.”

After mumbling thanks and a little hug he returned to the woodworking classes with an invigorated attitude and step. All having to do with the potion, only. 

This time though, as he began arranging his tools, someone sat down beside him. Sandalwood scent he could recognize anywhere, pale hands he couldn’t help but look at. 

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he responded, trying to sound casual. 

The woman from the day before approached him again, settling down on the stool beside him. “Hello Remus,” she smiled a little. “Are we working together again?”

Before he could respond, Sirius cut in. 

“Sorry, he’s with me.” Then cleared his throat when Remus turned to him abruptly. “I mean he’s—working with me.” 

“Oh, okay.” She shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow, yes?”

I don’t think so, Sirius muttered under his breath. 

“I think so,” Remus told her, smirking softly. 

When the lady in charge of the workshop started the whole demonstration she did the day before, Remus shifted in his seat, setting everything again in an excuse to make his hands useful, casting sideways glances when he felt it was safe. He drifted off for a moment before returning as pencils started tracing wood around him. 

They worked in silence at first; the other man apparently very experienced in the process, measuring and carving like he’d done it multiple times before. It was awkward. It was weird as their hands touched accidentally, as they stumbled against each other and apologised lazily right after. 

They inevitably ended up talking somewhere between assembling the stool and holding the other pieces together. 

“Thanks for the tea,” Sirius mumbled. “It was—nice.”

It was almost embarrassing the way his cheeks flushed against his will. “Whenever.” He nodded in return, turning around in a heartbeat before he could notice.

He definitely noticed.

They didn’t really separate after that. 

Sirius sat beside him at lunch, munching on his salad and smiling to himself every once in a while. Remus caught Mary’s eyes and shook his head at her raised brows in question. 

She then shrugged and seemed to seize the opportunity to speak. “I’m kind of tired of the food in here, what if we go somewhere else tonight?” 

Sirius’ eyes lit up, turning to Remus. “Have you been to Rosie’s yet?” 

He hadn’t, he mostly kept to himself on the parts of the village he already knew. 

“Hm, no.”

The other man composed himself fast enough, dropping the dopey grin. “She’s very old so you have to talk kind of loud to her, but the food is nice.”

“Let’s go to the bar after,” Mary begged, pouting her lips like she did before. Remus stared.

“Naturally,” was the response. 

So they did. 

Remus sat down in Mary’s bed hours later as she got ready, thinking about how impossible it would’ve been for him to believe he’d be doing this a week ago. And shamefully wondering why the hell it took so long for him to do so, he could have kept Mary. She would’ve understood, she would have—fucking hell, how had he been so stupid? 

Her suite had wooden floors that turned into linoleum when you reached the kitchenette; a small living room with cream coloured sofas and a chimney in the middle. She had open notebooks on the small dining table and several pink folders, an abandoned cup of tea next to several pencils and pens—there were also racks with coats and scarfs hanging from them, fashion magazines and candles spread all over; her perfume lingering everywhere. These buildings had more of a modern design to them, but it felt way cosier than the individual room he had been occupying. Remus was about to get up and admire what he thought were multiple pictures sticking to the refrigerator door when he heard a ‘shit’ followed by the sound of something falling.

“You okay?” He called out.

“Fuck—yeah, everything okay!” Mary responded behind the door. “Dropped my body wash, fucking hell—”

He snorted while the knob turned.

She emerged out of the bathroom in a black sweater and jeans tied to her waist. “These bathrooms are so small I swear—” Red lipstick on her lips and golden earrings while her boots resounded through the room. ‘I’m your baby tonight’, Whitney’s latest, poured out of her radio placed over her toilet. She sang along while filling in her brows and he analysed the small pencil between her thin fingers with a weird desolation.

For some minutes they were silent, then:

“He doesn’t wear his eyeliner anymore, does he?” Remus asked like an impulse, words streaming out of his mouth like a river. Unstoppable.

Her shoulders sagged a little as she responded with a nostalgic tone, “or the jacket that much. Don’t know, he changed a bit, love. My guess is he tried to grow up, fake it till you make it type thing.” 

“What else has changed?” 

“About what?”

“Him.”

Mary froze. “I don’t think it’s my story to tell, Remus.” 

He retreated completely, cringing at himself. “You’re right, sorry.” 

She stopped applying some sort of powder with a brush, biting her lip as if really considering something, then slammed the thing on the vanity near him, rolling her eyes.

“Fucking hell, I swore off babying men years ago but—Remus.” She sounded pretty candid like this, leaning towards him. “Sweetie, it’s as if you were punishing yourself at this point, it only brings suffering, really. There’s no real measures to feelings, there’s no way of stopping them, you most definitely know that.” Mary then returned to the mirror as if nothing had happened. “You can make people understand what they did wrong and still love them. At least I know you do with me.” 

He let himself fall into the bed. There’s no way he could deny that. “I—I do, Mary.” Why the fuck was this so hard?

“I know.” She spun around to him again. “Does he?”

“What difference does it make?”

She only sighed. 

Half an hour later they walked down the street, which was surprisingly lacking cars completely. “Do people here only use bikes?” Remus asked, interested. 

“It’s a conviction thing for most, I think—though I remember a board discussion and complaints about how expensive the petrol was months ago.” She put her hands in her pockets as they made their way through streets adorned with halloween and samhain motifs. A few early trick or treaters knocking on doors of pretty houses that reminded Remus of London. 

“Didn’t know there were actual flats in here, also. It’s bigger than I thought.” 

“Yeah, everybody’s got the option to stay here if they want, or spend a week or a month.” Mary decided to rub her hands together instead, blowing hot air into them. “Some join packs, some spend four days at most.” 

“Here.” Remus motioned to his open coat, she smiled and rounded his torso with her arms. 

“Oooh that does feel nice.” 

After securing themselves a table with an almost screaming match over whirring pots, people talking loudly and a brief bathroom break, he joined Mary at the back of the restaurant only to find Sirius already seated too. The place was packed for a Tuesday, so it was a struggle as he moved through vapour clouds and levitating plates, scarred hands like his’, cigarettes, roars of laughter; through wooden walls and tarnished glass windows evocative of a place he visited with his parents when he was a kid. Funnily enough he couldn’t remember where it was.

“—I’m pretty sure this is not what we ordered.”

“Sirius.” 

His shoulders shot upwards. “I was just excited for the cheese board, that’s all. Not that I don’t like cabbage.” 

Remus sat down while avoiding his stare. A whole plate of cabbages and vegetables laid on the centre next to a jug of a red beverage that seemed to boil every once in a while. 

Mary leaned in to talk to him. “We ordered some chicken and pork that are to die for, I swear—”

“Though we might get roasted acromantula at this point,” Sirius taunted. 

Remus raised a brow in question.

“There’s no acromantula in the menu,” she assured him. “Not in here, at least.”

A soothing thing to think about. 

He tried to make himself useful by pouring the drinks while the rest grabbed carrots and dipped them in sauce from the plate, feeling a pair of eyes focused on his every move. Remus’ attention remained on keeping the food coming to his mouth, nodding as if to say it really was good, making Mary open her palms in an ‘I told you’ manner. 

“I needed this,” she said, munching. “Not that I don’t like the other food, it’s just—”

“I think it’s way too chilly on this side of the table,” Sirius interrupted, moving exactly next to Remus, rubbing his palms as if the whole place wasn’t warm enough for him to get rid of his coat. 

“I’ll switch you then,” he suggested, sniffing. “Mary, you can sit in my place.”

She bit her lip. “Think I’m actually pretty smug in here.”

He froze, silently mumbling ‘et tu, brute?’ to her as she fought back a grin. “Fine.”

Remus ignored the several, several accidental brushes of his shoulder or hands as the other man reached out for something. He tried to ignore how the sound of his laugh still made him shiver, how he urged to place his hand on his bobbing leg, how his hands itched to tuck a lock of hair he knew felt irritating in his face. 

By the time they got to the bar he was in a proper state; excusing himself to the bathroom once again, gripping the sink like countless times before—and emerging with a pounding heart like countless times before. So really, it was a relief when he heard a voice calling out to him.

“Remus! We got a round of shots!” 

A drink. That’s exactly what he needed. 

He sat down next to her in the booth, small enough for the two of them, which would force Sirius to sit across. “Isn’t it Wednesday?”

He heard some giggling nearby.

Distance. He needed distance too. 

“We’re irresponsible.” She shrugged. “And dying for a distraction, so—oh, there’s somebody looking at you.”

He turned around hastily, expecting to meet Sirius’ eye and let him know that he would be sitting on the other side, that whatever thing he was trying to do would fail abysmally—but Sirius was facing the other way, waiting for the drinks as he tapped the bar to the throwback mid eighties music. Instead, he caught the stare of a woman sitting on the booth across from them with a friend. She stirred her drink and offered him a small wave that he surely knew what it meant; the full near, her shiny lips and the perfume—her scent was strong, there was no way of denying that. He got nervous, he blushed. 

A mistake. 

“Ah, here we go,” lamented Mary. 

Sirius observed the scene from where he was standing, snapping out of it when Remus noticed; leaving a tip in a glass and returning with a tray to the table. 

“Not in the mood,” he whispered before the other man arrived. 

The night went a bit like this:

A bleak Sirius with mouth a thin line that had nothing to do with his radiant smile minutes before. Mary trying to raise the spirits by filling them in about work drama—which Remus was pretty happy to hear about, asking questions that had her disclosing several secrets the nurses from her hospital apparently heard. 

The other man had finally smiled at some point, “Is she the fifty year old with the affair or the one with the kid?” He asked, shoving crisps into his mouth.

“Both! Keep up, love, the plot thickens…”

It had been his hand reaching out for a fag from the box Remus left laying at the table. It had been ‘Out of Touch’ by Hall & Oates flowing through the speakers and Mary insisting Sirius danced with her in front of the jukebox. Then, someone appeared at his back, almost making him flinch. 

“Hi.” 

It was the woman from before.

“Hey,” he responded, his hand clumsily spilling some of his pint. Shit. 

“I like this song,” she mentioned, twirling some hair with her finger.

“It’s a good song,” he agreed, taking a sip.

He almost spurted out his drink when she asked, “wanna dance?” 

“Oh.” He blinked. “I don’t—do that.”

It had been Sirius leaning over the bar, deep in conversation with the woman in charge of it, winking at her and throwing his head back laughing after a joke that apparently had the word turnip in it way too many times. 

Mary joined him rapidly moments later. “The shit hath hitteth the faneth,” she announced, rolling her eyes. 

When he furrowed his brows in confusion she groaned, motioning with her head towards him.

Jealousy was an awful thing to feel. 

That’s how he had ended up in Sirius’ cabin hours later, knocking on the door enthralled—hearing rapid steps and a ‘what the hell—’ before he appeared on the other side, halfway through buttoning his shirt.

Well, Remus obviously didn’t think this through. 

He could barely stop his mouth from dropping, blinking forcefully until he averted his gaze. It had been a discussion slowly rising in intensity until they were both raising their voices.

“But you went to her!” Remus had protested. “You touched her.”

Sirius tilted his head, scanning him with a raised brow, as if discovering something. “Oh.” A malicious grin adorned his face. “Yeah, I did.”

He couldn’t believe this. Something pooled deep within him, warming up his insides as he set his jaw, he needed to—the nerve of him. 

“Probably would have done more, but you interrupted.” He made a popping noise with his mouth. “Bugger.”

He narrowed his eyes, nostrils flaring. “You’re gay.”

“Oh, am I?” Sirius had his tongue against his cheek. He walked all the way to stand in front of him, his heated breath against his face. “Then why are you so pressed?”

Blood. Rushing. It took a second to process. “You’re infuriating.”

“Did you feel threatened?”

Remus didn’t respond to that. There was a sudden burst from somewhere deeper in—like something buried emerging. Curse the fulls, really. Curse Sirius Black, curse the goddamn wolf—

“Are you jealous?” 

His skin only prickled in return, air catching in his throat. He was close, he was too close. “What do you want, Sirius?” 

He lingered over his lips, voice deep and breathy as his nose brushed his cheek faintly. “Deny it.” 

Well, it was inevitable. His hands seemed to move on their own as he grabbed Sirius by the neck and pulled him into a desperate kiss, crushing as they always did—tequila still very much present, desire even more; tilting his head as he bit his lip—pushing him against the closest surface while he fisted his shirt. How dare he? How dare he, really? 

The other man broke the kiss for a second, lowering his lips to Remus’ jaw. “Tell me you want me.” He bit lightly.

“Just this once,” mumbled Remus against his ear, carrying him to the kitchen counters. “Just for tonight.” 

Needless to say they did attend breakfast. Remus went first, followed fifteen minutes later by a mildly gloomy looking Sirius. No matter whatever measures they took—there was no way of erasing the lopsided grin in Mary’s face. 

“Pretty muddy this time of year, huh?” 

He tilts his head, not really understanding. She kicks him softly on the shin, his boots full of dirt indeed. His heart starts racing.

“Went for a walk.” 

Her brows knit, a line appearing in the middle. “Surely. Near your room?”

“Yeah.”

“Down the fox path or the elk path?”

Easy. There’s no elks here. “Fox.”

“There’s no fox path.” 

Oh.

“There’s no elk path also,” she prods. “Such a large walk of shame sweetie, didn’t even bother changing your clothes—here.” 

She hands him another potion like the one he took yesterday with a wink. A minute later Sirius sits next to her, clearly avoiding him. Mary notices.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re being an asshole,” she scolds him, smacking his forehead. “What rubbish aftercare from your part, Sirius Black.” 

His confused face turns into shock as he finds him. “What the—”

“I didn’t tell her—” Remus starts defending himself. 

“You can’t hide shit from me, how many times do I have to remind you?” She brushes off her hair confidently. “And if I were you I’d button up.” 

Remus snorts his drink out of his nose, coughing as Sirius rushes to cover his collarbones. Mary only laughs maniacally. “This is the most fun I’ve had since Harry let another garden gnome into the house,” she wheezes, “thanks.” 

Sirius bows his head like a curtsy, cheeks burning. “Anytime.” He does not smile.

Of course there’s party planning duties to do after that; so when Sirius stands up ready for work, he lets his impulses of following control him without a second thought, without reminding himself why that is still a bad idea after all this time.

“Hey,” he tries saying, as a means of amending while they walk to another part of town unknown to him.

The other man stops in his tracks, exhaling deeply. “I’m sorry, I’m busy Remus.” 

He stops too, taken aback. “I—I didn’t want us to be on these terms again.”

“What terms?”

He scrunches his face. “I don’t know—weird with each other—” 

“Do you want me?” Sirius asks, deadpan; and he feels a knot in his throat. “Today. Do you want me today? Easy question, easy answer.” 

“Sirius,” he tries to reason with him.

He nods, once. “See? Easy answer.” He shrugs. “Please don’t follow me right now, Remus. Not right now.”

It's hours later that Remus finds him sitting on the rim of the forest, the knees of his pants muddy and a few scratches then and there from what he supposes was a walk. 

He approaches slowly, carefully sitting next to him as if waiting for Sirius to reject him. 

Somehow, he doesn’t.

“Can we talk normally for a while?” He asks shyly, his hands jittery as they play with a loose thread on his jumper. 

Sirius doesn’t miss it, his shoulders sag. “What do you want to know?”

Remus doubts for a second, but the question has been in his head for a while. “You—you told me you didn’t do the scars yourself, but some of them look—”

“I didn’t,” Sirius cuts in. He hears him take a deep, deep breath; gripping the grass beneath them. It takes some moments for him to talk.

“Do you remember what an inferi is?”

Oh.

Oh, shit. 

“Dead bodies.” He swallows, grimacing. “They were guarding the locket. It was—Riddle was sick. He was so fucking torn and twisted—”

“Is that why you were late?”

“We were sloppy.” Sirius shrugs. “They dragged me to the water, a whole group of them, it was—” He smirks sadly. “I was on the brink, Remus.” 

He can feel his heart pounding, not wanting to hear what he’s about to say; yet he asks either way. “What do you mean?”

“Regulus said my heart stopped.” He notices the way his lip shakes. “They dragged me—I almost hit the ground. And my heart stopped.”  

Remus stays silent.

“I knew then, it couldn’t have been you,” he continues. “But then—” A wince. “and then—and I was left alone. I couldn’t even shower for days, nobody could even touch me properly—”

“Regulus was there for me but—I really wanted it to be you.” 

It takes a while to reply, his mind trying to make sense of what he just heard. He opens his mouth—closes it again; he pulls the loose thread, he sighs—he shivers. “Who else knows about this?” Is all he manages. 

“James. No one else.”

“You should have told me.”

Sirius shakes his head. “You were leaving me, Remus.”

“I wouldn’t have—”

“No, you were leaving me. You would have left, you would have—there was not much left in me, I was horrible, I was hostile. You would have hated me.” He’s breathing rhythmically, deep breaths that take a bit to get out. “I wanted to hurt you, I wanted you to leave but I wanted you to stay so bad, and—and I didn’t want you to see me, the scars were fucking horrible, I was horrible.” His eyes are closed. “I couldn’t help you, you were mad at me and all I cared about was getting out of my own body—I wouldn’t have been able to help you. I wanted you to leave.” 

Remus’ hands twitch, he starts feeling the known heat of anger crawling up his spine because that’s simply not true—because how would he even know if he never gave them a chance? 

This was a mistake. All of it was a mistake. 

What good does it even have at this point in life? He was gone, and Sirius stayed, and that was simply the way it worked. Why was he even having second thoughts now? Why did he feel like wrapping his arms around him and soothe the distressing thoughts that might be happening in his head? Something ached, and he wasn’t even sure what it was. 

“Don’t you dare excuse yourself like that now,” he nearly hisses to him. “You think I would have—you really think that would’ve scared me off? That’s fucking bullshit, I would have stayed, Sirius. Don’t you dare excuse yourself like that now.” 

There’s a deep gulp of air. “Am I really?” 

When Sirius opens his eyes he’s crying, crystal blue shining like glass with irritated vessels around it. Heartbreakingly beautiful, and so hauntingly dreadful. It’s almost shocking the way he recoils, the way he regrets ever saying something like that when he suffers so profoundly—

Remus only clenches his jaw in return, eyes taking in every detail of his face like this. That seems to alert something in him.

“Well, then. Nevermind,” finishes Sirius, wiping his face. “Nevermind, Remus. I’m sorry, I need to go and get things ready.” 

As soon as he’s out of sight he covers his face with his hands, pulling at it, almost. They’re never going to work out again, will they? 

It doesn’t get better when he finds him at lunch, his head close to hurting because he—he sniffs.

“I’m sorry for what I said—earlier.” 

Sirius doesn’t look at him. “What do you mean?”

“When I said—”

No, the other man really doesn’t want to talk about this. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he interjects, grabbing a plate and bolting out of there. 

Remus joins him at the table. “I meant it when I said I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Remus.” He doesn’t look at him. “I don’t want to talk about it ever again.” 

He sighs. “Okay.”

Mary eyes him and apparently decides not to sit with them, settling down at a table with other people that smile widely at her when she sits. He knows an opportunity when he sees one. He tries.

“Do you remember that summer James and I broke into Grimmauld’s and we almost set fire to the library?” 

It’s good natured. It’s kind. 

“I remember everything.”

Remus does too. Of those days, he does.

“I wouldn’t have left.”

Not back then, at least. Not when staying was easier than whatever this was. 

They do not talk after that.

January 1st, 1976. 

“Did she hit you?”

There’s a few minutes in which he forgets what he’s being asked about. It works delayed, his brain and his body—he closes his eyes. 

Effie’s voice is patient, as she usually is with him. But sometimes not even that is enough. “Sirius, did she hit you?” 

“No.” 

She doesn’t have to, he wants to say to her. But that means talking again, too much effort for him at the moment. So he stays silent, eyes now on the fireplace in front of him. What is Remus doing now?

Well, he knows what he is not doing.

She never had to. Words had always been her weapon of choice. Their. His, too?

Sirius keeps his hands together, fingers intertwined because he knows they will tremble if he separates them. His knuckles look white. Is this it? He wants to ask her. Is he finally free? Is he—? Is he—

Because if he really is, then it doesn’t feel like it. 

“What did she say to you, sweetie?” 

Fleamont comes back from the kitchen with a tray of biscuits. He leaves them on the table.

James is not that close by, but he is pacing. And listening. 

Sirius doesn’t want him to listen. But he does. Or he doesn’t— 

What did she say to him? What did Walburga say to him? There are crumbs on the rug beneath his shoes, a burn from when James and he smuggled a carton of smokes and played pretend. 

‘Weak’, she had said. ‘Flesh and blood’, too.

Blood.

That’s what has made this whole deal life and death. 

‘Foolish’.

And it had been spoken so clearly, so firm like it’s the truth. But it cannot be, right?

Orion would not look at him. ‘He’s got no respect for the ancient traditions.’ 

He’s got no regard. Insensitive him, stupid him—

He closes his eyes again. He won’t cry.

‘You will return when he leaves you.’ 

