Remus stared dejectedly at the mess before him.
His textbooks strewn over each other like fallen corpses— Crumpled drafts of paper littering the scene, quill and ink abandoned beside them, his wand tossed ontop of it all like a match in a dumpster fire. He glanced at the crisp, untouched parchment: his Charms report.
Spring had finally sprung. Sunlight pooled on the dormitory’s wooden floorboards, a soft wind ruffled through branches, girls giggled down to Hogsmeade, Quidditch players flew about the grounds.
And, he cursed, Midterms had sprung as well.
It was almost April, meaning the season’s first full was nearly upon them. His head swam distractedly, his legs ached, and his back screamed no matter how sat. Or slept. Or did anything at all.
Sirius, however, relaxed and stupidly carefree, was sprawled across Remus’ bedspread. He lit himself a fag, his previous one still warm in the ashtray, and exhaled. The smoke from his first was still lingering in the sunlight, the atmosphere hazy and slow.
He was gorgeous like that, eyes closed and arms spread wide, one leg dangling off the edge and the other hitched up, his long dark hair cascading behind and beneath him. His expression was one of thoughtless serenity, basking in the warmth with not a thought in the world.
He was unsure as to whether Sirius’ essay had been finished, (or even started for that matter), but nobody ever knew with him. He could avoid schoolwork for weeks on end, only to have it casually completed on submission day. He was always confident, even when his scores were below sea level, that he could pull it together before final grades were released. And somehow, he always managed it.
Remus dipped his quill in ink, etched ‘The’ into his paper, (with a capital ‘T’, as this was the first word he’d written besides his initials in the top left,) and sighed in agony. The open window looked especially inviting when pain was preventing him from jumping out of it.
“Hey,” paper crinkled as Sirius dragged himself across the bed, reaching out and gently unraveling Remus’ hand from where he’d worked it into his hair, massaging his tight knuckles.
“Let it go for tonight,” he suggested, moving on to his wrist and smoothing the tender skin there.
“Mmm,” Remus hummed, his lips pressed into a straight line. He watched the Hufflepuff’s toss about a Quaffle. One dropped it— laughter ensued. Meeting Sirius’ gaze felt impossible. Just turning his head felt impossible.
“It’ll all come to you tomorrow,” Sirius promised. Remus let him stack the books and papers onto the bedside table, let him fix and fluff the covers, let him massage his knuckles some more, let him press close against Remus’ shoulder.
“I’m stupid,” he blurted into the silence.
“You are not stupid.”
He opened his mouth to retort that he most certainly was stupid, that he just couldn’t do it, couldn’t do anything, and all at once he was sobbing into his hands. Deep, punching sobs that forced him to sit up for air, gasping and heaving.
Sirius came up with him, smoothing his hair and cupping his cheeks, interlacing his fingers with Remus’s own, whispering all sorts of nice things to him like he’d seen it coming the whole time.
Moving to sit in front of him, their knees touching, Sirius gently coaxed Remus’ hands from his face and held them in his lap, still rubbing and smoothing out the pencil-ache.
Remus told him everything; the nights he’d spent over easy assignments, the relentless brain fog, the everything. And his body gnawed at him all the while.
“I just feel so dumb,” he finished. “So dumb.”
It was Sirius’ turn to hum in response, pressing gentle kisses into Remus’ puffy face, reassuring him over and over. He moved over Remus’ neck, whispering into his skin as he went, telling short stories of past successes and more important matters. Remus had to admit, finishing his Charms report felt a bit less significant compared to the time he’d enchanted his wand to buzz like a razor and went around casting spells behind people’s heads.
Sirius urged him to lay down, and the guiding pressure of his palm against Remus’ lower back was enough. He sank into the sun-warm pillows, blinking back tears of relief. His pain wasn’t entirely alleviated, it never was, but the change was instant. He knew it was what he’d needed.
Sirius looked as though he wanted to speak, to scold Remus on how he should have just told him, he can’t handle everything on his own, if only he wouldn’t bottle it up every time, but instead he opted for a quiet:
“you know you’re worth more than just a dumb assig-“
“Yes, I know that.” Remus snapped, cutting him off.
Sirius smiled, leaning on his elbow and looking down at Remus through the hair in his eyes. His gaze was worried—frustrated, even—the kind of look Remus had come to expect from anyone who cared about him for more than five minutes. But still, it overflowed with adoration. He was as beautiful as ever, even while dealing with Remus’ mental breakdown. Remus loved him for that.
Ignoring a stab of pain in his shoulder he guided Sirius’ head to meet halfway in a kiss, relaxing into the mattress as Sirius pressed himself down to fill the space. He felt thumbs soothe across his ribcage and hold his waist, tracing patterns.
While their kisses remained light due to Remus’ exhaustion, both their shirts ended up somewhere on the floor and Sirius’ third smoke had been lit. Remus lit one for himself, as well, much deserved in his opinion.
“Did you ever finish yours?” he asked.
“My hmm?” Sirius replied, blowing smoke into Remus’ face.
“Your report.”
Sirius admitted that he hadn’t completed his report. “Matteruhfact,” he added, rubbing his cigarette in the ashtray, “I haven’t even touched it.”
The following hours were spent drafting and eventually getting to work on Sirius’ essay. Remus even got something done on his own with some encouragement from Sirius.
It became a short-lived routine: writing and drafting as the sun set over the dormitory, sometimes joining James and Pete by the common room fire. The banter of two mediocre chess players wasn’t too bad for some white noise.
And, eventually, when the due date rolled around and their papers were collected, both boys were fairly confident in their chances for a perfect score. There was little time to celebrate, however, as Sirius was whisked away to daily Quidditch practices and Remus was left to his own devices each afternoon.
Spring was rapidly breaking into summer, the Gryffindor team practically sweating off their broomsticks. Sirius, Remus knew, was relying on his Charms report to pull him through the semester. But, rolling about on the field in a fit of laughter, he looked as unbothered as ever.
Remus— polluting the air with his third smoke in a row, blindly searching Sirius’ beside drawer to steal his fourth— just barely missed the stack of loose parchment as his fingers closed on a box of Marlboro Reds.
A much smaller stack compared to the final product, despite it being finished; complete with ink blotches and notes in the margins. In truth, Sirius hadn’t minded lying and redoing his essay if it meant Remus could relax. In fact, he’d do it over and over again.
He’d meant to help Remus, and he had. But, without Remus’ help in return, Sirius’ report would’ve been worth an 85 percent at best.
However, when the results came back, both of them shining with perfect scores, giggling into each other’s mouths behind the curtains of Remus’ four poster bed, Sirius couldn’t bring himself to admit that just yet.