His heart is pounding in his chest, louder than his breathing if that’s even possible. He forces himself to take a breath but they come out rasped and short. It feels like a panic attack but he’s had enough of these to recognize that it’s not.
His hands shake, but not in the anxious way Peter describes, it's more that he can’t get them to sit still. Like they have a mind of their own that requires them to be moving at all times. They move from the sheets which he balls up in his hands, to his hair which he tugs on harshly. It’s too much, but it’s not enough.
He had just enough sense when he first woke up to check his heart rate. 123, and that was laying down he can only imagine what it is now that he’s sitting up. His legs jerk and he rips off the blankets suddenly too warm to be normal. He stands up, ignoring the way the blood rushes to his feet, pooling and making them ache.
He needs to do something other than sit here. He needs a smoke, he needs a drink, he needs something other than nothing. Heart still pounding and breath coming out short he makes his way downstairs and pours himself a glass of water. He downs it quickly, nearly choking as he is unable to breathe while swallowing.
Nobody knows about these yet, they usually occur while he’s sleeping, not that he sleeps often. Despite his constant fatigue he often finds himself too restless to fall asleep and on the nights or afternoons that he does he wakes up even more tired.
Remus groans, as he checks the clock, despite looking at the numbers his brain is too fogged to actually comprehend them. He knows he’s reading and his brain recognizes the numbers but he can’t seem to tell himself what they are. He exhales deeply before taking another gasping breath and downs another glass. His foot is absentmindedly slamming against the ground over and over exerting energy he is unable to feel.
“What are you doing up, do you have any idea what time it is?” someone interrupts.
It’s late, Remus knows that much. The days have been blurring together in a way that makes his already dizzy head spin.
“No, actually I don’t” Remus rasps, immediately regretting his decision as he has to take an even larger breath to consempate for what he just lost.
“Mate, are you okay?” the person steps into the light of the kitchen, revealing themself. Remus can't even remember if he was the one to turn it on.
“Go back to bed Sirus,”
Remus really can’t handle this right now. Being around Sirius already makes his heart race and his palms sweat. He doesn't need the new additions.
“Let’s sit you down, okay?” He phrases it like it’s a question but Remus knows better and reluctantly flops into a heaping pile of sweat onto the kitchen floor.
“Woah,” Sirius says barely managing to catch him “I meant like on the couch or something, or a bed.”
“I don’t think I'd be able to make it,” Remus admits and Sirius nods.
“What’s it like?” he asks after a few minutes of silence.
Remus takes another deep breath, this one feeling calmer and he nearly sobs with the knowledge that it’s almost over. “It’s like dying,” he finally says.
Sirius doesn’t react the way Remus’ had expected him to. Instead he just nods and begins to trace his constellation on Remus’ hand. “What else is it like, not just this but in general I mean.”
There are so many words that come to Remus’s mind, despite the brain fog he’s still experiencing.
“It’s like the world is on pause.” he whispers “When you’re in the hospital, stuck to wires, left alone with doctor’s who will gaslight you, the same boring channels on a small TV screen. It almost feels like the world freezes. There’s no more school work, no more friends, no more hobbies, just exhaustion and if you’re lucky, sleep.”
Sirius reaches up and wipes away a stray tear, one that Remus didn’t even realize was falling. He tugs his sleeve over his wrist and wipes at his face, before continuing.
“It’s getting blood drawn only for the test to come back normal. It’s MRI’s and EKGs and EEGs and money from your college savings dripping down the drain. And coming back? No one ever talks about coming back. About the stare you’ll get when you walk into school with a wheelchair or a cane or forearm crutches. They don’t talk about the stares you get even when you don’t have those things. About how you suddenly go from being an academic weapon to a medical mystery and a scientific experiment only to find that what you had is more common than a penny on a sidewalk.”
When he’s done speaking, a heavy silence forms between them. That moment where a healthy person asks how you’re doing and you make the mistake thinking that they care, that they can handle it and actually want to know. Where all they can think to say is—
“I’m sorry, that sounds like a lot.”
Anger blooms in Remus’ chest at the well-known response. It almost feels like it’s been rehearsed. Like something healthy people learn in school to say when people are suffering.
“If it helps,” Sirius says, apparently uncomfortable by the silence “You’re handling it really well.”
Well? Remus is handling it well? He almost wants to bark out a laugh at the irony. If he’s handling this well then he’d hate to see the people who are actually suffering. Remus can barely sleep without waking up and feeling like he’s dying. He can’t eat without bloating or running to the bathroom and throwing it all up. There are days that he can’t walk, where he has to rely on others to even get him a snack or help him to the bathroom. There are days where he can’t even get out of a bed not just because of the fatigue and muscle weakness in his legs but because he doesn’t see a point? The only sort of media he consumes now and days are about chronically ill teens, and those stories never have a happy ending. He scrolls aimlessly watching people decorate their canes (his still remains in its packaging) and girls pass out from a high heart rate, filling him with questions – is he valid? How come his heart rate never gets that high? How come he’s never passed out? It leaves him wondering what's the point in trying anymore when you’re sick and there’s no cure or chance at getting better. So he rolls over and pulls the blankets over his head and cries.
“Did I say something wrong?” Sirius asks hesitantly.
YES! Remus wants to scream, but he doesn’t. Because how do you explain to a healthy person the crown they wear, one that is only visible to the sick. You don’t.
“I don’t really know how to explain it,” he settles on instead “It’s complicated I guess,”
“Explain what Remus? Just talk to me, why don’t you ever talk to me?”
And Remus’ heart breaks. Because even when sick, especially now that he’s sick it’s his job to make sure no one truly sees or understands just how badly he’s hurting. And so they talk, and Remus lies about how he’s feeling. He leaves out the metaphors that help him understand himself and uses practical language instead. By the morning Sirius looks like he gets it, and Remus is even more confused than before.
“Thank you for talking to me about this Moony.” Sirius says, the sun rising behind him.
Remus smiles, forcing it to reach his eyes “No problem Padfoot.”