‘You will return when he sees you.’

But he had. He had seen him, really seen him. And he was still there.

“I won’t return,” he exclaims, a little too harshly. Effie sighs, and reaches for his hands. Still intertwined. 

“You won’t, Sirius.” She understands, she has always understood. “Was it only you?” 

Was it? Was there only one suitcase on the pavement when he raised his wand in the middle of the night? They all knew it was. 

Was it only him when stepping into the purple bus? Was it only him sitting by himself between snores and rain splashed windows? 

Yes. 

Only him. Only Sirius, by himself. They would have known, right? He would have taken him, he would have arrived with him by his side. He would have beaten all odds, he would have conquered through the darkness running through their veins. And he would have smiled. Or would he? 

He would have held Regulus’ hand.

And Regulus. Standing at the top of the stairs, mouth a thin line that looked too much like—betrayal or—or like he was sorry for him. He wouldn’t leave, and Sirius begged, he would have begged forever if not for the fact his heart was literally about to jump from his ribs in urgency. 

Stay, he seemed to say. He knew him. But he never asked. He stayed silent, and he turned away. And he wouldn’t look back. No one would look at him.

And he would never accept.

A tear, his throat raspy. The slide of a hand against a polished wooden rail. Walburga looking out the window.

‘Just go’, spoken in a brittle tone. Her eyes filled with unshed tears, her hands clutching her wand; twitching. 

He wouldn’t fight her. Not anymore, so he did. He walked out, closing the door behind him for the last time. 

“Only me, yes.” Alone. 

The sounds of the crickets near—a lock. Static. His hand over the handle, his forehead. Then, the sound of something breaking inside—a shriek so deep and full of pain, he—his eyes filled with tears, too. The sound of flames. The sound of a heart shattering. 

She could never love him, not like he needed anyway. He had learned to live with that, he would never live up to their standards, or their plans. They would never try to understand, he would never be anything but useless to them now. And he felt so trapped—there had never been choices for him. Everything had always been a path, everything had always been so—and he was so trapped. Within them, within himself—

Flesh and blood.

Is he? Did it run through him too? Would he have the same glint in his eyes? Would he—would he return? There had been pride in their stare for a moment. Recognition. Until everything changed, and he learned, and he questioned—

The sound of flames. 

Here.

And the smell of coffee, and rain. 

Here.

Moony is here. 

Sirius hears steps through the hall leading to them, and he sighs, and the first tear falls.

October 31rd, 1990.

Fundraisers are, almost always, dull affairs. 

Really elegant dull affairs, one must say—dull nevertheless. Sirius dresses himself up in a white satin shirt with black trousers and no coat because if he was going to feel miserable, he’d rather be miserable while looking good. 

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and stops before finishing buttoning.

He slides a hand through his chest, through his collarbones and for once, he thinks that Walburga was right. 

People leave. 

That’s just the way it is for them. It's as if he was continuously tainted by their family curse, like an always present force lurking in the shadows as if waiting for him to join. It ran through him too. Their blood. The family madness—forever burned in his skin like a scarlet letter. 

And he was tired of it. 

‘Just go.’ 

Whose voice was it? His mother? His? 

His hand goes lower, trailing scars and freshly left marks on the now ragged surface. He closes his eyes. Would he ever feel love again? All consuming—all encompassing, accepting love? Was he damned to blow it up every single time? To keep the cycle of self destruction going? Would he ever get looked in the eye and—immediately understand? Would somebody ever stay for the mere fact that it was him they were staying for? 

Yes, he had been immature, that was understood. But no one would ever react sanely at the thought of the love of your life blushing over someone else, would they? Sirius didn’t even plan it, the events happened naturally as he felt rage burning down his stomach and approached who he knew was a pretty much lesbian bartender with a preposition. Had it been desperate? Maybe. He was ridiculous, but he really thought—

Sometimes he really thinks he can understand him again, which turns frustrating when it becomes evident he doesn’t. There’s something wrong, he knows it. It’s as if he can never get him right, sometimes Remus is—fine, he’s calm—looks fairly happy even; and other times he’s all snappy and hostile. It’s so difficult to read him now—

Sometimes he thinks he loves him. And it turns confusing when he pushes him away, when he searches for him and won't leave him alone either—when they literally won't stop haunting each other and yet— 

If Remus doesn't want him anymore he will accept it. What more can he do, really? 

But he needs to hear it from him, first.

Sirius finishes dressing up and walks out the door like a man on a mission. 

Tonight. 

Tonight will be the deciding moment. Damned if he won’t.

The events of the night pass slowly and yet rushed somehow. He’s there, enduring a talk with some people that won’t seem to shut up about investments and something that has to do with Gringotts. He gets called somewhere else, (thankfully) so he grins charmingly and walks away. 

He’s on the back of their salon, holding a paper towel because someone accidentally dropped a bottle and it dripped all over. 

He’s in the bathroom splashing his face because he needs to get through this with a smile—for all the people they’ve helped so far, for the ones they weren’t able to help—before. For him. It’s not that they are in desperate need of money to be holding fundraisers every once in a while, the Black’s vault has got enough galleons to last for at least fifty generations—but they need the public opinion to change. They need the support, they need the wealthy donors’ influence. 

A long time ago he had ran away from the same circles, swearing his parents and swearing himself that he’d never be back. Funny that. 

He’s there—staring at the pieces of fabric hung from the ceiling, a light fixture in the middle chosen by him because the board couldn’t really be bothered. He had been organising events like these since he discovered this place, and at this point most planning activities fall on him. 

It’s tiring. 

It’s raising his eyebrows as he promises people their money will be well spent as if they couldn’t—as if simply doing good would take a lot from them. It’s offering fucking overpriced champagne to muggle ministers—it’s dancing with women he knows he’ll never see again, it’s him downing glass, after glass, after glass—

Until he spots Remus; dressed in an all-black attire that makes him look so—

Until the music finally changes. And he finally listens.

Until there’s some sort of tropical melody, and there's a brief second of calm—

“Sirius Black!” 

He hears from somewhere near the tables; he turns around to see Mary pointing at him and flicking her wrist so her finger can motion at him to get closer. 

He can’t help but smile at her, chuckling a little as she moves her shoulders, half dancing and half walking towards him. 

“When it feels like,

The world is on your shoulders,

And all of the madness has got you goin' crazy…”

She’s wearing a shiny dress with a skirt that emphasises her curves—literally dressed to kill. Sirius loves it. He goes to her like he has done countless times before, he dances with her like he has done countless times before.

“I know a place where we can dance the whole night away,

Underneath the electric stars…”

They meet in the middle, happily bouncing and singing along as more people join; her hips moving to the music, the dress softly waving around.

That’s what they keep doing, easily finding a common tempo; finally being able to relax because Mary has always been the bolster he can rely upon in troubling times—because they’ve seen each other at their worst. And she still likes him, somehow. 

Count your winnings, as they say. 

She’s safe, she’s reliable. 

It’s all going fine, until her eyes twinkle. 

She walks away. 

And when she comes back, she comes back with a fretful looking Remus. 

“Come on, you’ve been sulking all night!” She yells, making the other man’s eyes widen, searching for her as if she had just revealed the world’s most classified secret. 

They lock eyes. 

And for a moment, he doesn’t feel resentment. He doesn’t feel remorse. 

For a moment it’s as if there was no bad blood between them; it’s as if they were still younger and recently graduated, it’s as if they were still—

And for a moment that feels almost miraculous, Remus dances with them. 

Something he rarely ever did when he was with him, something he was always cagey about; something he only did when utterly knackered with a raspy laugh and Lily’s hand guiding him—

The worst part of it all is he does look good while doing it. 

Well, fuck everything, really. Sirius’ self control goes overboard.

He gets closer.

He bops along with him, he grins at him. 

And Mary beams the whole time, apparently as shocked as he is. 

“To the beat of the rhythm of the night, 

Dance until the morning light,

Forget about the worries on your mind.”

It all goes kinda like that for the remainder of the song; his friend even doing a little bow as it ends, her curls falling down like a waterfall as she straightens her back again. 

Of course the moment doesn’t last for long. 

“Oh well, I’m going for a drink now,” Mary announces to the group. Winking at Sirius and walking off well pleased with herself. 

They stay there, next to each other; panting as the melody shifts to the next song. Excited for the first time in years, in what seems like a lifetime—

Offering half a smile at the man beside him, and he can see the faintest tug of a smirk pulling at his gorgeous, gorgeous lips. His insides burn, longing pooling inside because Remus is smiling.

And Remus is smiling at him. 

“What do you think the next one will be—?” He starts, gathering courage to simply go and grab his hand—

But he is immediately cut off. Realising. 

His guts twist.

Airy notes, as if played on a piano—a guitar. Varying degrees of it; heightening in intensity as the backup vocals rise. 

A very known song.

“Now this one goes for all the couples tonight!” The voice of the entertainer announces, cheery smile on her face. The synth keeps playing in the background as the voice of the vocalist can be heard. “Surely it has been a lovely night, right? Perfect for a love confession… or a kiss!”

Pairs start filling up the dance floor once again, some cheer as they pass through, some leave their half empty drinks at their tables and sprint towards the growing crowd, chuckling.

Glitter on the ground, hurried heels—chuckles and hands, holding. Tinsel, sequins, coloured ties—

The weight of a pair of hazel eyes on him, heavy—unforgivable. Sirius turns to stare at Remus, and the breath drops off his lungs. 

He’s so beautiful, still.

“Anyway, keep enjoying! Don’t forget to take a break at our refreshment table, the punch seems to be on demand tonight…” And with that said, and a wink, she’s out of sight again.

“Should’ve known better, yeah…”

Sirius takes a step forward.

Remus scoffs and turns to leave. 

His reflexes act before his brain does. He grabs him by the wrist, both shocked as they lock gazes. He is breathless, he gulps—can feel his eyes glazing. 

“Moony,” he begs. 

The man in front of him seems to mirror his expression, a small crease at his brows. “Don’t—please don’t, Pads.”

Pads. 

How can he let him go now? His grip tightens, like a plea.

“Don’t say anything, just—stay, stay.”

Please stay.

There’s something so sad about his demeanour, hesitation shadowing his features, how his eyes fall—unwilling to meet. A pang of ache, a stinging nose as they get closer; then a silent nod, accepting again. 

Remus slides his hand so gingerly through Sirius’ lower back, and both intertwine their fingers as they fall into place, as they figure out a rhythm.

Like it’s natural, like they did before. 

“I feel so unsure,

As I take your hand and lead you to the dance floor,”

Remus is wondrous, his curls in shiny blue hues, pink—purple as the lights rain down on them. He’s got a thin layer of stubble that will surely be gone tomorrow, timid fingers as they pull him closer; raising his head and finally looking at him.

Really looking for a moment.

Until he remembers, and then his eyes change. Sirius hears him sigh heavily, bringing his face closer until they’re cheek to cheek.

“I’m never gonna dance again,

Guilty feet have got no rhythm,

Though it’s easy to pretend,

I know you’re not a fool…”

There’s a subtle twitch of his hand, and for a moment the thought of Remus letting go curls his stomach into horrible knots, breaths shortening because he doesn’t want him to, not tonight, not when it matters—until he feels a tug, and the other man gets even closer; swinging around as their chests collide.

Avoiding his stare.

“Please look at me, Moony,” Sirius whispers into his skin. 

Remus’ eyes are closed, their feet keep moving. “I can’t.”

They twirl once, slow and gentle; merging with the rest of the people on the dancefloor with them. There’s a laugh, somewhere. There’s a gulp, coming from the one in front of him.

“I know what you’re going to say.”

Sirius opens his mouth to protest because he needs him to know, he needs him to hear it. “But I do—”

“Don’t lie,” he interrupts. The words are harsh but they come out with such delicacy, mumbled as a tear finally falls upon his face. “Don’t lie to me darling, you were getting tired of me.” 

Darling.

“To the heart and mind,

Ignorance is kind,

There’s no comfort in the truth,

Pain is all you’ll find…”

That takes out a breathless gasp from him, like grief settling at his lungs. You were getting tired of me. Everything was going wrong again—

“I couldn’t—” he starts saying, but Remus is faster. He puts a gentle finger against his lips—not rude, not angry. Hurt, more like it.

He could scream. 

Remus’ voice comes out like a whisper against his cheek as they carefully make their way to the side of the dance floor, sad. So, so sad. 

“When did it start?”

Sirius understands in a heartbeat, lump at his throat. He cannot deny him this, he owes it to him. Sincerity, honesty. His eyes close before answering, same tone as him.

“With the first wolves’ mission.” Remus’ breath catches in his throat. But he doesn’t want to lie. Not to him, never to him.

“When did you tell everyone?” 

“July.”

His head falls a little, and the next question sounds broken. “Did they all agree?”

Sirius feels like crying. “Not at first.”

A sigh. “Then what was the moment?” He clutches him harder. “What made everybody realise?” 

“Moony—” he could cry.

“What convinced them I was a monster?” 

Sirius takes a few seconds before answering, “the diadem incident. Peter. Me.” 

A nod. 

Silence. 

“And what convinced you?” It comes out so frightened.

There’s so much pain in there, so much… Sirius sobs, once. “Remus—”

Grip. Harder. “I know.” 

“Tonight the music seems so loud,

I wish that we could lose this crowd,

Baby, it’s better this way,

We’d hurt each other with the things we want to say,

We could have been so good together,

We could have lived this dance forever,

But now, who’s gonna dance with me?

Please stay…”

They keep dancing forehead to forehead; letting the music do the speaking for them. 

“I cannot hate you,” he confesses. “No matter what you do, Sirius. And it’s not fair, it’s not fucking fair. I can’t fall that deep again.”

“Though it’s easy to pretend,

I know you’re not a fool,”

Sirius feels like falling himself, there’s just so much to say—and he can’t get the words out. He runs a hand through his back, touching him. Something simply seems to shut off in his head, he hears the words but can’t really make sense of them.

“It hasn’t changed for me, either.” Remus runs his nose through his hair. “And it’s not fair.”

It hasn’t changed for me, either. All he’s been wanting to hear.

Why does this feel so final? 

“So I’m never gonna dance again,

The way I danced with you.”

He gets his answer when Remus finally looks at him again.

It’s in his eyes. 

He’s leaving.

Sirius wants to grab him, to hold him so tight he won’t ever think about going away—he wants to scream, to cry—he wants to—

He’s frozen.

He feels a hand lifting his face. A soft kiss on his forehead that he knows lasts way longer than it should. 

Remus is leaving again. 

A gentle thumb caressing his lower lip.

He doesn’t move.

The other man takes a step back.

“Now that you’re gone,

Was what I did so wrong?

So wrong, that you had to leave me alone?”

Truth be told, he needs him. That’s evident. It’s evident in the never ending chasing, in the continuous pursuit for a second of his laughter because maybe Remus is actually over him—but he came back. 

Remus came back to him like pieces falling into place and he doesn’t care if there are some missing if the others still fit so well. 

They can make it work, right? They always made it work.

Until they didn’t. 

And it doesn’t matter anymore. It was all for nothing because he walks away in the end.

Remus walks away.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe. 

Once upon a time Remus had fallen in love with him. He had bought their first packet of fags when they started smoking during the war, he had walked an extra mile to buy the specific tea he was obsessed with; he had kissed his forehead as he drifted off to sleep. He had thought about spending the rest of his life with him before the future turned too uncertain and—unreliable.

And once upon a time, somewhere, Sirius got to keep him. 

In another world, probably.

In another universe. 

There’s a hand on his shoulder. It doesn’t really register at first.

A voice.

“Hey, hey!” A snap of fingers in front of him. “Black!”

Mary is standing there. Urgent.

“Fucking finally—this is your moment! This is the moment you go for him, you dumbass. Are you letting him leave again?”

She’s always been the voice of reason. He blinks, getting out of the fog. Out of the shadows. 

“Shit,” is all he’s able to pronounce. 

And then he’s on the run.

Chapter Text

There’s something somewhat romantic about melancholia. 

About waking up with somebody by your side and forgetting for a moment; about those few seconds of pure ignorant bliss and raw, unfiltered love. Because that’s what it is. A certain love for that specific moment, a calm that only comes from hearing someone else’s heartbeat next to yours; an unknown thankfulness when searching for warmth and finding it—of digging into flesh and still being able to recognise it above all. There could be millions of words and novels written about it, there could be thousands of movies trying to capture the moment one falls into acknowledgement of such grand, complex apprehensions. Nothing beats the feeling of experiencing it firsthand. And of course, nothing beats the dreadful sense of anguish that comes over when it breaks, washing over everything like wine spreading when it falls—consciousness returning, and suddenly the world darkens. 

The sun is too bright, the people are too loud—that wonderful flower you saw blooming days ago now decomposes on a no-good rotting soil. Suddenly you catch yourself staring at the clothes spinning in a circle on the ancient washing machine of the launderette thinking that you used to do this accompanied. Suddenly you open up a bottle and remember that one time he cut his thumb while doing it because he had been too careless staring down at the open space where your collarbone is. And he had kissed you right after; blood still smearing his skin—not even caring about it anymore because the focus is gone and even though you’re twenty and you haven’t got shit figured out you have this— and the bright smile he offered right after the tap of a wand on the wound. ‘Your magic has always felt so warm to me, Moony.’ As you’re being dragged to a room where one’s soul lay bared, candlelight vigilantly falling somehow onto every surface and making it all feel like a dream. 

Suddenly you’re making your way through a museum—soles of the shoes whirring against the shiny, solid floors. And you’re lonely. And you’re aching for somebody who would have read every piece of information on the cards, who would’ve admired technique besides the mere painting, who would have whispered utterly filthy things in your ear to make you blush, and then add with a smirk, ‘that’s us.’ Pointing at the greek lovers in front of you. So you do. You read the goddamn cards, you admire technique aside from painting, you think about what drove the author to capture this specific scene, to carve this specific pose—and then you see a romantic gesture and turn away. Until you hear a guide talking about doomed lovers and the weight of what is written in the stars—and you stop. And you listen, and this— you do not turn away from. This you consider, this you— 

Heartbreak, in its early stages, doesn’t feel like heartbreak. It does feel like dying, surely; it does feel like a mild, painful squeeze. It does feel like a gone spark, spiralling and spiralling because it simply hasn’t got anywhere to land now. It does feel like emptiness when you stare at your hands and remember what they had been used for. 

Suddenly you’re laying in bed late at night, tossing and turning and wanting to cry but somehow not crying. Remembering, more like it. Remembering those days spent on a freezing lake, strong arms dragging you downwards—laughs all around and a kiss to reward you when you emerge once again. Sensations. How does a half grin feels like when meeting people on a train again, how does a papercut stings when softly pressed against lips. The weight of the keys of your first flat balancing on your fingers like the weight of your future opening up before you. The rattling of a paper bag that carries your first groceries with the pop of yet another bottle because everybody wanted to see the new place. So they did. And everyone laughed, and everyone licked their lips over dinner made by him, who up until two years ago didn’t even know how to cook. 

Suddenly everyone’s gone, and you’re washing dishes for the first time in your own flat, soft melodies coming from the turntable placed over a wooden box because there’s not much furniture yet. And he’s looking at you, so you leave everything behind, sitting down in front of a flushed face and red nose, placing a kiss on his forehead asking ‘what are you thinking about?’ 

And he replies, ‘You.’ With a tongue that tastes of sweetened fruit. ‘Always you.’ 

Suddenly you’re sitting in a muggle hospital, fluorescents over you while your hands shake. ‘I’m here to get tested.’ And while you’re waiting for someone to approach, there’s two people in front of you; one set of eyes closed and the other fixed on their face. And you remember being in that situation years before, begging to whoever—whatever heard that the man in front of you wakes up. Lips against the back of his hand, repeating ‘please’ like a madman while tears and snot fall on his pale skin. Because he promised. Because he said he’d always come back to you—

‘I can’t do this without you, please.’

Suddenly you’re selling something on a deserted street, remembering buying a ring with stars engraved on it, and a little moon somewhere in there too because it was simply so—you. 

In another life, surely. It was that other life in which they went against fate, against their own violent instincts and—stayed together, they went against archaic laws and married as some sort of insurgence in aversion to their rightful destiny, in aversion of everyone who said they wouldn’t. Or couldn’t. Or shouldn’t.

In another life Remus considered returning to him, returning to that warm embrace; returning to his gentle caresses when meeting home again, the pecks on the back of his neck while he was deep into a book and he simply stared at him while lightning a fag near the window. ‘Is the plot getting better or can I kiss you now?’ 

‘You even need to ask?’ With a grin right after.

In that other life there was a certainty of absolution. There was an awareness that the good had once outweighed all evil—that everyone, even him, was deserving of redemption. But where did that mercy go? Where did all that wonder and willingness go? 

Leaving, Remus has learned, is always easier than staying. It’s reliable, it guarantees self-preservation. It’s stable. It’s better than watching the fallout, and definitely better than letting himself—hope, or wish.

Suffering is better than losing control. 

