Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth
You pull on your finger
Then another finger, then cigarette
The wall-to-wall is calling
It lingers, then you forget
Oh oh oh, you’re a rock ‘n’ roll suicide
You’re too hold to lose it, too young to choose it
And the clock waits so patiently on your song
You walk past the café, but you don’t eat
When you’ve lived too long
-Rock 'n' roll suicide, David Bowie
Sirius coughed while taking a puff of the cigarette he held between his fingers. He remembered Remus explaining to him how to take a long drag, but he couldn’t seem to remember how he was supposed to. He always smoked on Remus’ cigarettes, during those long nights where they felt the need to express how much they appreciated the other’s presence. They would share a cigarette and listen to some music. Sirius would only take one or two real drags, mostly concentrating on Remus’s face. The latter always seemed peaceful, looking at the people walking on the streets. Some were going to parties, or coming back late at night. They always were in a small group, talking loudly and happily, sometimes carrying several bottles of different alcohols. Others were walking their dog or wandering the streets, like they were some nights, contemplating the city’s lights and discovering new streets, new neighborhoods. Even after months, after years, Sirius felt like he still had so much to discover about London. There were also, waiting at a crossing a few dozens meters away from their window, prostitutes. They were chatting between themselves, a few different languages could be heard. They waited for any men that could be interested in a quick fuck, awkwardly charming them so they could finish in a few seconds, leaving as fast as they came. The two lovers would watch those guys run away before looking at each other, raising their eyebrows. Sirius would then close his eyes, humming along the song.
He never saw how Remus would, right at this moment, drag his eyes away from the street to gaze at the man he loved with such force it sometimes hurt him. He would never tell Sirius how he genuinely felt about him. “I love you” was so much easier to confess than “Every time you disappear when you’re upset, the world shatters around me, leaving me restless and hurting, longing but never daring to chase after you.”
Sirius ignored a lot of things. At this moment, he realized just how much he did. Maybe, if he had let his eyes open, if he had stared at Remus for a little bit longer, he would have caught his gaze. But he hadn’t. So he never realized just how much he mattered to Remus. He would never know that Remus would have done anything, would have given up his own unstable life if it meant Sirius could smile a bit longer, live a little bit longer.
But Remus was not here at this moment. He wasn’t here to convince Sirius not to give up on everything.
Sirius looked at the cigarette. He bought it in an odd corner shop, where he panicked when he realized he forgot the brand Remus usually bought. He then remembered seeing a movie star with a long, fancy cigarette called a “vogue”. That’s what he bought from the cashier. He came back home ashamed of having made a fool of himself. The always so sure of himself Sirius Black had known a great downfall. He knew a few Slytherins guys who would be more than happy to see him now, so frail and unsure of himself. He was never the most muscular of his friends, he gladly let James take that role. However, he still was in good shape, playing sports with his best friend when asked or running around the castle to escape Filch after setting up pranks. He hadn’t even been smoking for years, because it was so Remus, so he didn’t understand what made him lose so much weight. Damn it, he wasn’t even starving himself. But as he looked at his wrists, he realized how thin they were. Remus would sometimes take one of them in his hand, easily joining the tips of his fingers around it. Now, he probably could have taken both wrists at once with the same ease.
The dark rings under his eyes were more pronounced than ever. Truthfully, he wouldn’t have been able to tell how many hours he slept that week. It was maybe Friday or Saturday, so he hadn’t slept for at least two days. On Wednesday night he had taken a ride on his bike, ordering Chinese food to take away. He had then fallen asleep on the couch, chopsticks on the ground, leather jacket still on his shoulders.
The first time he and Remus had been to that Chinese restaurant, they hadn’t even managed to reach dessert before wanting to go back to the warmth of their bed, their limbs tangling, arms wrapped around the other. They had just moved in, and never wanted to let go of that new life. James would tease them, saying they had the same attitude Lily and he had had when moving in together after getting married. Sirius sometimes caught himself wishing he could marry Remus. Even if getting married wouldn’t change much, it would at least have been proof of the other’s undying love. “In sickness and in health”, they would have sworn. But would there have been health? They were both sick, twisted. Not that it mattered much now. Sirius was alone, sick in the head, with no one next to him, no one swearing their undying love to him.
He had often wondered what was wrong with him. Of course, everyone must ask themselves that question at some point, often as teenagers, when puberty led them to question everything that was part of their personality. Sirius wasn’t special, everyone suffered to some extent. The family he grew up in didn’t make things easier. But he escaped, and he never let them destroy his confidence or his convictions.
The problem came from himself, from his mind. He was deeply sad, and it was not caused by anything depressing that happened to him. It was already here, just worsened by his traumas. He tried to be brave, not let his own mind reduce his capacities, trying to be the best version of himself he could. But sometimes, he looked at the scars his own mother inflicted on him, and it felt his body didn’t belong to him. He then wanted to claim it, and would add more wounds to his already hurting body. But those scars, they were his. The blood coming out was beautiful. He could control his own pain. It was satisfying. He was the master of his pain.
One morning, he looked at Remus and the scars on his back while they were getting dressed. He felt ashamed of his actions the previous night. Remus had even more scars than him. They were proof of his illness. He sometimes hated himself for having those scars, finding himself ugly. And here was Sirius, ruining his pale skin with red stripes. Even though he found Remus absolutely stunning, he was unfair. The ones his mother inflicted on him were because of his own stubbornness. All of those scars, they were his fault. Remus didn’t ask to have those scars, but they were slashing his face and the entirety of his body. If he knew Sirius was hurting himself, he would probably be upset that he was ruining his perfect skin.
The other realized, at some point. They were too physically close for him not to notice the too recent marks. He had kissed them, healed them, and never had asked questions Sirius didn’t have answers to. The latter was grateful. He tried to stop, for a little white. But for weeks it had become too hard. His whole body was aching. He was in so much pain he sometimes felt like he couldn’t breathe anymore. Then suddenly, he managed to gasp, put his head above the water he felt like he was drowning in. That night was one of those gasps.
He looked at the fire slowly dying until only the filter was left. One last glance at the empty street before he came back inside the flat to throw out the cigarette. He left the window open, the chill air of the late night coming into the living room. He took a glass of water in the kitchen, dehydrated by the thick smoke, the smell of nicotine burning his lungs. While coming back, he stared at the two sets of keys in the entryway. He couldn’t still quite realize Remus was gone.
Did it feel like that, when Sirius disappeared into the night, running away from his problems after they argued. Was he grieving his comforting presence? Was he worried? Or maybe he was hoping that Sirius would show up after a few minutes, a few hours, and that they would kiss before settling back into their familiar routine.
Maybe if he stared at those keys, at the front door for long enough, Remus would suddenly enter the flat, exhausted but happy to see his lover. Sirius brushed the thought away. It was silly, Remus was not coming back, Sirius had to live with it.
Or not. He had only been surviving for days or weeks. But tonight, he was gasping. Better than gasping, he was breathing. He smelt of nicotine and old books, wearing one of Remus’s favorite sweaters, that he one day let Sirius steal from him. He finally felt at peace, for the first time in days, since the bike ride. The man went back to the window, shivering when he felt the wind hitting his face. It must have picked up while he was in the kitchen. The street underneath was as empty as he left it. He climbed the window, and sat on the sill. He raised his head toward the moon. It would be full in a few days. Smiling to himself, he let go of the ledge, his body quickly falling. He didn’t jump. It wasn’t a nervous action, impulsively made as had been most of his decisions lately. He let himself fall, slowly in his head. Time didn’t matter anymore. Not when he felt calm. Not when he finally found solace in that fatal fall.