Remus grabs his bag and throws it over his shoulder, scoffing to himself because how could he be so stupid? There was nothing any of them could ever do about it. The war had drifted them apart; the deaths, and the destruction had turned them into different people. And there was no way any of it could ever work out again, there was simply too much pain in between—there were too many secrets, situations gone wrong—

And he is scared. Absolutely fucking terrified because even with that knowledge—he’d say yes to him in a heartbeat. He won’t, of course. But god, does he want to. God, does he want to feel it again; does he want to feel wanted, protected—does he want to be able to relax again. Does he want to be on the receiving end of Sirius Black’s burning, fierce love; so loud and powerful, making him think that he deserved something like that all along. 

But there is a certain familiarity about melancholia, who would he ever be without it? Who would he be without the suffering? 

Sirius finds him striding through the grass, his step finally firm and ready to disappear into the night. 

“Remus—Remus! Stop!” He hears him call. “Please.” 

He doesn’t stop, though his step falters. 

“I don’t wanna do this again,” he tells him, not looking back. 

“You’re a fucking coward, then,” he almost hisses. 

That makes him snort. “Could say the same thing about you.”

“I’m seeking you out aren’t I—”

“Uncalled for.”

“Guess I don’t care,” his voice sounds hoarse in the middle of the night. He seizes him by the arm, turning him harshly so they stand face to face. 

Remus almost trips from the sudden motion, his knuckles gripped. “Release me.”

“No.”

Remus pulls his arm. “Release me.”

“No!” he exclaims. “You have—shut me up every time I try to say something. And I’ve accepted it because I thought it was only a matter of time before you would let me speak.” He raises his arms at his side. “But you didn’t—and now you’re leaving. No.”

“Sirius, please.”

“No! You’re going to listen to me now, I deserve to be listened to.” The look he gives him is sharp, like expecting a reaction from him but Remus keeps his mouth shut. “I was an absolute arse, I know! I casted you out—I know! I regret that every single day of my life, if I could change it I would!” His voice starts breaking again. “I definitely would—” 

“You think that’s enough?” The stubborn side of his mind cuts in before he can go any further. 

Sirius puts his face in his hands, as if exasperated. “I know it’s not.”

“What, then?” He asks, because he really needs to know. What are you asking of me? Forgiveness? He might have had that as soon as he saw him again. Understanding? Compassion?

…Love?

Remus isn’t sure he can do it. He’s not even sure he can not. It’s scary. Feeling dangerously close to the edge, feeling his heart squeeze, and beat, and flutter, and straight up scream that wicked thing of a name. And long ago he could’ve drowned it, he could’ve muted those screams with a bottle or the roughness of hands, like clockwork when even a hint of the specific shade of his eye entered his brain. 

But now? Now Sirius is here. And he’s here, and he’s here again. His presence is here, his voice is here, and his arms are right here and his thoughts are completely focused on him, judging by the angle of the corner of his lip and the hint of tears so close to unleashing and the desperation making his limbs shake. 

Like this matters to him. Like it’s the only thing that does, that will ever do. 

“I know it’s not enough,” he starts. “But I want you to know that I meant it when I said I’m sorry, I am. For the last nine years all I’ve been is sorry, and even if you don’t trust me now I’ll accept it—It’s my mess to fix, I can handle the consequences!” Sirius then takes a deep breath. “But don’t you dare say there’s not something there, still.” 

Remus shakes his head, trying to delay the inevitable. “Don’t—”

“You literally just told me!” He screams, making Remus’ throat clog with what he knows would be wails if he had the slightest bit of opportunity. “All these days I’ve been doubting, all these days I’ve been thinking maybe you actually didn’t anymore—and when you finally tell me something you bolt? Why?”

“Sirius—”

“Tell me you don’t love me, then!” He takes several steps forward, looking him straight in the eye. Begging. Ragefully begging, beautifully so. “Spit it in my face, come on. Be harsh, be fucking vicious—tell me you don’t love me, and that it was a lie and I will stop.” The way it comes out of his mouth sounds like he’s also fighting back emotion, holding it like a dam. “Tell me you don’t feel it too, tell me we’re not destined for each other, I will stop, I swear.” 

He then takes a step back, pointing at him with a shaky finger.

“But I’ll know if you’re lying, and if that’s the case I’ll keep trying. Every single fucking day until—you have the guts to accept it. Until you see I mean it, until you know my apologies are real. Until you see.”

“Then stop.”

He snorts. “You’re a fucking coward, Remus.” 

“So what, you want me trusting you like nothing ever happened?” 

It’s scary. Compassion? He has it. That’s the worst part, he has it. Trust? 

Love?

“I want you to trust me because you want to! I want you to trust me because there’s no other way, I want you to trust me because you know I mean it!” He doubts for a second before continuing, lip shaky too. “And I want you to love me just the same. Because you want to, because there’s no other way, because it’s inevitable,” he insists, accentuating everything with his hands. “Because you know it deep down it’s not going away, because you believe me when I say it’s—” He purses his lips, as if stopping himself, like considering. “It’s only you, Moony.” 

His heart fluttering? He has it. His hands shaking? He has them. 

“I want to know if it’s me, too.” His palms lay open between them before falling on his side. “I want you to love me just the same.” 

The way their eyes meet hits different this time. They’re both so stubborn, they’re both so stupidly stubborn. Stupidly, worthlessly, achingly… A sort of heat flares within him, like valves whirring in warning of exploding all thanks to the man in front of him. 

So vulnerable, all his walls down. 

He looks down, sighing. 

When he glances up at him again, he doesn’t see a man in his thirties. 

He sees Sirius. 

His Sirius, telling him that he wanted to die. His Sirius, smiling after kissing him for the first time, ‘Fucking finally,’ before diving in again. Sirius, sitting down with him in a deserted common room, so miserable. ‘They agreed to an arranged marriage,’ before returning home for the Christmas holidays, his face when they met again at the Potters… His Sirius, looking at him across the battlefield, dripping and strangely gloomy. His twitching hands when Remus returned that night, he can remember now. 

How he wishes they never got involved in that war.

How he wishes everything would’ve been different, how he wishes they had never gone their separate ways because that was never the way it should have happened. It was always meant to be them against everything else, them against everyone. 

“I started reading your books,” the other man says, softly. His chest is heaving, hair a whirlwind on the back of his head because the wind it’s blowing in soft waves. “When you were gone. I—you’ve always annotated them, you’ve always highlighted the way you felt at that moment.” It’s such a foreign thing, watching him struggle with words. Sirius gets closer once more. “There were a few—there was more good than bad. You felt that way about me, before, please, is there a chance—?” 

And that’s the thing. 

Is there a chance he still feels the same about him? For some reason, it’s as if he never stopped. The first moment he saw him on the other end of the bed, it’s as if everything dawned upon him once more. That warmth, that familiarity. The neverending, gentle breeze of it looming over his every thought, controlling his every move. The spur of a sudden weight falling from the sky, the pull emerging from the earth, sounds turning up, colour becoming visible—

There’s a thousand moments before he finally lets himself trust again. Like hundreds of images flashing before his eyes. Raindrops. Fingers reaching into the sky. Fur. The smell of letting loose into a forest. Magic. A bark. A laugh. Neat calligraphy. A black tie. A finger over his mouth whispering ‘shh’. Clothes. Boxes. A first fight in an almost empty flat. Shopping. Hugs. The gentle strumming of a guitar. Raspy voice. Postcards. Running out of parchment. Lazy kisses. Naps. Showers. Birthdays. A twirl. Summers. Another kiss—

There’s an awkward silence that makes him think he’s not going to forgive any of it. 

There’s a weird yank that reminds him; this is the most he’s felt since walking out that door. Their door. This is the moment in which everything matters, this is the instant of—gravity where he decides. It’s in the way his heart beats erratically like wanting to free itself from its enclosure; like wanting to meet that exact minute in which he will hold it again, in which said valves will split open again in chaos or freedom and it’ll all make sense because the love? They both know he has it, and yes, they have so much to resolve, still. They will have lots to talk about, still. 

But they will have lots of time to do it. 

Still. 

And so he sighs, heavily. The heaviest sigh he’s ever released, like a switch going on in his head. 

“I’ve changed so much, Sirius—” Remus’ face is scrunched in a pained manner, his hands go instinctively to his face in an attempt to hide it. 

“I don’t care,” he responds. 

“There’s so much—anger in me now,” he admits. Because there is. Because there wasn’t really before, because that will be something difficult to overcome this time. And he needs him to be willing to. 

“Let me handle it—I always could, Remus. I could always carry you. Let me in, I can take care of you—I can make it work, we can make it work.”

“I don’t even know if I can—” He gulps harshly, wiping yet another tear from his cheek. He’s been crying so much lately. “I cannot hate you, do you even know what that means?” 

Sirius approaches, slowly crouching down in front of him. When did he even fall into the ground?

And there’s a moment in which both understand. There’s a moment of pure, crude clarity—of vulnerability. It’s his eyes confirming everything he said, it’s his eyes searching for an opening, it’s his eyes brimming with emotion and unshed tears, but not sad tears anymore. It’s his gorgeous, truly beautiful eyes asking him a question, bringing Remus’ hand up to his chest like he did in the morning and holding it there. 

Right over the distinguishable pulse of his heart, completely unguarded. 

And then it’s him agreeing because he wants to hear it. Because he’s missed the sound of it flooding his ears and the hundred different ways he would say it to him. Sirius smiles for a second, then holds his face.

“I love you, Remus. It was impossible to stop because it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever felt.” He truly makes it look as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “I’ve never felt as helpless with anything else, because you’re the rightful carrier of it, for me.” 

Remus is panting, somehow. And he cries some more with his hands gently on his cheek.

“Say it again,” he asks of him. 

“I love you.” 

There’s a lingering impulse to run away even as he hears it. 

There’s a sudden rush of adrenaline when Sirius wraps his arms around him, and Remus lets him. There’s a certain peace when he lets go and sobs in his arms and he comforts him. As he lays there with him for what feels like an eternity whispering soothing things. Running a hand through his face and wiping the tears away. Telling him ‘I love you’ again. 

Sirius doesn’t ask him to say it back. 

He doesn’t ask anything of him, as a matter of fact. Until: 

“Please stay here,” he says after a while, when Remus has stopped crying and the sounds of the party are still very much alive in the air. “With me. Today and tomorrow. Please.” 

So he does. 

He lets his backpack fall down on the floor of Sirius’ cabin, kissing him softly and deeply as they step in, a radiant smile on the other man’s lips because ‘I can’t believe this.’ 

They fall on the maroon sofa of his quite spacious living room, freshly made tea on their hands and feet almost touching in front of a lit fireplace. Face to face. 

It’s a bit awkward at first, both turning away every once in a while like shying away from complete vulnerability when their gazes meet, so close to physical contact yet they both hesitate. 

But an hour passes, and they start to fall into it.

Sirius eventually takes the leap, ankles intertwined as he leaves the teapot on the coffee table next to them. “No, honestly I thought about running away when I saw you—” And it sounds more like a confession rather than something comical to say. “You started being so nice to me all of a sudden, I panicked,” he explains to him with a chuckle. 

“How long had you been looking for me?”

“A week.”

“Talk about commitment.” 

Sirius smiles a little in return, sipping from his mug. “I’d search for more.”

The night goes by a bit like this.

Fast in a way, because it seems there’s not enough time for everything they want to say to each other. Weird, in a sense they really never thought they’d find themselves in this situation ever again. Great, in the end when conversation flows and Remus slides his hand over the sofa, meeting Sirius’ finger. He blushes, and it’s the most charming thing ever, seeing that shade of red again. 

“You got Padfoot tattooed on your ribs.” 

That makes him cackle, inevitably. 

“You got a wolf,” he returns, reaching for his tea again then gulping. “And my birthday. And my name in a weird combination of runes—you think I wouldn’t notice?” 

Sirius scrunches his nose, ashamed. “I was fearing you would.”

And then they kiss.

And they talk a bit more. And they blush a bit more, also, and they serve tea again, and then put music while they kiss some more—

“Please listen to this band, Moony.” He’s holding a cassette tape between his fingers. “James showed them to me. They’re from Argentina.” 

So he does. 

Remus moves to the bookshelf in front of them, admiring books as Sirius turns knobs on his stereo. 

“Are these mine?”

“Were. We have become acquainted, their loyalty has changed—” he says, half grunting from hunching over to plug the whole thing in. 

“So they are,” he repeats. “They’re mine.” 

“Most of them.” He shrugs. “Picked up the habit.” And a desperate desire to kiss him floods his mind.

So he does.

It’s very, very late into the night when they’re still kissing on the couch, pace quickening and breaths shortening as Remus places his legs on both sides of Sirius’ hips pulling him closer with his back against the cushions, throat releasing a soft sound as the other man pulls back for a second.

“Do you? Do you want me to—?” He pants, staring down at him. 

“Yes.”

Because maybe he doesn’t want to be broken anymore. Maybe, at the ripe age of thirty he’s tired of the heaviness of all. And he wants out. He wants out of those shadows, of the thick smoke curling beneath his fingertips. 

So he does. 

He lets himself be loved shamelessly. He decides to let go of his usual control when it comes to this, having blind faith in the intimacy of it all, he lets himself be pushed against soft linen with the warm embrace of careful arms around him. He lets his head fall back into the pillows with his face scrunched, a trail of kisses on his neck as he loses reason. 

He lets himself fall freely. 

It’s as if they had been parched. It’s as if their skin was made for holding themselves like this. And it’s so scary, even now, but he stays until it's reached its limits. Until it’s evident they’ve been waiting for this, knowing nothing will ever be the same anymore, until they meet again in the middle of a long traveled battlefield, bloody and exhausted like in need of faith, in need of something bigger to hold on to. Until it starts feeling painful, to hold this level of affection on someone’s behalf, of loyalty.

And something about the spark in his eyes tells him that he’s not going to take it for granted ever again. 

“I’m so sorry, Moony. I don’t think you understand how sorry I am.” Sirius traces the outlines of his torso. “I thought I’d die before I’d get to tell you, I tried searching for you everywhere.” 

He falls asleep in his arms just as the sun starts to rise, his eyelids an almost imperceptible shade of purple in this light.

“I love you,” Remus confesses to him, limbs tangled. “It’s been so long, but I love you.” 

And probably in another time he would’ve cringed at the mere thought of saying something like that. But not anymore. Love is risking being ridiculed, it’s losing all sense of rationality, perhaps. 

It’s letting himself say it for the blunt fact of granting happiness to a once bitter man. Because no, he doesn’t want to drift away from him anymore; he doesn’t want to feel alone ever again. 

Isn’t that something? 

It’s rather strange how life can change in a couple of days. Or hours. Or minutes, as he would come to learn later. But right now he smiles, he runs a finger through the bridge of his nose and decides to sleep for some hours. 

Doesn’t he deserve some happiness, at last? 

When he wakes up he’s still holding him. 

What followed were a couple of blissful moments divided into a couple of elated days. It was Mary leaning on her elbows at the breakfast table, dark circles under her eyes and a pale face. 

“I’m sorry guys, good riddance, honestly—” she murmurs, sipping from a cup full of coffee hot enough to scorch. “Please tell me about it later, just—” She closes her eyes.

“Don’t you have something for these types of things?” Asks Sirius, holding Remus’ hand over the table. “Like a potion, or—”

“I deserve the punishment,” is her answer. “Just don’t ask why.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then, the other man smiles devilishly. “No,” is all he says before her eyes open up like plates. 

“Shut up,” she tries to warn him. It’s no use.

“Did you—when? Where?” He laughs, as if he cannot believe it. 

Remus, feeling out of the loop, stops eating. “What?” 

“Don’t you dare, Sirius Black—”

Sirius turns to face him, totally smug. “You see, Moons—”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

“—have you heard the term—”

Sirius doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Mary throws a piece of ham at him, flatly falling on his face with a wet sound. 

He laughs again. “Oi, is this how the other lad spent his night? Because I gotta say, it’s a bit—”

“Oh, god,” Remus laments, staring at her. “Don’t listen to him.”

“Not fair, if she taunted me yesterday I have the right.” 

Needless to say they’re all in very good spirits. Better when Mary finally takes a vial out of her pocket and her cheeks regain some colour, and even better when fifteen minutes later a very confused looking man comes into the room. Eyes frantically searching for her. 

They stare at him. And Mary sighs. 

“I think I’ll have to apologise.” She shrugs. 

“But you do like him,” Sirius mumbles over a plate of fruit. “You’ve liked him for ages—”

“I don’t have time, Sirius.” She turns to stare at the distraught bloke still standing in the middle of the entrance. When they lock gazes his shoulders sink, so she stands up, headed to him through the growing crowd. 

“So, I was thinking,” Sirius says to him, hot chocolate clutched in his hand as they walk through the street because he insists it will make Remus’ headache better. “We could—spend the moon together.” 

“How so?”

“When you’re new you’re offered to go on a group, you know? To see if everyone gets along.” He sips. “But it can be the both of us, only.” 

He nods. “Yeah, I’d prefer that.”

And the other man smiles. 

They sleep in the cabin for a while, only waking up when Sirius remembers he has to go ‘deal with the mess’ of the party. 

“Keep resting, though.” He’s trying to keep his hair down while looking in the mirror. “I’ll be back.” 

Remus agrees, because even though he took another potion at breakfast he still feels sore, and his head still hurts. He spends hours and hours of dreamless sleep, tossing and turning, a deep ache settling, fainter than last times but uncomfortable enough. He gets up to the bathroom, takes something from an almost hidden compartment of his backpack—returns to bed feeling a bit better. 

Sirius is still outside, somewhere. 

He sleeps some more. 

He wakes up, he goes to the bathroom with effort. 

He stands in front of the mirror. He sniffs. 

So he blows his nose. 

Minuscule scarlet spots can be seen on the tissue, he doesn’t bring himself to care. 

He can hear a phone ringing in his dreams. He walks through endless hallways for what seems like a long time before there’s a beep. 

‘Hey Pads,’ the voice on the other end greets. His brows crease slightly. ‘Just checking in—your brother told us you were back at Rumi—‘ 

Remus can’t really make sense of the words, something is weird. 

‘Are you coming back on the third? I’ve been thinking—Harry, please put that down, darling—we could go to that restaurant you loved—‘

Lily, he registers as he stands in a completely empty room. 

‘Or James can make dinner and we can invite everyone over—Harry, brooms outside, please. You already know—either way, let us know! Please don’t isolate yourself this time, call me.’

He wakes up with a deep gulp of air. 

Everything is silent. 

Water drips from a tap somewhere. He turns around, head pounding.

When he wakes up again it’s to the pads of fingers sliding through his back. The sun is already lowering itself down the horizon, still a bit for it to be gone completely. 

“Hey,” he hears beside him. “I let you sleep through lunch because you looked a bit exhausted.” 

Worry settles in the back of his head as soon as he opens his eyes. “What hour is it?”

“Five—something.” 

“Shit.” Remus tries to get up, groans with the effort. “I need a phone.” 

“Food first.” 

“Fucking hell—” He falls head first into the pillows again.

“Still grumpy, I see.”

“Still a tosser, I see.” 

Sirius snorts. 

Remus eats. An enormous medium-rare steak in front of him with a side of potatoes sits on his plate as he gulps down a glass of water. The other man observes him from the kitchen. 

“So, why do you need a phone?”

He stops. 

In his sleep-induced state he hadn’t considered he would ask, too busy with the compulsion of letting his roommate know everything’s well so he won’t try and look for him—or whatever thing he would probably do. 

He scratches his nose, looking down at a wound up cherry tomato. “Need to call, um, Erik.” 

The stifled little smirk he had been trying to conceal falls completely. 

“Oh.” 

So he does. He lends Sirius the last of his fags as he settles down into an armchair, dialing the number and waiting. 

And waiting. 

Because nobody picks up. 

He calls again. 

There’s no answer, the only sound being of the messaging machine beeping. 

Erik finally picks up after his third time trying, a bit breathless as if he had just arrived, a door can be heard closing in the background.

“Remus?”

His voice sounds raspy as he talks. 

“Barely.”

There’s a snort. 

“Figured you’d be too tired to call.”

“I am,” he admits. “Though in better spirits.”

“Is it going well?”

“As well as it can go, you know.” He groans a little. He sniffs. “Took a potion.”

Sirius is outside on a porch that wraps around a third of the house, smoking as he leans towards the wooden fence. 

“If you told me a year ago I’d be holding a conversation about potions and stuff I would have laughed in your face.”

“Can’t blame you. I thought the same.”

“I’m going back on the sixth,” Erik announces. “Got caught up on some stuff here.” 

“Like a job?”

“I wish, it was a drag to convince my boss to give me some days off, that old hag—”

“But you only took—” A sniff. “Three days off for your birthday.” Remus leans against the wall, exhausted. “And that was way back in June.” 

He can hear the line go still. 

“You haven’t been taking anything, right?”

“Please not this again.”

“Yes this again.” His tone is tense. “It’s difficult to say through the phone, but you either have a cold, or—”

“I’m okay, fucking hell,” he interrupts. “It’s a cold, there’s too many trees in here, everything is humid, and that’s not fair when I’m feeling like shit, truly—” 

“Okay,” Erik cuts in. “Silly me, right? Not like I have a reason.” 

He sighs, but stays on the phone. He’s so tired.

When he glances up Sirius is staring at him. 

“What did you do today?” He asks, not breaking eye contact. 

Erik sighs too. “Nothing much, went to the post, and bought a shirt,” he says, before trailing off for a moment. “Might have to divide the load this week—oh, and also—Sarah has a date. Later.” 

That makes him smile, softly. “Is he handsome?” 

“Fairly.” 

“Good for her.”

There’s music on the other end, he can hear it from time to time. 

“I’m sorry Remus,” he hears after a while. “I know I’m hysterical, I know you’re feeling like shit, you don’t have to call tomorrow.” 

“It’s okay.” Then, he adds, “you’re still my best friend. Hysterics and all.” 

“What brought this sudden change of heart?” He asks with a certain humour in his tone. 

His eyes fall on Sirius again, like magnets. “Better spirits, like I said.” 

They say their goodbyes after a while. 

He doesn’t fail to notice how there aren’t any messages in the TAM, wondering if his brain made the whole thing up. 

Of course, Sirius approaches him when he’s done, preparing yet another kettle and sitting in front of him. He’s nervous, Remus can tell. His fingers tap irregularly against his knee.

He clears his throat. “Do you want to stay here? Tonight.” 

It’s a bit surprising, to say the least. He asked him to stay, didn’t he? Unless he doesn’t want him there anymore, unless he’s started feeling like a burden— “Where else would I?” 

“There’s lots of beds available in the hospital, some people prefer sleeping there.” 

His breath catches for a moment. “I’d rather sleep with you.” 

It really feels like a reward to his boldness when the other man smiles, creases forming all over his beautiful face. 

“Can I hold you again?” 

Maybe he’ll never get accustomed to this. 

Maybe he will.

He nods. And so they move to the sofa. 

It’s funny, in a way, the way he asks before doing anything now when he had been so—natural, or insistent before. In a good way. Because Remus wasn’t really one to hug his friends that much before they started dating, because he got anxious about holding hands, or brushing his shoulder against someone else on the hallway—

But Sirius taught him. Sirius started patting his back when they walked to class, Sirius held his hand under the invisibility cloak, Sirius massaged his neck once, Sirius hugged him once, Sirius kissed him first. And now he asked if he could hold him again. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Been worse,” he replies. 

Remus feels a kiss on the back of his neck. “They didn’t used to be this harsh, weren’t they?”

He can only sink lower into him.

The next day he remembers in a blur. 

The room is dark when he wakes up, curtains drawn. There's a piercing ache in the back of his eyes, and there’s a sharp pain in the spot where his leg meets his lower torso. There’s a note. ‘Will bring breakfast. Rest.’ It reads.

But he does not rest, he fumbles with his backpack as he groans from the sudden motion. He makes himself feel a bit better for some minutes. He falls into bed once more.

That’s how he spends the rest of the day. Drifting in and out of consciousness, eating, kissing him, holding him. And when it’s time to go, he takes his hand, apparating to a magical forest nearby. 

When it’s time to transform, when his bones break and he lurches from the agony, when he screams and cries—there’s someone there with him. 

When he loses consciousness, Padfoot and Moony reunite again. When he loses consciousness, Padfoot takes care of him. And when the wolf doesn’t seem to stop trying to scratch its face, Padfoot distracts him. 

Remus wakes up in a narrow bed from the infirmary, feeling a weird heaviness but somehow not completely mauled.

Sirius is already by his side. 

“Happy Birthday,” is the first thing he’s able to pronounce. 

“It is, Moons.” He wraps a curl around his finger, smirking. “It really is.” 

The potions do work this time, so he’s able to walk away almost painless from the hospital and sleep for a while. He’s able to take something else as the other man steps into the shower. He’s able to leave him for a moment as he goes to Mary’s. 

“A cake?” She asks, as if flabbergasted. “From scratch?”

“Yeah,” is all he responds. 

“Okay.” 

So they do. They bake him a cake while he’s completely lost to morpheus’ embrace. 

Mary doesn’t let the opportunity pass by, she tries to talk to him. “Are you sure everything is going well?” She questions, a hint of worry. “I mean yes, maybe I’m an accessory to his Machiavellian tendencies—”

“I’m okay, Mary. There’s lots of things to figure out, still.” He shrugs. “But I want to. There’s no other way, is there?” 

His hands are full of icing, sticking between his fingers. She offers him a smile. 

“So no escaping this time?”

“No escaping,” he assures her. 

There’s a sigh. “Can’t believe you’re properly back.” 

They find Sirius sitting next to the phone, a hand rubbing his temples. He perks up when he sees them enter through the door before Remus can even ask what that was about. 

“What is this?” The other man asks, eyeing the piece of vanilla bread with wonky bits of cream spread over, and a single ‘old’ written in gigantic letters at the top. And a candle, of course.

Mary chuckles. “A cake, love.”

He laughs, and it sounds wonderful. 

“Remus did most of it.” 

His eyes shine. 

“Oh, did he, now?” 

So they go for a pint hours later, settling down at the same table they occupied nights before, Remus inviting the drinks as Sirius comes stand by his side, clasping his back. 

“Moony, have you met Lori? She and her wife own this place.” 

The bartender winks at him, and he can’t help the embarrassment that is about to emerge. He blushes.

“You prick—”

‘Easy Lover’ starts playing. 

“Sirius Black!” Mary calls from the table. 

He bows for a second. Cheekily. “I’m going!” 

Calm finally finds them later. 

After a three person dinner, and another slice of cake. 

Sirius drags him out of the cabin, biting his lip as if trying to contain himself and Remus raises an eyebrow in question as they reach the now closed library, their breaths visible as they talk. 

He fumbles with the lock. “I want to show you something.”

“In the library?” 

Sirius gives up and casts an alohomora, instead. 

“Yes, close your eyes.” Remus does, feeling a gentle tug from where he starts pulling him. They stop where he thinks might be the centre of the library. “Don’t move.” 

There’s a rustle, something caressing Remus’ face for a moment that makes him wince. 

Then, he senses warmth near, breathing a bit heavier and way too near—he opens his eyes. Sirius is grinning, holding figs in his palm between them. “It’s Ruminalis, the fig tree story.” 

That makes him huff. “So you planted a fig tree for the sake of namesake?”

“It was already here, we built the library around it.”

Remus tsks, good natured, as he takes in the tree over him. Large branches with green leaves falling from them, fairly sized fruit hanging from it. When he gazes back down, Sirius’ eyes have a different glint to them. “It’s a guarding tree, you can feel it, somehow.” 

But Remus isn’t looking at the tree anymore. He’s looking at him, at the way his jaw looks like with the moonlight on the surface, his raven hair with blue tones at this hour of the night—the folds where his smirk meets the cheek. He can’t help the way he moves towards him naturally. Unstoppable.

They kiss. 

Slow and deep, delicately as if the moment was sacred. 

Long, because they were still getting accustomed to the fact they could do this all day. Sweet until it inevitably escalates, soft turned fierce, dim hums turned rasps as Remus pushes him against the tree. 

It’s a battle. It’s a diatribe that takes a wonderful sound out of him when he nips at his neck.

Sirius breaks it up when they reach the floor, shirt already open and skin flushed. “Stop,” he breathes, reaching for the figs on the floor next to them. “You do have to try them, though.”

And Remus, never one to deny food when offered so gently, acquiesces; mischievously grasping the other man’s arm by the elbow and biting at the piece that he’s holding. A saccharine taste reminiscent of sunlight attacks his tongue, nectar dripping down his chin and down Sirius’ arm, sliding rapidly as if in a haste. It’s certainly an instinct the way his tongue moves to it, tracing the same path but upwards this time. Holding eye contact and never missing a moment of the way the other man’s breath catches, the way his eyes darken.

He offers the fruit in return, smirking as Sirius bites into it too, eyes still questioning him; ‘what are you thinking about?’ They seem to ask. When another drop falls down his beautiful chin, down a spot on his jaw and sliding all the way to his collarbone, he understands. Remus follows it again all the way to his mouth, feeling his skin burn, hearing him exhale deeply.

He could do this forever, he thinks. It’s in the way he still feels that very recognisable all-grasping thrill. 

It’s in the obscene way his pale hands move when the fingers dig into the fruit, how honeyed drops reach his torso—both feeding from it, losing themselves in it as the flesh asks for more—as they bite and pull. 

It’s Sirius’ hands in his hair, face up to the moon above them whispering slower. It’s the quick picking and the cadence of their pants rising, voices breaking—harder, deeper—in hushed mutters. Moony, as if he can’t say anything else. Scratches at his back that got him acting deranged, breathy moans at the crook of his neck, intense thrusts until he hears a cry. Announcing. A loud gasp accompanied by a ‘there’ and grip tighter, his back arching. The way his face contorts as he opens his mouth, squirming as he loses it—as Remus leads him there mercilessly, never easing up. Trusting eyes accompanied by a flashing smile, an I love you that is the beginning and the end. His eyes dripping as they lay there shaking, as he notices the exact moment it hits him.

“Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this,” Remus tells him, after. Tucking Sirius’ hair behind his ear. 

“Fucking under a fig tree?” He asks, humorously.

“Fucking you in general, honestly, but—” He grabs his hand, kissing his knuckles. “Loving you, more like it.” 

His eyes shine, he smiles radiantly.

“Say it again.”

Had this been risky and probably blasphemous? Maybe. 

Had it been heavenly either way? Definitely. 

Suddenly Remus is sixteen again, skin itching under his robes as they’re both draped over his bed, cuddling. 

“I love you, Sirius. I never stopped.”

Chapter Text

November, 1990.

Sure that bliss is a consuming thing. Flaming hot and blinding, easily spotted by those around, spreading out if strong enough—and consuming, indeed. He guesses it can be funny, the way it didn’t really settled at first. 

But Remus wakes up in a bed that isn’t even his own, and yet it does feel rather welcoming; the perfect softness of it, as if made for fitting both of them perfectly. The wooden walls start to get a much tinted look as the day comes, and the dresser in front of them has started to feel too familiar with the lotions over it and a picture of James and Sirius in what he guesses is the cabin’s terrace from the trees in the background. 

Mary has some pictures, too. Stuck around in the refrigerator door that Remus could actually see in between trying on shirts she insisted would ‘make him look ravishing’ for the night of the party. So he had acquiesced, smiling and groaning at her when she decided something was not good enough, and letting himself loose in the room when she finally locked herself up in the bathroom. 

It’s somewhat ironic, longing for things he consciously left behind, lingering in between enjoyment and utter despair. There were images of Mary and her family, radiant smiles as she held a cake, she in the middle with her parents at her shoulders. There was Marlene holding an Abba record, and Dorcas’ arm visible around her neck, Sirius and Mary in front of a Christmas tree, then a group photo in the same spot. James hadn’t changed the shape of his glasses, but he wore a very light stubble that made him look more mature. Lily wore her hair longer now, Dorcas had a few tattoos while Marlene seemed to have gotten a few perforations in her ears. Harry looked so happy, straight up glowing with a red haired boy next to him Remus couldn’t recognise. 

‘You’re the only one that’s missing,’ she had said to him when she found him.

‘Am I really?’ He had asked, all trace of amusement gone from his tone.

James is wearing that same light beard in this picture, wearing a red turtleneck and clasping Sirius on the back, pride filled eyes staring straight at him while the other man’s focus is next to the camera. 

He looks away.

Sirius is still asleep by his side, miraculously. It’s as if he had a special radar for noticing light as soon as it touches the sky and he really can’t help but smile at the thought because he beat him, again. 

And he looks so peaceful like this.

It feels like the last three days had passed in a haze to him, and this was the actual aftermath of it. As if he didn’t realise that all of it was really happening as it was happening—but there is no more pain, now. At least physically. And he is completely conscious, he’s completely grounded without the moon weighing him down and clouding his every thought—and he’s looking at him, at his almost bruised lips, and definitely bruised body in a way that could be almost artistic. 

There is no more doubt, is there? This was exactly what he had been searching for, holding him in his arms after loving him for hours because the same question kept coming back to his head. Who else would ever dare try fill the space right between his heart and his lungs? As if buried deep inside, tugging at them at his convenience until it reached his throat, until it left him breathless and gagging for air. Who would he be doing all this for, if not for him? Who else could ever soothe his twitching through the night as naturally as if he never stopped? 

‘Can you please hold me tonight?’  

And he said yes instantly, he would say yes forever, like someone who was totally drunk with infatuation, like seeing the world with pink tinted glasses again. 

Of course there was still a voice echoing through him. One that kept itself resentful and sour because why did he push him away if he needed him? What had really happened inside that cave for him to simply—jump to conclusions and really, really fucking push him away with what he knew would hurt the most? As if signing his own death sentence because now it was obvious none of it ever worked for them. Life away, that is. 

‘I knew then, it couldn’t have been you.’ What had brought these conclusions forth? There was so much to talk about still, that, being honest, it completely terrified him because what if he realised it had all been a mistake?

Then, there was the other thing. The one that definitely hadn’t landed on his mind even as he heard it because it simply couldn’t be real. 

He glances down to where he is resting, lifting a hand and softly holding it down against his heart, losing himself to the sound of it pulsating and the thin, muffled kick against his palm. It’s beating. It’s functioning perfectly, and this small , little thing is keeping him alive.

‘Regulus said my heart stopped.’ And now he understands. Why Regulus was still so protective of him, why he had confessed with misery in his eyes that Sirius had relapsed that time. Cradling him with the certainty of madness unfolding wouldn’t he be able to do this anymore, taking in his scent like needing it to survive. 

And maybe he does. 

'You were mad at me and all I cared about was getting out of my own body.'  

What would he have done if he ever got news of Sirius dying by his own hand after spending so many efforts on that specifically not happening? He’s not sure he even wants to know. What would he have done if he had caught it, then? That dead, gone look in his eyes when he found him at the table, the harsh words he had grown to know better and used to— use to get to the root of what was going on inside his mind? But at that moment he thought they couldn’t speak the same language anymore. At that moment he thought it had all been hatred directed towards him. Had he unknowingly caught a glimpse of bandages on his body? 

He can’t remember. 

Were his eyes only looking out the window or had he eyed the knives on the counter already? Had he gripped the sink in an effort not to follow after him or in an effort not to follow through?

He guesses Sirius had been at war with himself for a long time. And the worst part is—he hadn’t been there—he wouldn’t let him be there. Remus places his chin over the top of his head, sighing softly. Had he really considered himself that unlovable at the time? Had he considered himself a monster already? Or was that after he left? 

Did he—merlin, did he actually follow through? 

‘The thing is, I don’t think I’m afraid to die.’ Sirius had said when he came back from the Potters that year. It had been evident. It had been evident in his never ending impulsiveness, in the way he once jumped in front of Remus in the middle of a fight and took a stunning spell for him. ‘Couldn’t let it be you, Moony. You’re needed.’ And he hated that. Couldn’t he see he was needed too? He hated the way his mind immediately accused itself of being a burden. Of being too much, of being like them. He carried so much guilt about him, as if punishing himself most times, as if that would bring vindication or relief someday. 

Remus thinks he understands some of that. That need for absolution, that rotten feeling that spreads all over when he remembers what he did, all the different ways he’s ever used his magic for dishonourable purposes, the ways he’s used his body for disgraceful deeds, like a blot absorbed by his marrow until it reaches the core. But no amount of culpability has ever made him feel better, there’s really nothing to take accountability for, either way. Their names had been cleared, their actions had been called brave, and he remembers the crowds on the streets celebrating their heroics when nobody had been there to witness the atrocious ways it had been achieved. Nobody had lost as much.

It’s until a weird sensation settles within, tingling with a sense of alert so full of—oddness, that he notices he’s being watched.  

“What are you thinking about?” Sirius asks, still somewhere between a dream-like state; eyes shining with the purple-like tint of morning.

He can only smirk in return. “Shouldn't you to know by now?” His hand is still over his heartbeat, and he feels the warmth of the other man’s fingers intertwining with his own. 

He kisses him, nice and slow. Gliding a finger through his jaw and pulling him softly for some minutes while he fully wakes up. When they part Remus doesn’t really move away. “We need to talk now, Sirius,” he mumbles instead, nose almost pressed against his cheekbone.

Because the last days had been a stalemate to the things they needed to discuss, because it had been a sort of blissful haze, yes. But reality had to strike down as soon as possible, before there was a chance of drifting away mentally from the difficulties. Sirius drops the sleepy smile and focuses on his face. You’re not in trouble, he wants to say to him. I’m not going anywhere, I’m trying—I’m trying, please let me try. 

“What was going through your mind that night? I need to know.”

Stubborn man.

He can feel the way his body stiffens, how he reacts to his words, yet puts a face of courage. “Which night?”

As if that would work. “You know which night.”

Sirius keeps looking at him, studies him. His brows scrunch slightly and it’s as if he couldn’t really control what’s going on anymore, his eyes get red at the corners, clears his throat, adamant to not let this overpower him. He’s been crying a lot, too. “There’s a lot I’d need to say.” 

“Please,” he brings his hand up to his lips. “I have time, we have time.” 

He’s so thankful that he can do this again. He’s thankful he gets to be gentle with him again. 

Sirius exhales, then, giving up, preparing for whatever he’s about to say. “I think I lost a part of myself in there,” he says, flat and distant a minute later. “I saw you. I had to drink something for the locket to appear, and it hurt so much, I felt like I was burning inside, I—” His gaze trails off for a moment. 

“What did you see?”

He shakes his head softly. “I fucked you up.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well I’ve always been a bloody disaster, haven’t I, Moons? I guess I’ve always been no good for anyone,” he starts, but he couldn’t be farthest from the truth. “Can’t keep my fucking temper, couldn’t keep my hands off a bottle, when you were gone, but I am trying. I don’t want to be the fucked up person anymore.” 

Somehow, between the mess of his words, he’s making sense. And Remus hates that he thinks of himself that way, still. He flicks his wrist, so that his palm rests in his chest, now. Can you hear it too?

Can you feel me too?

“Please tell me.” 

His eyes glaze, and he stutters a bit at first. “You were happy, and it was not with me.” He tries to take his hand away but Remus’ grip is firm. “It’s as if I could never give any of that to you, and it’s as if—I was exactly like them. And you weren’t happy.” 

Sirius goes on. “There was something wrong with me, those days. I drove everyone away on purpose because I simply couldn’t stand them looking at me, I remember James tried to talk to me. I’m pretty sure Reg tried too but I—I yelled, I drank, I broke things, I even made him cry, one day. He didn’t even fight back.” He swallows, jaw tight. “He wouldn’t even fight back, Remus, I was exactly like her, it’s as if her voice was everywhere. As if she knew this would happen and took some pride in it.”

“When you returned I wanted to fight so bad, I wanted to rip into you and I wanted to make you feel guilty.” He winces. “You never treated me like I was fragile. I tried to cling to that, I wanted you to bite, wanted you to hate me and I wanted you to go away but didn’t want you to leave either.” His finger traces a claw mark on his chest. “I’m sorry for the things I said, Remus,” he mumbles. “I know there’s no excuse, I regret every single word.” 

“I’m sorry I said that to you, I don’t—it’s not an excuse.” He presses his forehead against Sirius’, wiping his cheek. “I just want to understand.” 

“I thought those were actual visions. I really thought you had made up your mind.”

They stay there for a minute, Remus bringing him closer and tangling against him tighter simply because he can. And he wants to. Because he needs to feel him closer, he needs to feel him all over—

“Sirius,” he loves the way it sounds. He’s always loved saying his name. “I need you to be honest with me.” There's a quick, wet sound as he sniffs a little. “Please, please be honest with me.” 

He can feel the other man getting tense again. But there’s no way to soothe whatever is coming next, there’s no way of asking nicely. Remus feels a heavy lump in his throat, he swallows.

“Did you—did you try? That night. Did you relapse?” 

And Sirius doesn’t say anything, at first. Not that he needs him to, because when their stares meet it’s written all over his face, in the way his lip shakes almost imperceptibly. 

It’s horrible how, even then, there’s a second of doubt there; like clinging to the last bit of hope, staying in ignorance for a few seconds. 

All he needs from him is a negative. 

But then he nods, really slowly. And Remus feels his heart shatter, his voice cracks.

“Why wouldn’t you let me be there?”

There’s no answer. He searches for his eyes again. 

“Sirius,” he’s pleading.

“Wouldn’t you have tried to stop me?” Asks Sirius, bluntly. “Wouldn’t you have made it fail?”

A sob rips out of him before he can try to stop it. “No. Please don’t,” he begs, gulping air with a bit of effort. “Please don’t.”

“I’m okay now, Moons.” 

“You were not—” Remus mutters into his shoulder. And he almost blurts out that he knows about what happened after St. Mungo’s, that he knows, he knows. “It would have driven me mad, Sirius, don’t you understand? It would have destroyed me.” 

He hated this, he hated that goddamn war, the way it changed them—the way it took, and destroyed everything they had built until then, the way it pushed, and pulled at them—the way it literally scarred their souls, left them pure victims of the aftereffects. 

“I’m here now, okay? Not going anywhere,” Sirius tries comforting him. “I haven’t felt anything like that in a long time, Remus, don’t cry.” 

But how couldn’t he? How would he react if the situation had been reversed? ‘James had to enforce the apparating wards around the house, he kept begging to be let out.’ This made it evident it had never been a fair situation after all, that they had only suffered being apart after all. That nine years hadn’t been enough to erase his memory from his mind, that why had they made this so difficult on themselves for no reason at all? 

Remus kisses him urgently, lifting his arms until they’re levelled with his face, placing kisses everywhere—his hand wandering through his torso, his lips starting to trail the scarred skin. “I love you,” he says into his collarbone, making the other man’s skin prickle. “Please promise you won’t push me away anymore.”

He goes lower. Sirius gasps. 

“Let me be selfish, once,” he murmurs into his skin. “Please stay with me.” There’s tears falling from his eyes, he doesn’t bring himself to care.

It’s desperate, it’s begging in an attempt to keep him here even if he says he’s okay. It’s a certain hopelessness as he tries to make him understand how important he is, how cherished. 

Look at me.

Look how much you mean to me, look how I’d burn it all to keep you alive.

And it’s an immediate consolation when he lets him, when he notices him just as frantic.  

I can’t do any of it without you.

“I don’t think it’s true what I saw,” Sirius mumbles after. “I don’t think—I have you now, and I’m not letting you go.”

It’s after a long breakfast with scorching tea, and over-sweetened porridge, that he finally has to say goodbye.

“So I guess I’ll see you next month?” Asks Mary, clutching her coat and looking at him with nostalgia filled eyes. 

He nods, lips curling up. 

“Come here.” She hugs him tightly, as if she still can’t believe it. “I won’t tell anyone, Remus,” she promises in his ear. “I’ll be too busy to, anyway but—you know.” 

“I do.” He buries his nose into her curls, smelling strongly of shampoo. Somehow, seeing her for a week hadn’t been enough. And now he doesn’t really want to let go just yet, so he hardens the grip of his arms around her, nose starting to get runny again but for completely different reasons. He tries to blink the welling tears away. “Thank you, Mary.”

It had been so easy to talk to her again, it had been so comforting to have her again.

They break apart after a while, and she wipes a tear from her eye, pursing her lips. “Here.” Remus feels her putting a piece of paper between his fingers. “I’ve written my office number and my regular number, please ring me if you need anything.” There’s a sniff. “Or if you don’t—just please call?” 

“I will.”

She then turns to Sirius. 

“Now you—” Mary swipes her hand down his face, playfully, still sniffing. “I don’t know what you’ll do, to be honest.” 

“Oh, I got some ideas—” 

That makes her laugh, beautiful dimples forming right next to her lips. “Ugh, nevermind.” 

“So,” he hears, walking back to the cabin. “We go back, don’t we?” The other man stares at his leg, and the way he tries really hard not to limp.

“Where to?” He’s getting breathless already, he’ll need another potion from the stash Mary left him.

“The hotel?” 

Remus doesn’t miss the questioning tone around it, as if testing the waters. He smiles. “Okay.” 

And so they do, Sirius taking some time to pack his bags while he watches.

And watches. 

“Red or white?” He asks, holding two different shirts up. 

“Neither.” 

That makes him chuckle before packing both of them. “Not now .”

So Remus also shoves his clothes into his backpack, taking a quick bathroom break and returning to an empty room. He can hear Sirius shuffling about in the kitchen, cleaning it up, surely; before it occurs to him. 

He takes out a wool jumper with unsure hands, navy blue falling into the bed as he folds it, as he takes a deep breath and leaves it on top of a chair in the corner of the room. Like a promise to himself. 

It’s a weird feeling, leaving this place. And for times to come he’d understand he hadn’t really considered it would become special to him in the near future. But he would be back, and he would become acquainted with the wooden walls of the cabin, he would have his own drawers and wake up to the sensation of Sirius already staring at him like he always did, he would attend store openings and events perched around his arm, he would hold his hand—he would eat delicious food followed by a round of laughter, and stare into a pair of eyes that he was yet to meet, but would become important. And he would smile some more with sauce in his clothes and a pint in front of him. The only one of the evening. 

Remus leaves the cabin with a certain weight and knowledge that his time in here is not yet over, and that when he’s back everything will be better. Pure hope. He sighs, and Sirius closes the door while levitating their bags beside him. “This goddamn lock—” He fumbles, while he takes a look at the enormous trees around, as he takes in the musky smell and the humidity. 

When the other man finally steps out, both getting ready to take the walk back to the car, he feels a hand on his chest. 

“Please don’t freak out.” 

“Wh—what, why—”

“I got something for you, before we go.” 

Sirius takes out a wooden cane from somewhere between his bags, placing it softly in his hands, biting his lip. It’s soft, somehow. Like made with comfort in mind, the exact height so he can walk easily—the design elegant but esthetic nevertheless. He sees a pale finger pointing at the corner of the handle.

“That’s a moon cause you’re Moony.”

He feels like he could stop breathing. “You did this?”

“Of course.” He takes a step forward. “You were resting before the full and I thought why not—”

“I’m going to look like an old man.” 

That makes him blush. “Tempting.”

The cane does work, and Remus does feel lighter as they finally reach the car, parked hidden behind some trees, thin layer of dust covering it. 

“Anyway,” Sirius sits down in the driver seat after closing the trunk. “I’m willing to let you put music this time.” 

“A great sacrifice.”

He nods. “Such a gentleman thing to do.”

“Rather.” 

“We’ve got cassettes, we’ve got—cds even,” he says while reaching out for a little box in the backseat. 

A mistake, maybe. 

His shirt gets raised in the place where it matters most, revealing a trail of dark hair and his hip bones. 

“Though this stereo cannot play cds—” he keeps mumbling. But Remus is gone now. He slides an arm around his stomach and pulls him harshly into his lap.  “Ow—what the—”

He understands instantly.

“Oh, I see…”

And so they drive back to the city, Sirius grinning broadly as the air from the open windows stretches his face from the force of it, holding a fag between his fingers and Remus can’t do anything but stare. 

He’s got a wonderful jawline, and the prettiest side profile twisting as he raises his face and blows the smoke away; the most serene hands as he grasps the wheel effortlessly, as he fumbles with the car stereo and his eyes widen. “Fuck Moons, love that song.” 

He turns the volume up, even though they don’t need it, singing along loudly in an effort to make Remus smile, he can tell. 

“You take my love,

You want my soul,

I would be crazy to share your life—”

And it’s all truly in the way he scrunches his face like he’s enjoying it, like he’s actually blissfully happy at this exact moment, like nothing could ever come in the way between Sirius fucking Black and driving in a motorway with Remus sitting by his side. 

He slaps him on the thigh, rhythmically.

“Ow!” Remus laughs as the other man winks. “You wanker—” 

But Sirius is turned back on the road now, filling up his lungs with a dramatic long gasp that has his shoulders raising up until his chin level, then screaming:

“I’ll never be

Maria Magdalena!”

And goddamn, Remus is completely done for. 

The rest of the day goes by in a similar fashion. 

They stop at a store, Sirius insisting the jacket from the mannequin will make him look handsome and him just letting himself be dragged to it to make him happy.

“You only got leather ones,” he says to him while holding two hangers and still browsing through the racks. “And that’s boring.” 

“I don’t think denim suits me.”

“You think wrong.” He grins, and takes out another one triumphantly. “Now… onto jeans…”

“Oi, I only agreed to the jacket.” 

The other man pretends he doesn’t hear him. 

“Sirius—”

“I’d say it’s all about force, but—”

“Stop trying to distract me.”

“Nah, don’t hold it like that, Moony, it’s no good.”

“Don’t put your hands there.”

“Where, then?”

“Sirius.”

“Let me place you then!”

“Think I’m fine here—fuck.” He huffs. “Look what you did?”

“It’s all about the angle, Moons…”

“Well, now that just sounds like an innuendo.”

Sirius puts his pint down, tongue against his cheek as he holds his pool stick from the sticky table of the sticky pub they’re at, trying not to smile. “Your angle was off, it’s pure strategy.”

“Not my forte nowadays, in case you haven’t noticed.” 

“Is it not?” He raises a brow, cheeky. “Because now that you bring up innuendos—”

Remus can feel his ears warming up instantly. “Oh my god, strategy .”

There’s a snort. “I’ll let you go again, mere chivalry.” 

He gets closer to him, noses almost touching. “So courteous.” 

Sirius’ gaze lowers to his lips. “Only for you.” Then he breaks it off, teasingly. 

They keep playing some more, Remus keeps failing and the other man keeps trying to help—they laugh, they groan, and they talk some more.

“The thing is—” He places his hands the way the other man told him to, achieving hitting two balls. “I was on that stupid bus, and Silver Springs came on.”

“Why does the name sound familiar?” He hits the ball, and of course it falls effortlessly into the pocket. 

“No you’re not—” he looks at him in disbelief. “Don’t tell me, you don’t—” 

He raises a finger.

He walks over to the jukebox, rapidly browsing through the records until he finds it, there’s a bit of funny stares around as the song starts and he makes his way back to Sirius. He doesn’t care.

“Oh, so one of Lily’s—?”

And because he can be daring now, he tells him, “ours.”

“Isn’t it a sad one?”

“Angry, more like it.”  

“Moons—”

“I have you now, don’t I?” 

Sirius doesn’t move, he leans against the wall and listens. And listens. Hands playing with the pool stick, rhythmic breathing. He closes his eyes at some point. 

“Time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me,

I know I could have loved you but you would not let me,

Well I follow you down till the sound of my voice will haunt you.”

“Did you hex me?” He asks, almost smiling and as if deep in thought.

Remus tilts his head. “I don’t think so.” 

He sees him get closer, not caring about anything as he grabs his face. “You did haunt me, Moony. You were everywhere.”

He’s so fucked. 

“How much?” He asks, breathless.

“Endlessly.”

“Remember that show we went to, in Hogsmeade?” Remus asks while a paper bag rattles against the grass. Sirius starts taking off his coat to place it so both can sit on it. “Don’t, you’ll freeze your arse off.” 

“We can share yours.” 

He glances around, trying to find any potential risks or people to watch out for. But at this particular point in winter there’s barely any people nearby, most caught up at their jobs or their homes with actual warmth and totally no need for parks. 

“Okay,” he agrees. 

So the other man gets closer to him as they take out a bottle of wine and the different assortment of croquetas bought two streets nearby. “I do remember the show, though. Why?” 

He smirks. “The veela one. Where she sang.”

Sirius is munching already, bit of grease getting on his fingers. “Kind of averagely, but yes.” 

Remus fights the urge to laugh because of course the unrequited feud against the singer was still pretty much alive in his head. “That’s what made me doubt—if you liked girls, I mean.” 

Sirius stops in his tracks. “That?” 

“You were the only one who wasn’t enthralled by her.”

“Oh, but you were.” His gaze trails off, definitely remembering. “Don’t know what was worse, having to endure a whole hour of her not really reaching the notes or witnessing how you couldn’t keep your eyes off her.”

He can’t help the way his lips twist into a smile. “Can’t believe you’re still pressed about that.”

“Well, you brought it up.” 

“Because I wanted to remember something nice.”

“Don’t know why you thought that would work, really.” 

“I looked at you, Sirius.” He takes a piece from the paper container in front of them. “In the midst of it, if you even remember. I looked at you for a while because I thought you were prettier, and then I had to cut it off because—” 

“Because I seemed angry?” His lips start pulling up into a very smug smile. 

Remus only rolls his eyes, humorously. 

As if on cue, he feels a drop against his nose. 

And then another one, and another one. Exactly what was needed, as a matter of fact. The rain explodes seconds later.

“Ah, shit,” Remus groans, finishing his bite rapidly and trying to get up. “We didn’t even open the bottle.”

He can feel Sirius shuffling beside him. “We can open it now.” 

“It’s raining, we should—” He feels a yank, and Sirius has him on the ground again. 

“Moons! It’s just a bit!”

“But you’ll get—”

There’s a pop. 

And mischievous eyes looking at him.

There’s a swing of the bottle, Sirius drinking shamelessly and greedily from it, a drop even sliding down his chin, mixing with the heavier ones from the growing clouds above. It’s obscene. Remus salivates with rain splashed eyelashes. It’s getting everywhere, and he hadn’t really considered how much he had been craving it. Whether it’s the drink or him is still uncertain.

“It’s meant to be shared, you know?” 

He pushes the hand holding the bottle away. “Not until—” he gets up. “You kiss me. In the rain.” 

“Sirius.”

There’s light, and seconds later a crash sound.

“Oh, Moony, look—was that lightning? Isn’t it risky to stay outdoors in a situation like this—?”

He gets up, walking to him until their foreheads are pressed together and a hand is holding him by the cheek. “You’re saucy.”

And Sirius blushes. “Just a kiss. Then I can risk dying.” 

They end up entering the Prado museum, wet and lips raw because of course he fell to the temptation that are Sirius Black’s shenanigans. He simply doesn’t have the force nor motive to go against his wishes, and oh, does he have some. 

“I could have you like that in no time,” he hears against his ear, whispered with an already slightly tipsy voice. His skin prickles. He tilts his head a little until he’s leaning against him.

“Don’t even know how that pose is supposed to be realistic.” 

“But they were not looking for realism specifically, Moony…Besides, it’s achievable. I can show you.” 

“So very illustrative, as always.” 

“Only on my good days.” 

A golden chandelier rests right over their heads at a panelled room, the lights are low, and Remus passes a finger through the flame of the candle in the middle of their table, entertained.

Sirius grips the velvet bound menu, lowering his glass of water, eyes scanning the paper. “Don’t even know why there’s duck on this.” 

“You insisted on coming here.”

“Because I wanted to see you dressed like that, mostly.” 

“Funny, considering how you literally tore it apart before walking out the door.” 

Glinting eyes find him above deep cherry red. “It was getting in the way.” 

So Sirius orders an assortment of plates since he’s the experienced one on these matters, and a bottle of wine to go with them. It’s half an hour and several servings of red and different types of meats later that another subject is breached again. 

“So you—spent these years—alone?”

He takes his time before responding doubtfully, “no, I did date someone.” 

Something sour pools in his stomach, but he urges him to continue.

“His name was Oliver, and he was—nice. Perhaps too much.”

Remus clears his throat, not knowing what to do with his hands. “What happened?”

“I really hope you believe me when I say that I never took anyone to our bed.” He purses his lips, scrunching his face. “Or the flat, for that matter.” 

“We had been dating for two months when he first asked me why I never invited him over. And at first it was easy to deflect.” He starts, pulling at a spot of skin on his finger. “He asked me again two months later, still kind of humorous but somewhat serious enough.”  

“But then it got to six months, and one time I stepped into the flat and he had put all these—candles all over, and there was dinner at the table, and he brought flowers, and the fucking trail ran to the bedroom—I just lost it. Dumped him on the spot.” 

It’s shameful, the way Remus feels a tad puffed up about it. He takes his hand, bringing it up for a kiss. 

Sirius scans his face, stopping at his lips for a second and perking up, like he’s surprised. “Oh, you’re enjoying this.” 

He hides the way his mouth curls up. “I’m not.”

“You are.” 

And Remus can’t say anything, really. Maybe he did hex him, maybe it was meant to be all along. 

“You’re such a jealous—” Sirius tries telling him, but he interrupts him. 

“You’re worse.” 

It’s not long until they inevitably fight again. It’s natural, that’s simply the way it goes. They’re leisurely walking down the street back to the hotel when he sees him get jittery, nervous and delicate as if they were still at odds with each other. 

“So, um, wanted to talk to you about something,” he finally says. 

Remus’ heartbeat increases, he nods. 

“I know—we’re figuring out how—to be together again.” He keeps walking, slower now, sliding his hand through lamp posts as they go. “But Lily wants to plan something. For my birthday.”

He stops completely. 

“This week. On the tenth” 

He can feel a subtle twist in his gut, but it had to happen eventually. “Oh, so you’re returning after?”

But Sirius does that same face he did when he was about to say something bad. 

“I want you to go with me.” He glances nervously at him. “Only if—if you’re up for it.” 

And this time he does feel like throwing up, perhaps. He scrunches his face in dismissal, stepping away harshly, releasing his hand. 

“Moony?”

“I’m not,” he responds, flatly. Lifeless. 

He seems to sink, slightly, with a sigh. “Okay, I understand—”

“You don’t.” 

“Remus, it’s okay.”

But his mind is spiralling now, out of his grasp for him to stop it. “You really thought—is that why you’ve been buying me things and all that?” 

He sees his shoulders tense, his mouth go into a straight line. “Of course not—” he huffs, distraught. “How could you say that of me?” 

“I don’t know! Did you?”

“Of course not!” Sirius slides a hand over his head. “I would never—why would you think that?” 

But he doesn’t really have an answer, he just feels a familiar squeeze, getting tighter and tighter—telling him he needs to get out. He starts walking away with vigorous steps, he can hear his breaths go shorter. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I don’t know!” 

“Don’t—” The other man grabs him by the shoulder, panicking. “You don’t have to go, I can return, it’s fine. Please don’t.” 

It’s an effort to get back to the hotel. 

It’s an effort to stare back at him as Remus locks himself in the bathroom for a while. It’s an effort to stare back at him as he gets out. But Sirius is patient. He hears him moving things around the small kitchenette in the room, turning the stove on and putting a kettle. 

He gets closer some minutes later, carrying two mugs and placing one in front of the couch Remus has been sitting on. His voice is reluctant as he tries to talk to him again.

“What do you mean—you came back? You told me before, when I found you.” 

He does remember. Back in this same room. 

“It was November, just some weeks after.” He cannot look at him. Focuses on the rain splashing the windows instead. “I wanted—don’t even know what I expected. But I heard music, and you were all dancing and singing around.” 

Everything goes silent for a minute. 

When he looks back at him there’s a strange expression in his face, as if he had just made sense of something. His knuckles are gripped by his side, and Remus doesn’t think he has noticed yet. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I don’t want to be like this, I don’t want to be an angry person.” 

“You’re not, Remus.”  

“I do want to go with you.” 

Sirius shakes his head. “I didn’t want to pressure you, you don’t have to, you know?” 

“I want to,” he sighs, roughly. “It’s just—I’m scared.”

“You don’t have to.”  

“I know. I will.” 

He sees him get up and softly settle down next to him, intertwining their fingers together. “Come sleep with me?” 

They have to stop at the flat the next day, since Remus has gone through his entire wardrobe for the trip already, and he might need—other things. What he didn’t count on was Sirius stretching halfway there, which had his eyes wandering to the places they’ve always wandered off to. 

Fuck it, really. What is one more time, right? 

So they kiss in the hallway, he pushes him against the wall as he fumbles for the keys, he fists his shirt as soon as they step in—carrying him to the kitchen counter with his legs wrapped around him, feeling his hands pulling and getting under his shirt. 

He doesn’t really register the smell yet. Neither does Sirius, apparently. 

“Shit, Moony…” Sirius grumbles lowly while he bites softly at the spot under his ear, letting his head fall back tilted to the side, making his collar bones stand out exquisitely, hollowing perfectly for him to want to nip at them and damn he, truly—

“Shit. Moony.” He pushes his head, alarmed. Remus whines faintly as to complain until he catches it. 

Light, from the lamp in the living room.

Smoke, filling up the air.

A man sitting on the sofa, right next to the stereo and the phone, sour smile on his face. 

“Shit.”

“Nah, continue,” Erik says before chuckling and taking a drag from the cigarette he’s holding between his fingers. “I insist. You know I’ve never been above a bit of voyeurism—”

Remus suddenly feels so cold all over. “What the hell?” He asks, a bit breathless already. 

“Cheers Rem, could ask you the same thing.” 

He lowers his shirt, not missing his eyes wandering briefly over his exposed skin. “You’re back early.” 

“And you’re not.” He takes another drag. “Brought your schönling and all.”

There’s a scoff. “Sirius Black, for you.” 

“I know who you are.” 

“Good.”

Remus exhales. “Fucking hell.”

“Yeah, that’s your favourite thing to say, ain’t it, Rem?” He then licks his lips with a condescending grin. “When was it, last week?”

“Erik,” he warns. But of course it comes too late.

Sirius’ jaw is clenched, he turns to stare directly at Remus, then back to him, a grim expression on his face, an understanding. The other man smirks. 

“Nah, I’m just fucking with you.” He tells him, waving a hand, as if nonchalant. “Well, not with you, with him , but you know—” He adds, seconds later.

Sirius instantly bolts towards him, nose flaring. “You think you’re funny? You fucking wanker.” 

Remus stands between them. “Fucking—stop, just stop! What the hell?” 

Erik is also on his feet now, sneering as he speaks, “go ahead, throw the first fucking punch, see what it gets you—”

“I don’t even need—” Sirius tries to respond, but he is cut off by Remus pushing him back, begging for him to stop with a stare, hand pressed against his chest. He understands. 

He then grabs Erik by the arm. “You’re back early.” It’s not mean spirited, it’s nothing, it’s simply a fact; a question, also.

His friend grips his jaw now, looking at the other man in the room with them for a second and back to Remus, like he doesn’t wanna talk in front of him. “You didn’t pick up the phone,” he whispers, but he doesn’t know Sirius can listen too. 

There’s a yank, and Erik drags him to his room, still talking low. Not low enough though, he sighs. 

“You didn’t pick up the phone Remus, what the fuck was I supposed to think about? You said you’d be back on the fourth.” 

“I was—I was out.”

“Evidently.”

He tries to lighten the tone. “How’s Sarah?” 

“Don’t.” His stare is severe, but his lip trembles a little. “She is fine, she is well.” 

“That’s good.”

Erik’s face changes. “Remus, she says she can help.”

His brows crease. “With what—”

“There’s a clinic down there. She can get it sorted out, she can help.” 

Fuck .

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He definitely listened to that. 

Remus rapidly closes the door and takes out his wand to silence the room. 

Something flashes behind Erik’s eyes, gone in an instant but he catches it. “He doesn’t know.” 

“Of course he doesn’t!” He snaps. He stops. Because raising his voice to him before meant laughing about something, disagreeing over a game of monopoly or taunting him about any past anecdote. He had never raised his voice to Erik. Not in a situation like this. He takes a breath, pinching his nose. “I don’t want him to.” 

“Only you, Remus.” He slides a hand down his face. “Only you would create a whole situation—”

“Please don’t tell him.”

His lips clench, like he’s holding back. “It’s not my business to tell.” 

The sigh of relief that leaves his mouth is cut short though.

“Unless it gets bad again.” 

“I doubt it will get to that,” he says as firmly as he can.

“You look thinner.” 

Well, fuck it right? “The moon’s just passed,” he exclaims. “And you—what was that in the living room earlier, huh?” 

“I could ask you the same thing, what the fuck is he doing here?”

“He’s with me.” 

He snorts. “Just like that? After everything?” 

“It was—not easy.” He starts pacing the room, wishing he had brought his cane with him. Erik keeps silent for a few seconds. 

“Did you even go to the place you told me? Or were you running about with him all the time?” 

“He was there too.” He puts his hand in his eyes, exasperated. “Please don’t—just don’t, okay?” 

His friend’s expression turns sad in an instant, as if drained. He scans him, then he deflates. “Please tell me you’ll think about it.” 

He won’t. 

But he nods either way. 

Erik pulls him into a hug, heavy and harsh with something he never thought would ever come to them, like doubt mixed with concern, like the ones James used to give him before walking out his door. It’s been ages since he’s had a hug like this. 

They lock eyes for a moment, and Remus hopes he doesn’t notice anything he took in them.

They walk out. 

Of course Sirius is already waiting. 

“What is he talking about?”

He sighs. “Nothing bad, Sirius.”

But it’s no use, he rushes to his side and grabs his face. Fingers running through the surface frantically, eyes worried; he then turns to Erik, speaking sternly but as if finding a common ground.

“What was that about? Is he sick?” 

He blinks, taken off guard. He had been staring at them, a certain frailness unknown to anyone but him clouding his expression. “What would you know—”

“Oh, I know him plenty—”

“You know him, really?” His tone and his eyes are tired, facade gone. He averts his gaze. “I’m going to the shops, I need—yeah, see you later.” 

He walks heavily to the door and closes it, not turning back.

“Are you going to tell me?”

“It’s—” For a moment he considers telling him, considers being honest, considers letting him in again. But he can’t. There’s no way Sirius won’t get all cross about it, there’s no way this won’t have negative repercussions. What would he even say? ‘You see, Sirius. I had a bit of a situation weeks ago and now my best friend won’t leave me alone about it.’ There’s no way, so call it selfishness, call it self-preservation, he lies. “It’s the full moons, he thinks he can help. He still doesn’t understand them very well.” 

“Oh. So he knows.” 

“Of course he does.”

“Let me just—” Remus points to his room. He will leave a note, then. It’s all falling to pieces around him, and he can’t stop it. 

It would be maybe December when he finally questioned his true motives for being with Sirius again. Lying down on his bed, clothes sticking to his body and the shivers all over every once in a while. It’s as if he arrived exactly in time. Did some part of him know? Could he sense Remus’ misfortunes from a mile away? 

Could Remus feel something was about to change? 

Did he feel the threat? Lurking, touching everything he set his eyes on. 

Or was it really love? Making itself heard over everything else, sizzling through his blood reminding him there was no way to stop it. 

There was no way to stop anything by then. 

Were the shivers pain? Were they fright? Clutching the fabric underneath his palm like the only thing grounding him for the moment. There’s the sound of a door opening. His head is pounding, and he hasn’t showered in two days. 

He aches for him. He aches for the gentle sound of his voice, he wants his soft touch over his back again. He wants him. But he fucked everything up, didn’t he? 

Chapter Text

With Sirius’ unavoidable departure and Remus’ promise to make an appearance at his dinner party, the next couple of days are spent attempting to make the most of it.

Their mornings go filled by coffee with knowing stares, between room service and business cards being sent in owls with Sirius groaning under his breath. Remus getting a hold of his copy of the Daily Prophet and hoping James somehow appears in the front. Something he hadn’t done in years. 

Apparently there had been an incident involving several pixies in Bulgaria and weird traces of some sort of creature in Dublin. He furrows his brows.

“Haven’t seen anything about your fundraiser yet.”

“Oh, that was the other day,” he replies while munching on some toast. “Here.” 

Remus admires the photo from the newspaper levitated so gently into his lap, trying not to exhale dopily at the grinning Sirius next to what he supposes are very important people in the wizarding world nowadays. He does make a mental note to cut the picture off and keep it safe in his wallet, though. 

“I think I’m going to leave on the 8th to not raise suspicions,” the other man says, cutting through a croissant. “I can—get the flat ready and all.” He mentions, with teeth chewing on his lip. 

He’s waiting for him to change his mind, he knows. 

“Okay,” he replies, stealing half of it. 

Back then maybe Sirius would have complained, would have snickered and groaned ‘Moony, there’s literally a dozen pieces in front of you.’ As he shrugged trying to contain the cheekiness behind his stare. ‘Not the same, really.’  

Right now he doesn’t complain, he stares at him lovingly instead, as if he was still shocked he remembered; as if he was shocked he still wanted to share with him.

“Do you want to go by floo or train or—?” 

“I can buy a train ticket.” He might need some time to prepare, to ease his mind before getting ready to see them again. Plus, the floo network always made him dizzy. 

“There’s aeroplanes also,” Sirius remarks, gulping down a bit of tea already done by the hotel, unfortunately. “The ones that make you fly and everything.”

Remus chuckles. “I’ve never been on a plane before.”

“Me neither.” He smiles. 

There’s something soul-stirring about keeping it a secret, though. About keeping him to himself, about not giving the world a second thought while they kiss on a deserted back alley, about Sirius answering owls from James and telling him with a shrug ‘I didn’t pack the mirror.’ Like he won’t let even James in this, like what they have is sacred and far too important for anyone else to see.

It takes probably some hours for the other man to break out of his shell. Remus walks out of the shower to see him wearing one of his jumpers while sitting in the dining room, the one he had left discarded on the recamier at the end of the bed the night before. 

Neither of them acknowledge it. They go out.

They stop at a theatre and Sirius buys tickets with money Remus still doesn’t know where the hell comes from. Not that he asks, either way. Not that he doesn’t enjoy watching him browse through bookshelves with a small pile of books while they make time until the film—or through a record store with CDs he insists will make his collection wider. He had forgotten how he never gave a fuck about money. And he had forgotten how it felt when he spent it lavishly on him. Remus pays for one of the books even when the other man tells him not to, pulling the birthday card as an excuse and somehow laughing in the process. 

He’s running out of savings, but there’s no need to mention that. 

He knows he needs to search for jobs already, but there’s no need to mention that. 

Remus follows him as he steps into a toy store and gets a pair of roller skates for Harry. 

“Lily might kill me,” he laughs. “But I promised him.” 

It breaks his heart as much as it excites him to know about them, to imagine them existing once again. 

“Bet he’s a handful,” he tries to say casually, and it comes out sounding more nostalgic to his own ears than anything else. 

“Oh, he is.” Sirius grins, deep in thought. “He truly is, Moons.” 

Then he adds, with a wink, “though not as bad as we were.” 

“Just wait till he gets his Hogwarts letter.” 

That makes the other man smile absentmindedly, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder. 

“You’re not really a stranger to him, you know?” He talks a minute later, still not looking back. “We tried—“ Sirius clears his throat. “He might call you uncle, when he sees you again. Says he wants to be a Marauder.” 

It shouldn’t be a surprise the way his breath seems to get clogged in his throat, as if asphyxiating him.

Remus says nothing. 

“Moony?”

“What else?” He asks, as if overindulging in something prohibited. 

And Sirius tells him. 

They hold hands during the movie and discuss passionately afterwards, agreeing that Richard Gere does better in roles where he’s acting rich but Julia Roberts definitely steals the show. ‘Oh, and her hair, though—’ Sirius mentions, munching on m&ms and fixing the coat he’s wearing. ‘And the songs…’ Remus chimes in.

He doesn’t talk to him about the girls he’s seen in alleyways before or how uncomfortably real some of those scenes are. 

Sirius has lots of questions. And most of them he answers. Questions about his life, about where he’s been—if he’s got a new favourite food or a new favourite colour, (he doesn’t). They discuss music, and then the books they have both read. 

“What happened here?” He asks, pointing to a scar on his side. 

Remus holds his hand, placing a small kiss in his palm with a faint smirk. 

He won’t tell him. 

“What didn’t,” he replies, chuckling. 

He can’t tell him. 

Distracting him comes easy afterwards. 

Their nights go by cuddling in the sofa, or sharing a fag next to the open window. Sitting on the floor because there’s a certain position in which his joints don’t hurt. A brush of lips—a lean towards his touch—he looks up at him, and the hand buried beneath his curls. 

Sirius smiles. A genuine shit eating grin as if he’s on cloud nine. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he mumbles over his skin, later. And Remus feels it completely as it’s exhaled against his temple. ‘Still so beautiful after all these years.’ So his nails pull him closer. Like a plea, as if he could make this moment last forever. 

“Please,” he breathes heavily with a fist full of hair, tears threatening to get out. 

“You’re so painfully beautiful, Moony.”

And it’s the way he says it, as if it was the absolute truth. As if he found release in it rolling out his tongue because he can’t contain himself, like he can’t find the words to tell him because they don’t exist. Like he wants to say more. And he lets him, because maybe he would actually die if all this was ripped from him. But this would be worth dying for. 

Remus fucks it up.

Eventually.

“Can I take a sip?” He hears against his ear, a pair of pale arms wrapping around his torso. 

“You can have the rest of it.” Sirius’ fingers brush against his own when Remus hands him the drink. “I have to use the loo.” 

There’s a disco ball behind him and the light hurts a bit when it lands on his eyes.

“Again?” 

“Won’t take long.” 

He makes his way through the room, walking past damp bodies and brushes of hands against his shoulder. He does not glance back, he tries to shake the repulsion of it away.

He walks down a dark corridor with a heavy step, avoiding blokes kissing violently against the bar, avoiding people that stare at him looking for something else. Remus leans against the wall as he waits, silence = death posters lying beneath his fingertips. 

“Popper?” Someone nearby says. He turns around, already feeling tipsy. 

“Are you asking me?” 

The man in front of him opens his coat faintly, as in offer. That’s not the only thing he’s got. 

Well, he does have a tenner somewhere. 

He returns to Sirius with a smile on his face, skin warming up. They dance together, they press their foreheads together, they kiss in the open for everyone to see. 

It’s not long before they’re both in the bathroom, yanking at their clothes with mouths parted, undoing belts and buttons as if their life depended on it. There’s a pop. There’s his eyes darkening and his sounds getting louder. 

It’s the quick disposal of anything that might interfere, the kisses getting filthier, his pulls erratic; there’s buzzing again, coming from Sirius’ palms as he looks at them in the mirror with the graffiti filled walls around them. It’s Remus’ head pulled back and the heavy breaths against his back, cursing in short bursts as they both feel it, as he asks him how he does that and him replying that he doesn’t know. And so they keep kissing, and it’s glorious because it’s Sirius, and he’s all the good and divine at this exact moment—

Now, to Remus, pain has always been a part of him. The only common denominator, sometimes the only thing reminding him that he’s alive and he can feel. At this point he can tell that there’s the ugly kind, the daily kind, and the heavenly kind. The eye-rolling, toe curling fleeting pain that comes as he’s being pushed with a purple light above them, the one that comes from his nails digging through his hips as if he would run away—the one that makes him groan sinfully at his reflection when he sees a crimson stream already making its way down his chin. 

The room spins.

His hair is rumpled, his skin is flushed—shiny with a sheer glow of sweat and his shirt slightly raised and held in place by an ivory hand. His eyelids feel heavy and he takes a moment to smile at the sight, tasting of burning alcohol and iron. 

Hot, sticky iron. 

“Moony—”

No.

“Moony you’re bleeding.” 

“Later,” he whines, pleading that he keeps the pace. “Please.”

Sirius immediately steps back. “Remus, stop. You’re bleeding.” 

“I’m not,” he insists. Useless. 

Sirius is already grabbing a paper towel from the sink.“What is happening? Why—?”

He averts his gaze. Useless. 

The other man turns him around, obliging Remus to look at him. Well, fuck it. He starts pulling his trousers up again. 

“Is your head hurting?” He’s holding the paper under his nose, voice shaky.

“I’m fine,” he tries to sound as calm as possible, smiling. 

That makes him stare at him for a moment, a long, meaningful stare. Mistrust shining through as he also finishes buckling up. He doesn’t speak, and for once, that sets him off. 

“Bloody hell, Sirius, I’m fine.” 

“We’re leaving.” 

He splashes cold water on his face, and the other man keeps pulling towels from the dispenser. It won’t stop and there’s drops already falling down the sink. There’s something wrong, he can feel him thinking. Remus sees the blood flowing, mixing with the water in what maybe could be a sort of symbolism he’s too high to understand right now. 

Sirius doesn’t talk to him the whole way back to the hotel, which almost sobers him up instantly from the horrible feeling it brings. 

Him, being silent. 

Him, being silent with him. 

“Please bring ice up to my room,” he asks the receptionist from the ground floor, glancing back to where Remus is still holding the red stained piece in his hands. 

“I’m good.”

“Don’t care.”

He has stopped bleeding by now, but it doesn’t seem to matter to the other man. As soon as the door is closed, he snaps.

“Have I done something, Remus?” He asks, chest heaving.

His step falters as he stops abruptly. “What do you mean?”

“Have I done something lately for you to—think or consider I shouldn’t know anything about you?” 

He nearly rolls his eyes. “I’m okay—”

“No well, let me phrase it differently.” Sirius is shaking as he raises a hand, stopping him. “I’ve been completely honest, here. I’ve been completely honest with you because you deserve honesty, because that’s exactly what I have to do for us to work.” 

His mouth twists downwards, his brows crease. “But you’re lying to me, Remus. Do you think I cannot see?” And it’s almost heartbreaking hearing him like this, but Remus’ eyes are glazed and the liquor is still running through his head. “The scars I can forgive, it’s not the time to tell me, I get it. But you’re sick, and you don’t want to talk to me.” 

“I’m not.” 

Tears start pooling in his eyes. He’s so gorgeous when he’s angry. “I don’t believe you.”

“Sirius—”

They get interrupted by a knock on the door. Sirius opens the door but won’t stop staring at him, as if Remus would disappear if he glanced anywhere else, as if he could coax him into telling the truth just by that gesture alone. It seems they haven’t learned, how stubborn both of them can be in these situations; how alcohol can turn their words into fire, how raw, and bare it left them—

It’s definitely awkward for the young woman delivering the bucket, eyeing them as if she can’t make sense of the scene taking place in front of her. Sirius, next to the door; Remus, next to the windows. Dried blood on his nostril, eyes glassy. 

The other man walks towards him when the door closes again, face determined as he holds a cloth with pieces of ice inside, as he pushes him softly so he sits on the sofa, holding some to his forehead and another one to the bridge of his nose.

And his gaze holds such intensity in it as much as straight up sorrow—he cannot look anywhere else. It’s as if both stopped breathing as they take each other in like this, as Sirius studies every inch of his face and his heartbeat goes wavering. 

Time stops.

And then it comes back again in full swing.

In a second he’s being pushed mercilessly against the threaded fabric and cushions, barely able to react as he feels his hand veer into his pockets. He takes out a tiny bag and holds it up between them, livid.

“What is this, Remus?”  

And perhaps life shouldn’t be so merciful to him in moments like these, but he almost sighs from relief when he sees what it is. Because for someone who seems so comfortable in the muggle world, there’s things Sirius still doesn’t know about. 

“Painkillers.” 

“The med—medicine?” 

He’s got the upper hand in here, he realises.

“It helps with my leg,” he pronounces slowly, buying himself time for wandless glamours to be casted on the rest of his things. The most important one hurting against his hip from the pressure of Sirius straddling him with an arm crossed on his chest. 

The necklace.

“What about the potions?”

“These are prescribed,” he lies. “They don’t work that well, but—”

“And you mixed them with alcohol and—the other stuff?”

Maybe he does know something about it, after all. 

“I—shouldn't have.” 

“No fucking shit, Remus.” He exhales, as if relieved, easing his hold on him. “I thought—for a second I thought—”

“I’m okay,” he assures him. “Erik wanted me to see a different doctor and all, but I’m fine.” 

Two birds, one stone, as they say. 

Surprisingly he doesn’t react badly to that, as if his hatred got outweighed by his desire to keep Remus healthy. Sirius nods, staring at the floor, and he gets a sense that his focus has changed. He’s thinking or scheming or whatever is going on behind his head. 

“Is the cane helping at all?” He asks. 

“It might take a bit to get accustomed to, but it does.” 

That seems to soothe him for the time being.  

“Don’t do that again, Moony.” There’s something desperate in how he says it. 

“I’m sorry.”

Their last day is spent leisurely. 

With a face full of kisses and a groan, ‘how am I going to survive a whole day without you?’. In a shop with towers of candy that reminds him of Honeydukes, watching an old man paint near a fountain sharing crisps. Sirius turning into Padfoot to chase birds and him not being able to contain his laughter, his hands getting colder as Sirius holds a copy of White Nights and quotes in a theatrical voice, listening to people's conversations and snorting too loud about their gossip or misfortunes.  

With a truly delicious meal and sauce dripping out his mouth accidentally. With both agreeing they won’t tell Mary because they rather see her face instead, and a shared fag walking down the pavement. 

Saying goodbye is the worst of it all. 

It’s like a force wrenching him deeper, or a limb missing. It’s a horrible clench at his throat and his nails carving crescents onto his palms because he doesn’t think he can control himself if they decide to drift on their own. 

He takes in his scent again as they hug, as they press abrasively against each other, as he considers leaving everything behind and going after him without a second thought. God, he loves him, he loves him, he loves him—

“Ring me before getting on the train,” Sirius says, kissing his cheek. “I’ll be waiting.” 

His suitcase stands next to his feet, like an unstoppable omen. Remus nods. His hands are cold, and he longs to warm them up against his warm skin. 

But he cannot go yet. He’s got to get some things under control, he’s got to get his mind under control, he’s got to get things with Erik under control. 

“I’ll meet you there,” he promises, softly. 

He had always known better than to promise things so easily, but his wondrous face is right there and he needs a piece of faith to hold on to. Sirius traces him with wonder, as in shock. So they kiss once again, painfully desperate as if they’re not going to meet in less than two days' time, as if the separation was too much to bear. 

“I love you.” It’s spoken with a wistful tone.

He disappears from the alley minutes later, and everything turns silent. 

Remus lets himself exhale painfully, once. Aching. 

He walks all the way back to the flat, his cane truly helping wonders for his step—like a solid reminiscent of him. Like a tangible sign that says he was just here, always present. His necklace clinks over his chest as he opens the door, as he places his keys on the table in the corridor and finds Ana sitting with Erik on the sofa. 

There’s something strange about their interaction, about her concerned face that doesn’t really change as they lock gazes. But catching Remus there seems to shake something in her, she greets him, and he greets her right back. 

“Bueno, que debía estar de vuelta a las seis,” she announces, planting a kiss in Erik’s head and leaving him on the couch. “Te veo mañana.” 

Her light brown hair brushes against her back from where she’s got it in a ponytail, and she smells of oranges as she also plants a kiss on Remus’ cheek before leaving.

As soon as the door clicks closed, the air seems to get thicker; he swallows before taking a step forward. “Hi.” 

“Hey,” his friend muses, not missing the cane.

“How are you?” 

That makes something stirr within him, he notices. But the other man keeps his composure. He shrugs. 

“Erik—”

“I don’t want us to fight, Rem.” He’s stressed, it’s noticeable. “Not right now, not these days, please.” 

“I came to apologise.” He leaves his cane leaning against the wall. “For the vanishing act and all that, I don’t want you worrying.” 

“I’ll always worry about you, you sod.” He snorts, even if it sounds a bit sad. “You’re my best friend.” 

So Remus sits on their sofa, too. Facing him. 

And it comes so natural for them to talk again, to return to their usual banter, to chuckle and nod in agreement when certain topics come to mind—

“I’m sorry for being an arse,” his friend emphasises the last word, ashamed. “Proper prince face he’s got, it’s ridiculous.” 

That makes him smile, an actual, honest dopey smile. “He does.” 

“Don’t know how you got him, if we’re honest—” he taunts. 

And Remus could respond with a selection of witty comebacks, with sarcasm. But today he’s feeling rather hopeful. Today he feels peace. 

“Mere fucking luck, I think.” Then he sighs. “He’s gone to London now. I’ll meet him on the tenth.” 

Erik nods slowly. “So you’re going back.”

He shakes his head. “Not yet, we’re taking it slow.”

Some of the tension seems to weigh off his shoulders, the starts of a smirk can be seen on his lips. “Thought I’d end up putting Herbert the third on my own,” he chuckles. 

“How could you, really,” Remus nudges. “The lights are my specialty.” 

So they keep talking and yapping about. They put on mtv and judge the music selection over a bowl of not burned popcorn. They do not talk about the clinic. 

“Sounds like you,” Erik mumbles over a mouthful, ‘All around the world’ playing on the telly. 

“Better than pump up the jam, at least,” he returns, scanning Lisa Stansfield's red lips and the way they move as she sings. 

They wrestle over the controller for a bit, then settle on leaving the same channel because the news are a mess and the programs look boring. Remus lights a fag, and while ‘Enjoy the Silence’ by Depeche Mode, (one of Erik’s favourites) plays, he hears the other man say, ‘so tell me about him’ with a friendly push. 

And he does. 

He talks about the way his voice sounds when he reads to him, about how he scrunches his face when tasting something salty, how evident it is when he’s got a song stuck in his head because he never notices the noises he makes. 

He talks about the eyes he fell in love with at fourteen. 

He talks about Sirius, and indirectly, he talks about himself too. 

Chapter Text

March 9th, 1987. 

“Okay, Toto or Pet Shop Boys?” 

“Aaaarrggh no, not fair,” Lily growls. They’re sitting in Sirius’ car, a pretty Lincoln Continental from 1970. Black, shiny. Convertible, of course; bought months ago after Lily taught him how to drive. 

He smiles at the memory. The lessons had been—hard at first. It had been Lily screaming at him for not using the clutch adequately. It had been a smack at his hand as he reached for the stereo. ‘Music must be earned until you can change transmissions seamlessly.’

‘That’s so not fair!’

It was fun, though. That couldn’t be denied. 

He earned the right, two hours later. And it had turned into one of his favourite hobbies. Sirius had started offering to drive everyone to where they needed to go just a month after. Not like it was necessary, but sometimes they agreed. Mary agreed. He picked her up from work regularly, which they were doing now. Grey threatening clouds over them, winter not yet gone. A little cold breeze as Lily rearranges the scarf she’s using, scoffing. 

“Hear me out—In a party setting? Pet Shop Boys, in a dance in the living room setting? Toto,” she answers, finally.

“That’s not an answer,” he states.

“That is definitely an answer.”

Sirius laughs. “Nah—pick one!”

“Ugh, fine,” Lily gives in. “Toto!” 

“Interesting, Evans. Very interesting.” 

There’s a smack in his forehead, she raises her finger to point at him. “If there’s someone I will never accept criticism from, it's you, Black.”

He lets his mouth drop. “It’s not criticism!”

“Well, one never knows with you,” she rolls her eyes, good natured.

That makes him smile, lighting a cigarette. They share for a while before Sirius speaks again. “Okay then, Toto or…Cyndi Lauper?”

“Cyndi, of course.”

The click of a tongue. “Int… ow! Stop it!”

“You stop it, I know I have better taste than you, you tosser.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m not judging!”

“Sure you’re not! You wear the same face Regulus does when he’s trying to figure out things!”

He stops. Coughs a little, mostly to pretend that didn’t bother him. Lily doesn’t notice, miraculously, really, and is now plucking hairs from her brows, staring at the mirror. She then stops, as if remembering something.

“Where is Regulus, by the way? It’s been weeks.”

Sirius winces when she pulls one from the lower part, near the eyelid. “He’s in Paris.” It comes out of his mouth slightly angry. “Bugger thinks I don’t know, but I called the house to check and hear me out—Kreacher’s there. Wherever Regulus goes Kreacher follows.”

Pluck. She turns to him. “Are you going?” 

He shrugs. “Nah, what reason do I have? Besides, he’s taking some time out.” 

“Wasn’t he studying grindylows or something?” 

He snorts. “So he says.”

“Sirius,” Lily’s tone is softer yet firm. Like when Harry does something bad and she wants him to confess. “What is it?” 

“He’s—he said—” he huffs, bitterly. “I can’t talk about it, actually.” 

Her brows are furrowed now, and then her eyes change. Realising. “Oh, you found out.” 

Sirius shifts in his seat. “What—what did I find out? If I may know, because I really don’t think—”

“He likes James,” she interrupts. “Has for a while now.” 

Guts. Churning. “You knew?!”

“All the girls know, actually.” 

“How?!”

She’s back to the mirror, as if she didn’t shock the hell out of him. “Oh, Sirius Black, don’t act as if we were thick or anything—we notice things, we know. I’m actually kind of shocked you didn’t, he’s your brother. Maybe you’re the one that’s thick.” 

He stays silent for a few seconds. Processing. How did he not notice? How—? There’s an uncomfortable feeling at the bottom of his throat. Is it always going to be like this? Every time he thinks he knows shit about Regulus, it’s as if his brother took a step back, leaving him hanging. Sirius had always been an open book, all his stuff displayed before him for people to grasp. For him to grasp. He—he wants to ask so many questions—

“When did you find out?” Is all that comes out of him. 

“During the war.” 

He cannot believe this. “That long?”

Lily huffs, nodding as if it was obvious. “Of course I did! You forget he’s my husband, Pads. As soon as we crossed the threshold of the house the first time I knew.” 

“How?”

It’s time for her eyeliner, apparently. She chooses a metallic bronze, pencils rattling as her finger digs in her little bag, she starts tracing her upper eyelid. “You know that saying that goes—‘the eyes are the windows to the soul’ or something like that? I read it somewhere, it stuck.”

“Fucking hell.” 

They stay silent for a while. Only noise coming from a pair walking nearby.

She halts, suddenly. Stare fixed on him. “Wait, is that why he’s gone? Are you being a prick?”

It’s as if his brain short circuits.“I—I’m not being a prick! I was shocked, okay?!”

“What did you say to him?”

“Lily.”

“Oh god.” Her stare drops to her lap, snapping out of it a second later. “Well, hope you apologise, if you said something hurtful.” She doesn’t even stop when Sirius tries to retort. “I think he already feels rejected.” 

“What do you mean?”

Lily sighs, “just talk to him, Sirius. He’s actually very open when you talk directly to him.”

More silence. 

He bites the inside of his cheek, considering.

A minute later he smiles again. “Who would’ve thought that both Black heirs would be bent as fuck?” 

The roaring laughter that comes out of her feels like a reward, his heart warming as he laughs too. 

“I mean it,” he continues, “all of Walburga’s and Orion’s efforts were nothing, guess we do know how to stand our ground after all.” 

The moment dies in both their lungs. His mind drifts off to his parent’s comments about him, about everything Sirius did, the way he did it. The moment he stepped in through Grimmauld’s doors wearing nail polish it had been an awful tirade. ‘The other families talk, Sirius.’ Walburga said to him for what seemed to be the tenth or hundredth time. ‘How are we supposed to find a good match in these circumstances? Shameful, my own flesh and blood—’

“She’s late,” he grits out forcefully, wanting to focus on something else.

Lily takes out a tissue from her purse, placing it close to her eye and blinking. Talk about multitasking. “Oh well, try to do her job, really—I still think it’s too early to be late.” 

Sirius hadn’t really said anything like that to Regulus, he’d never say something like that. But it had been a strange realisation. 

‘He’s with Lily,’ he had reminded him, protectively. ‘They—they’re my family.’

‘I know!’ Regulus exclaimed, was there a glint of embarrassment, what Sirius caught in his voice? Was it misery? ‘I already know, you think I chose this?’ 

“I don’t really know what neurology is,” he confesses. “She makes it sound complicated when I ask and by now I’m honestly scared to tell her.”

“Oh it’s just the brain, the nerves and everything.” A zipper can be heard and she shoves her makeup into her bag. “And the spinal cord. Lots of things to monitor, it’s crazy actually—” 

The door opens, and Mary appears. Sirius gets out and lets her in the back seat as she mumbles her hello’s. When everything gets settled, she crosses her arms and leans forward. 

“Thanks for waiting, loves. What did I miss?” 

Sirius grins widely, closing the door.

“Okay Mary, so—Cyndi Lauper, or Tina Turner?” 

“Tina, of course.” 

He nods, starting the car. “I share the sentiment.” 

He slides a tape through the stereo, and Tina Turner’s voice becomes the only sound floating around them, Lily starts humming and he taps his fingers to the rhythm. Of course it all escalates and by the time the chorus starts, the three of them are loudly singing along.  

“Oh, what’s love got to do,

Got to do with it?

What’s love, 

But a second-hand emotion?”

 

Half an hour later, at a local pub, the conversation flows. Sirius orders his only pint of the evening and drinks slowly, stealing glances at James as they laugh at a funny story from Marlene. 

He wonders if he feels it too, the mild quivering of anxiety at the back of his mind. They all know what day it is—what day will be tomorrow. Sirius doesn’t think it's a coincidence everyone could meet today, but he accepts it. He banters and cheers with the rest of them. Lily kisses his cheek as they leave. 

“Take care, okay?”

When he returns to the flat hours later, he’s feeling fine. 

He’s feeling so stupidly fine. Sirius cooks himself some dinner and sits at the kitchen table. Everything is so silent. He eats, he turns on the television for a moment when he feels he needs the noise. He prepares tea.

It’s all so perfectly normal, he swears he’s feeling fine. But when sleep keeps drifting away from him, when he’s tossed and turned, when he’s even had one full fag then washed his teeth again, his feet do the walk down the hallway by themselves. 

He picks out whatever, he picks out a certain book with a folded spine, worn out like at least half the small library in there. The way his fingers skim through it is already natural, robotic even. The first notes appear, making him stop. There’s meanings of words in margins, question marks, even a flower doodle. 

That’s his favourite, he keeps coming back to it. 

I think this character is full of shit. Sirius snorts. 

It’s finally a little after three am that he accepts he won’t get sleep tonight, so Sirius gruntingly gets up and sits by the window.

Of all those years staring at the sky at night, gazing at very known constellations, he never thought he would find himself doing the same thing years later; staring at the moon instead. 

“Do you—do you talk to me, Moony?” His head leans against the cold glass, letting himself slip from his put togetherness once, placing his fingers against the pane. “Do you miss me?” 

There’s a deep wrench at his throat. And all he can think about, all Sirius can painfully hope for is that he’s not alone. 

•••

“Did you know I love the birthmark on your back?”  

Remus groaned softly as Sirius massaged his lower neck. “You might have mentioned it from time to time.” 

His hands went lower, moving on to the muscle behind his clavicles. “But that was way before I could touch it.” 

“You did say it then, also.” He closed his eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve said it enough.” 

November 9th, 1990.

“You cannot add the sugar yet.” 

Sirius snorts. “This is literally how I’ve been doing it for years.” 

“Exactly. That’s why the tart ends up soggy.” He hears from his place near the kitchen sink.

He furrows his brows. “You’re such a liar, the sugar creates a whole—syrup shit on it—”

“Soggy.”

This time he does turn around. “Regulus, I didn’t ask you to help, actually. You were supposed to be watching. And keeping me company.”  

His brother scrunches his nose, dismissively. His hands start motioning towards him from where they had been intertwined on the table. “The sight is torture.” 

“Well, listening to you is worse.” 

Regulus blows raspberries and falls into the chair in the kitchen. “Wanker.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Tosser.”

“Blunderbuss.”

“Bufflehead.”

“Scamp.”

“Chatterbox.”

That makes him huff. “You’re more of a chatterbox than I am!”

“Are you even listening to yourself—?” He asks, just as Regulus keeps on talking.

“You’re insufferable—”

“—Wa-wa-wah, that’s all I hear.”

“I’m not going anywhere near your fucking soggy tart, I mean it.” 

And Sirius grins. “Good.”

It’s probably a while until his brother breaks out of his nonchalant facade. His finger is tracing an ill-looking dent on the mahogany, made by Harry five years ago when he still couldn’t control his magic and had a proper fit that involved several light fixtures and knives, somehow. 

How he loves him, truly.

“You were gone quite a while,” Regulus says, suddenly. “Didn’t answer our cards until days after.” 

He blushes. Ridiculously. “Great observation.” Then he pushes the tart into the oven. Moving up to the roast, then.

“Sirius.”

“I—” He cannot help the smile on his lips. And yes, maybe he vowed for secrecy, but he can barely keep his hands still from the excitement, and he knows he’s been sighing dreamily every time he remembers Remus, his Remus will come back to him. Every time he remembers he will kiss him again, and will hug him again and will finally put to good use that goddamn soft mattress he bought after he left. And he will show him around London. Again. So really there’s no use in keeping it from him anymore, he supposes. “I found him, Reg.” 

Somehow, he doesn’t seem surprised. “Where?” 

“Spain.”

His stare does swing out of focus, though, sounding thoughtful. “Evidently.” 

“He said he’d come.” 

“Here?”

“It was an arduous endeavor,” he chuckles. “He’s supposed to get on a train today.” 

There’s a few minutes in which the only sound in the flat is of him chopping vegetables and taking out different containers, until it gets interrupted by Regulus clearing his throat.

“Sirius, I—” his brother starts, cautiously. “Remember when I went to Paris three years ago?” 

He nods, peeling a carrot.

“I did investigate grindylows and all that.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Okay…” 

“But there was also—”

Regulus doesn’t get to finish his phrase because the ringing of the phone drowns everything out, he perks up instantly, heart racing. 

“Shit, I’m sorry—it’s probably him, hold on a sec,” Sirius tells his brother, bolting to the phone as if it was oxygen, raising it up in a millisecond; saying with a honeyed voice,

“Sirius Black speaking.”

But there’s no answer on the other side. 

Instead, he finds himself talking to a heavy, rasped breathing. 

Something is wrong. 

“Remus? Is that you?”

There’s a sob. And he can swear his soul leaves his body. 

“I’m sorry,” the other man says. His words are slurred, and he sobs some more. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” he keeps repeating. 

“Moony?” 

Suddenly he can’t breathe. 

“—I’m a fuck up, I’m sorry.” 

He glances at the clock. 5:35. He’s supposed to be on the first train already. “Moony, where are you?”

Regulus stands up immediately, sensing his distress. 

“I really wanted—” Remus sobs, and Sirius grips the phone like a lifeline. “I thought we could—”

He is growing more agitated by the second. “Remus what is going on? Where are you?” 

“I want you to know that I love you,” he can barely mumble to him. “I love you, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry—”

“Don’t say that to me! Don’t fucking say that to me—” he can feel himself on the verge of crying too. “Where are you?” 

But then the line goes dead. And he really feels as though he’s being choked. 

He tries to return the call. It fails.

“Sirius, what happened?” He hears Regulus asking. He doesn’t care.

He tries again. 

And again. 

His fingers are shaking and he hasn’t really registered that the only thing keeping him up is his hand against the table. 

“Sirius.” His brother puts a hand on the dial. 

“I don’t know! I need to talk to him!” 

“What did he tell you?” 

He shakes his head because it cannot be. He promised. 

“He promised he would come.” He’s frantic. Regulus’ stare changes in a heartbeat, his eyes fall, confused, and if Sirius wasn’t on the verge of breaking down maybe he’d be sneering as he says:

“Oh, so he changed his mind?”

No. He cannot. The call fails.

“There’s something wrong.” 

‘I’m sorry.’

Regulus’ tone is almost outraged. “Is there?”

He wants to scream. “I know there is.” 

The other man sighs, as if he knew something, as if it was expected. “Sirius, if he’s changed his mind—”

“He hasn’t, he promised.” 

Fails.

‘I’m a fuck up.’

“Sirius…” 

But he just doesn’t seem to understand. Remus wouldn’t do that to him. Remus loves him. He paces. 

And paces.

Then it clicks. 

He walks over to the fireplace. 

“You’re honestly not thinking about going begging to a bloke,” his brother says flatly. 

Sirius stops before reaching for floo powder. “It’s Remus.” 

“So you’ve said.” 

He shrugs, anxious to get out of there. “Well, you have your answer.” 

Regulus strides through the room until he’s by his side, grabbing him by the forearm. “What am I supposed to tell everybody?” 

Why is he still keeping him? “I don’t know!” He frees himself from his grip. “Just tell them I have some business to attend to, I don’t care!” 

“Siriu—”

And with that he’s gone. 

He arrives at the city hall seconds later. The same he has stepped into so many times before, the same marble floors he crossed almost a day earlier. Busy as usual, there’s paper planes flying around, the sound of heels as people hurriedly walk by and the soft shushing sound from many voices talking at the same time.

“Mr. Black, we didn’t expect you back so soon…” Jack, one of the secretaries, tells him, surprised.

“I’m sorry, can’t stay long—” he tries telling him, bolting to the door before bumping into a lanky boy carrying several rolls of parchment. They fall to the floor. “Shit, I’m sorry—”

“Watch where you’re going, for fuck’s sake!” A girl behind him exclaims, carrying other rolls herself. 

“I’m sorry, I need to go,” he tries saying apologetically, halfway out the doors already. 

“Jerk.” He hears her mumble. “Come on, Leo—”

And he’s on the run. 

“What is this painting supposed to represent?” Remus held him in place, not letting him read the information on the card below. 

“Tragedy.” The corners of his mouth rising. “Shakespearean shit.”

“No it’s not—” he got closer, squinting. “It’s not—”

“It is.” 

Remus’ shoulders fell when he finished reading. “It is.” 

It was an effort to suppress the need to laugh triumphantly. 

He raised a brow, instead. “Shall we go to the naked sculptures and make fun of their—sizes?” Not really a question, actually. He was already on his way.

“Sirius—” 

Somehow, his name has never felt like a curse when it comes from his lips. 

When he apparates a street from Remus’ flat, the sun is already on its way down. Probably six something, he thinks, absentmindedly, before rushing to the building. 

Sirius casts a charm as soon as reaching the door, opening it in a second and finding Erik on the sofa of the living room, staring at the ceiling, making him jump from the shock of him barging in without notice.

“Oh—Scheiße—”

“Have you been here all day?” 

He blinks, off guard. “Ich—” He shakes his head. “Just—just got off work...” It immediately clicks in his head, his shoulders fall as he notices Sirius is alone. “Where is Remus?” 

“I don’t know, he didn’t get on the train,” he explains, getting angstier by the second. “He called me, and he was crying—”

But the other man isn’t listening to him anymore, only saying no in a quavering voice, rushing to his room. 

There’s frantic ruffling for a moment, then a thud. 

‘No.’ He hears again, so he walks up to him, desperate. 

Erik is kneeling on the floor, an empty box by his side. Knuckles white and eyes closed.

“What is it?”

His chest rises and falls heavily, he sits down.

He’s trying not to cry, he notices. 

“He took it all.” 

“—What?” 

“Money.” 

“For—the train?” 

He exhales deeply, shaking his head. “For drugs.”

“But he isn’t—”

“No, he is.” He’s losing his cool, he winces. “He is.” 

“What?”

“It started out with painkillers first.” Sirius feels shivers down his spine. “But now he’s moved on to harder stuff, and I’ve tried to get him to stop but he doesn’t—”

“But he never—”

“Nah he’s fucking good at hiding it,” the other man mentions, with a sigh. “Didn’t even notice myself at first.” 

“How long?”

“August.”

And he could die, truly. 

“The painkillers?”

“No, those he has been taking since I know him.” He stands up, swearing in german, Sirius understands now. “But it’s—alcohol, and—pills and lines and shit—” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

That makes him stop.

“I don’t even know you,” he drawls, as if offended. “What the fuck am I supposed to say to you?” 

Heat flares all over his chest. “Well, I could’ve done something!” He complains.

“I have tried to do something!” Erik yells. “But he’s fucking stubborn and proud—”

And fucking hell, can’t he shut up? “I know him!” 

“Do you?” He scoffs, bitter. “You don’t know half the shit—that’s a lot to say, actually. Rich, coming from you.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” 

He doesn’t respond to him, only staring out his window for a while until he simply says in a tired voice, “I’m not going to fight with you. Remus wouldn’t want that.” 

Sirius feels the rage slipping from him almost miraculously. He cannot deny that. He turns around to the hallway he had stepped in days ago, remembering the warmth of his palm against his chest and the imploring eyes. 

He closes his eyes, feeling quite uneasy. Why? He wants to ask him, in his mind. Why would Remus do something like this again?

Why the fuck would he leave him again?

“I’m going out to look for him,” he says, leaving it as an open invitation, whether the other man wants it or not.

He doesn’t say anything, but grabs a thick coat from his closet and puts on some boots while Sirius goes to wait for him in the kitchen, fingers tapping the surface of the counter before seeing him emerge once again. 

So he walks out, transforming into Padfoot without warning so he can follow his scent, still lingering faintly on the air around them. 

“Moony but it looks so good on you!”

Remus stared at himself in the mirror of the store, not meeting his own eyes as he traced the rest of the clothes. 

He didn’t believe him. 

“Hey,” he whispered to him. “See that girl over there? She’s been eyeing you since she got here.”

Something flashed on his face. “I don’t want that.” 

“Moons, Moons—” he patted him on the back. “It ain’t about that.” 

“I’m sure she’s seeing you, instead.” 

“It’s you.” He planted a kiss on his cheek. “Because you’re beautiful.” 

When Remus raised his head again, there was another pair already focused on him. The girl turned around hastily. And Remus could observe his face at last. 

It’s one am when they make it back to the flat, exhausted. No trace of Remus even though he’s pretty sure they even went all the way to Getafe, stopping for food—once, and rest every once in a while. 

That brings back memories. 

Sirius could probably cry if he wasn’t so damn worried. And confused.

Erik sits on a chair at the dining table, rubbing his eyes, sighing. “I’m sorry,” he says, sounding genuinely out of sorts. “Should've gone with him, I should’ve known.” 

“There’s no way of knowing when he’s going to do this,” he replies. “It’s not the first time, probably not the last.” 

He feels the need to elaborate when they lock gazes, and he knows what the other man is thinking about. 

“He’s done that before—before. When his parents died.” 

“Should’ve known either way.” He rests his head in his arm. “I read the pamphlets and all—” 

Then, as if remembering something, he goes to his room, returning with a different variety of paper booklets, showing him. “Went to the fucking clinics, too. They’re in spanish, though.”

He nearly rolls his eyes. “I speak five languages.”

Sirius browses through them, hands slightly shaky. ‘Understanding the addicted brain’, ‘Signs to look out for’, ‘Withdrawal signs and symptoms’.  

How the fuck did he not notice? 

Why the fuck did he not—push? 

The other man yawns, leaning against the kitchen counters. “I think I’m going to—” he points to his room, not looking at him. “Make yourself comfortable.” 

Sirius nods. 

Perhaps it’s mercy, perhaps the hour—just before he steps through the door, he stops him. “Don’t be sorry.” 

He’s not making amends, but he knows he doesn’t deserve the emotional weight. The other man smiles sadly, his frame weak from exhaustion. 

“I am, though. He didn’t want to be helped, so I stopped pushing.” Erik shrugs. “Thought I’d have more time, but I’m always wrong.” 

He hears the door closing after that. He goes to Remus’ room a while later. 

But Sirius does not really sleep that night.

He gathers hair and anything he can from his bed, he takes notes, and calculates. Places he might have gone to, places he might have been—remembering the gentle almost nonexistent traces he found, comparing with a map—and a pen. He sits down, glancing all around. 

He left his cane.

And the potions.

So he probably disapparated directly from here. There’s a small pain when he takes out his wand and casts an Appare Vestigium, like so many times before. Sirius closes his eyes, trying to sense his magic there long enough for the tracking spell to work. 

And Remus’ magic. If he could ever put a colour to it it would probably be a golden ocher, if it ever had a smell, it would be cinnamon rolls in the oven with an open window in an autumn breeze. If it had a taste it would be of his lips while eating figs. He’s normally so full of it, he doesn’t even notice most times. It’s as if Remus had an alleviating effect on him—or probably everyone that he meets, actually. 

Sirius used to tell him all the time. Sitting on the sofa of the common room back at Hogwarts, or sharing a tub on their flat after splashing a bit and later comparing their wrinkled fingers as he casted a warming charm on the water again. ‘It’s like you make it all go silent, I swear to you, Moony.’ 

That used to make him laugh. 

‘It’s quite the opposite to me, actually.’  

He sighs, heavily. Laying down in his bed, surprisingly still made. Why the fuck would he do this again? Had he gotten nervous? Had he—felt overwhelmed? 

Had Remus been afraid of telling him? 

The denim jacket he bought for him is dangling from a hanger on the closet door. He takes one of the pamphlets and holds it over his head, reading its contents. ‘Signs and symptoms of cocaine use.’ The paper reads, his eyes falling on the things on the list that make more sense to him. 

• Participating in high risk behaviours. 
• Marked mood swings. Like all those days they spent arguing, how he seemed calm for a moment and then snapping at the other. 
• Dilated pupils. Like he had back in this room, lying down next to him. 
• Chronic runny nose. Fucking hell. 
• Increased libido.
• Engaging in risky sex. Like the club.
• Lying.
• Stealing.

Sirius stops, abruptly. Feeling nauseous. ‘August.’ The other man had said. But it simply can’t seem real in his head.

He opens another. 

‘Users may alternate between feelings of euphoria and deep despair (…) may struggle with concentration, retaining information and have lapses in judgment—’ 

He’s been so stupid. 

Had Remus been sober for any of it? He doesn’t think so. 

Had he been completely conscious when forgiving him? 

Sirius sinks into the pillows, smelling strongly of him, and closes his eyes; he feels like crying, but the tears do not come. Maybe that’s for the better. He’s not sure he could ever stop if they started. 

Had all of this been condemned from the start? Somewhere deep down, past all confusion and the initial shock, he guesses he should have known. 

‘I want you to know that I love you.’

“We were at a club, and don’t laugh at me I swear—” Remus laughed either way, a sultry, comfy sound to his ears as they shared popcorn on a bench. “I started crying.”

The other man wheezed, hiding his face in the crook of Sirius’ neck. He blushed. “Why were you crying at a club?” 

“I felt really nostalgic that day, Moons.” And a pair had been kissing to a romantic song , that’s what he didn’t say. “I was a mess, I’m pretty sure I ruined everybody’s night.” 

His skin had more freckles than he remembered. And his cheeks creased when he smiled, making his eyes narrow charmingly. An excellent inspiration for him to keep on sharing embarrassing stories all evening long. 

His laugh was a sound he would probably kill for. 

It’s jarring, the feeling of being alone. The feeling of reaching out to the other side of the bed instinctively after years of not having done so anymore, only to find it empty before your brain can even assimilate. Because it takes a week to build up a habit, as they say, and a day of breaking it for your body to pretend it never existed. 

Remus isn’t there. 

His stomach twists, achingly. Then it growls when noticing another smell coming from the kitchen. And the sound of pans clattering around. 

Sirius gets up abruptly, almost falling down from the motion. He didn’t mean to fall asleep. 

His map is still there. And the awful papers he read yesterday, now creased by the weight of his body on the mattress. His clothes feel uncomfortable on his skin, and he gets a horrid impulse to simply—tear it off. 

Why? Is all he can think about. He exhales. 

He covers his eyes with his hands. Calming down. 

Today. 

He might find him today, and this fucking nightmare might be over as soon as it even began.

He slowly unbuttons his shirt, and finds one of Remus’ jumpers on the first drawer of the dresser in front of the bed, right underneath the weird shaped window. It’s got an odd combination of colours and lines all around that he surely bought during the last decade. It does feel soft to the touch. 

When he finally feels strong enough to get out of the room, Remus’ roommate is already eating. 

“Made breakfast.” He motions to a pan on the stove with fried eggs, sausages and ham on a separate plate. 

“I hate eggs.”

He only shrugs, nonchalant. “Didn’t they teach you to be grateful and shit?” He keeps eating, not sparing a second glance at him. “Probably not, forgot you are a poshboy.” 

He stops on the way to grab a sausage. “He told you about me?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

It definitely is an uncomfortable affair. They do not talk, and at the evident lack of tea and lack of Sirius’ willingness to ask for it, he serves himself some coffee, too. Two sugars on it. Bitter enough for it to keep its flavour, enough for it to hit a bit sweet. He sighs. 

“What is that?” The other man asks, pointing to the map he left behind him. 

“A tracking spell.”

He goes rigid. “You mean you could’ve done this all along?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I casted it last night, and also, don’t know if you’ve even noticed—it’s not lightning up.” Sirius says, motioning to it. 

This whole situation could have been perfectly avoidable, thank you, Moony. He tells him in his head. 

He’s back to talking to him omnisciently. Fucking grand. 

Sirius starts glancing around, taking in the view from where he’s seated. There’s shoes beside the door, a brolly, coats and a green scarf all in perfect disarray. No way of knowing which stuff is who’s. 

There’s a pang in his chest, because that used to be them. 

Hate is too shallow of a word for this. “Were you two—ever—?”

“Why do you want to know?” He can feel the dismissal already. 

And fuck, isn’t he right. But he’s desperate, this might be the most he might learn about him and his life lately. Erik lowers his mug, scrutinising him.

“Maybe once.” He shrugs. 

Sirius straightens his back, crossing his arms. “So how long?”

The other man looks at him with a creased brow, like he’s crazy. “You want me to be direct? It all happened on occasion, once or twice a month maybe, sometimes not even that. Since Berlin, yes. Does he feel shit about me? Maybe once indeed, I don’t ask,” he continues. “Gave up on the sentimental side long ago. We both needed a friend, we were both lonely. There, you have it.” 

Maybe once. 

Sirius gulps down the last of his coffee. “He kept it going, either way.” 

“Can’t believe this,” he says. “Are you—? Do you even know how many times he—?” His hand is pointing to Remus’ room, his face frowns, scanning him with his goddamn ugly eyes for a moment. He chuckles, scornfully or bitterly there’s no way of knowing. 

As more silence settles within them, he really starts considering making this whole thing a solo mission. And it’s not that he hates the man. But if there was a choice, he’d probably prefer yet another stroll around the Forbidden Forest with slimy Filch instead of this. 

“It’s supposed to light up, you say?” He hears, as he rinses his plate minutes later.

And Sirius turns to the map again, heart racing. 

A small golden twinkling light stares back at him. Faint, but it’s noticeable. He drops everything in a second, snatching it and already making his way out the flat. 

It’s moving.

And it’s near. 

Remus is near. 

The other man follows him closely as he rushes through streets, glancing sideways desperately, trying to catch a glimpse, or a scent, or whatever thing that signals he’s there. 

He must be there. 

They walk through busy streets, they bump against people, they squeeze through gatherings—and they find nothing.

“There must be something wrong,” Erik pants. “It keeps disappearing and shit.”

“I’m never wrong,” he tells him. Though he does doubt. It’s not that the spell can be mistaken, but it can be a little off, can’t it? It’s happened once, but it only took a week to find him. He crouches down on the pavement, defeated. “It can’t be wrong, I found him like this before.” 

They keep resting for a while, until something occurs to him. “Don’t you have—work to be at?”

“Fuck work.” Erik exclaims, toying with a ring in his finger. He wears a proper Billy Idol attire, with a white sleeveless shirt and leather cuffs, the fucker. He guesses that was the appeal for Remus in the first place. “Hate my boss.” 

“You’re out of savings and you’re not going to go to work?”

“Yeah well, maybe I am in a downfall myself,” he mumbles under his breath. “Let me see.” 

Sirius hands him the map, which now appears to light up two streets from where they’re at. “I do know this street,” he says, as if cautiously. “Maybe—” 

They lock gazes, and then they’re on their way again. 

It’s fifteen minutes later that they’re leaning against a wall again, in the midst of a stream entering and leaving stores, carrying boxes, and assortments of bags. He even saw a Christmas tree being dragged down the pavement. It’s barely the second week of November, for fuck’s sake. 

“It’s not moving.”

Sirius groans. “It’s fucking twinkling again, fucking hell.” 

“Let’s—let’s get some water.” 

“You go in, I’m not moving from here.” He straightens up the paper once again. “He must be close.”

While the other man enters a restaurant, talking with a wide smile to a waiter and taking out his wallet, something shifts. 

It’s as if he could feel a ringing noise in his ears, a gentle hint of it, noticeable enough. It’s funny how his senses perk up after transforming into Padfoot for a while. He glances around. 

There’s a man with an enormous coat, trying to balance himself on his feet. His heartbeat starts racing. He walks up to him, trying to get closer. 

But it’s not Remus. 

He sighs, panic threatening to rise in his chest. Erik returns with two paper cups, offering one then tilting his head in confusion when taking a good look at him. 

“Alright then?” 

“Something’s weird,” is his response. 

“Well, maybe we’re finally—” he starts, but suddenly stops. He tenses up, stare fixed on somebody exiting a building. 

“Where is the light thing now?” 

“Right here, somewhere in these buildings.”

His eyes are still fixed on the front, and when Sirius follows his sight he notices a sylphlike woman, holding a set of keys in her hand as she walks down a flight of stairs, clutching her puffy jacket like not expecting the cold. 

“Stay here,” Erik says to him. 

He scoffs. What the fuck is he playing at? “Of course I won’t.” 

He puts a hand on his shoulder, and Sirius thanks Effie for teaching him how to control himself years ago, teenage him would’ve already broken this tosser’s nose. “I mean it, I think—this might not be nice.”

Something unpleasant starts gathering in his stomach, he ignores it. “I don’t think I care, actually.” 

So they get closer, and when she gets a glimpse of the man accompanying him, her face turns severe. She stops, setting her arms around her chest. 

“Oh so he sent you to make amends now?” 

To say his guts fall right through the floor is an understatement. 

He doesn’t know anything about Remus, does he?

“So you’ve seen him?” Erik does seem nervous, glancing between her and Sirius, as if he really didn’t want to be there.

She quirks an eyebrow, setting a lock of peach coloured hair aside, looking confused. 

“We don’t know where he is,” Sirius chimes in, trying to make sense of the situation. “I suppose you know him?”

That makes her snort, “oh I know him? That’s fucking grand, actually.” When she tries to keep on walking Erik stops her.

“Please,” he urges. “Have you seen Remus lately?”

There’s something off, he can sense it. 

The woman sets her jaw, staring down both of them. “Yesterday. He was in a restaurant down the street.” 

“What was he doing?” 

Why can’t he shake the feeling off? 

She doesn’t really seem to want to talk to them, staying silent for a while, biting her cheek. “Christ, I’m so done.” 

She takes out a white, pristine envelope, a folded paper waiting to be opened inside. “He tried to talk to me,” she scoffs. “Then he bolted, of course. Don’t even know what I expected.” 

Erik unfurls the letter, scanning it frenetically. His eyes fall, and Sirius doesn’t really need any words to confirm what he already knows, but when the other man turns to stare at him concerned, his lungs stop working. It all spins. 

He understands the big jacket now.

“What did he do?” He asks, almost silently. 

“He left.” She sounds bitter. “But you know what? Good fucking riddance. I take care of myself just fine.” 

And Sirius can’t breathe. 

He doesn’t really register anything else apart from that. 

They keep talking, but he doesn’t listen. He gets a notion of them exchanging numbers, or addresses. He’s not really focused. 

He starts walking, not really thinking about where he’s going. And it all makes sense then. Remus’ wards had never gotten weak, it wasn’t Remus who he found weeks ago. It was her. 

He leans against a wall, breathing heavily. 

‘I really wanted—‘

His stomach twists, making him fold. 

‘I thought we could—’  

Sirius looks at the floor, heaving; there’s a wince, and a lurch. He chokes, feeling everything returning up his throat. 

Erik finds him minutes later, trampled up in an alley, crouched down on the floor. 

Somehow, it’s as if there was a blackout. 

He does not remember walking back to the flat. 

He doesn’t notice anything until they’re inside, and the other man gets startled. When he glances up, he meets a pair of ice blue eyes standing next to the books on the window. 

“Regulus,” he breathes, “what are you doing here?” 

“Lily terrifies me when she starts asking questions.” His brother smiles. “It’s more believable this way, isn’t it?” 

Sirius’ eyes tear up instantly, walking up to him. He sobs. 

“Hey.” He catches him as his knees buckle. “Hey, I’m here, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” 

And he lets himself cry, at last. 

He cries until his head hurts. He cries until he feels like throwing up again, useless, he knows. His stomach is completely empty by now. 

He keeps holding onto him as Regulus asks the other man what’s wrong, and when the words ‘Remus is having a kid’ reach his ears, flashes of what he saw in the cave unstoppably flood his head. And the image he saw that time turns crystal clear.

Remus, holding a baby. 

Happy. 

With a baby in his arms.

The one thing he’ll never be able to give to him. 

His brother hugs him tighter, resting his chin on his head while tracing soothing circles in his back, perhaps the only thing keeping him sane at the moment, as if trying to take away his pain. Yet, when he closes his eyes, he truly wishes that it was Remus, instead. 

Chapter Text

“This is not fair.” The sound of metal clashing could be heard. “You’ve already had half of it, Moons! Stop!”

“You shouldn’t have gotten the chocolate one, you know it’s my weakness.”

He was chuckling, his cheek with a streak of brown sugary paste he desperately wanted to lick off his face. The spoons kept on their hellish crusade.

“It was supposed to be half and half!”

“I never agreed to that.”

“You nodded!”

“I crossed my fingers.” 

His mouth dropped open. “Well, that deserves punishment.”

Remus bit his lip. “What type of punishment?”

“I’m not kissing you the rest of the day.” He got up from the seat, as if very affronted. When he turned around again, the other man had his spoon poking out of his mouth, very entertained with himself. 

“You’re still eating it!”

“Mercy. Have Mercy on me.”

There’s a memory Sirius keeps going back to in his head. 

There had been fairly good weather out there in good old Godric’s Hollow, James had no practice that day, Lily had just started what Sirius loved calling her potion empire, and Harry was only three years old. Almost four.

Summer. 1984.

She had worn a light green dress, insisting they all packed a basket with an assortment of food and beverages in it for a picnic, arguing there weren’t many days like these and making them jump from their cosy spots in the living room where they had been enjoying a rendition of Mary Poppins, which Harry seemed to really enjoy judging by the number of times he had put it on the tv. 

“You think the umbrella is her wand?” James asked, scanning the screen as if he hadn’t seen that same scene countless times before. “Like Hagrid.”

‘Um-bre-lla’ Harry repeated, piling up blocks in an enormous tower on the rug, asking his uncle Padfoot to do the same every once in a while with a tug at his trousers. 

“I reckon—she must be a hell of a witch, look at her. That’s wandless magic.” He pointed towards where she was singing and swinging around. “What about the statute of secrecy?” 

“Shit. Hadn’t thought about that.” 

That’s when Lily had come barging in from upstairs, stopping at the foot of the stairs to put on her shoes.

“We should go out, the sun is shining,” she said, pinning her hair up. “And there’s no way I’ll sit through another run of that film, I’m telling you.” 

Sirius pouted his lips. “But I’m not dressed for the occasion…” he stopped when he caught her stare through the mirror. 

“Not a word.” 

He got up. 

Lily could always convince anyone of doing anything she wanted. 

So they arrived at a meadow, green grass all around, mixed with small flowers and bees swarming in every corner. They were almost alone, picking out a spot under a tree while Lily swished Harry around, another family staring at them from yet another spot under another tree. 

“Shit, did we pack the sandwiches?” James asked, biting his tongue and frantically searching the small basket that fit his whole arm thanks to the extension charm. He hoped the other family hadn’t noticed. 

“On the other side,” Sirius chuckled at him, smiling as Harry tried picking up a flower with a bee on it.

‘No, sweetie, not that one—’ Lily kept telling him. 

The toddler had run and run until he was worn out, dozing off with a blueberry gripped in his hand and grass stained trousers, small round glasses askew on his nose, fingerprints and mud all over. 

Glasses he saw James grab from his face really delicately, absentmindedly talking to Lily about things Sirius cannot recall now as he took out a small bag from the basket and started cleaning them. Taking his time. Raising them up to his face every once in a while to assure they were completely fine. 

He leaned in. “You remember there’s a spell for that? Nobody is staring.” 

His best friend had only smiled, sliding the cloth a last time before shrugging. “Come on Pads, where’s the love in that?” He placed Harry’s glasses on his nose again, sparing a small moment to rumple his hair softly, in fondness. 

Orion would’ve rather died than do anything of the sort. 

And it was a powerful message indeed, in a world where magic could do anything for you, a handmade gift or gesture really was a jewel between a sea of stones. 

And yes, it might have been a result of a childhood spent in a Muggle home, but Remus always did everything that way.