Remus Lupin always just did it.
It was a superpower, really, bestowed on him at five years old with the bite of a vengeful werewolf. Over years, his parents, teachers, and friends had marveled at the way he could take discomfort and fear in stride. Transforming into a wolf every month wasn’t easy, nor was hiding it from almost everyone in your life the way he had to do at Hogwarts. And though he’d never admit it – even to himself – for fear of too big a head, their pride in his resilience had wedged its way into the constellation of his identity.
The way Remus saw it, he was simply doing what he had to do. There were no viable options, besides pressing on. Go to class, change the bandages, track the excuses. This chance at an education was his only shot at a career, financial sufficiency, and the dignity of acceptance, so he couldn’t squander it. But more than that, Remus saw the meaning in it. He genuinely liked his classes, and he saw the value in learning for its own sake. His friendships – the Marauders, Lily and the other Gryffindor girls, even that one Hufflepuff boy he studied silently with on Friday nights in the library – and of course, Sirius, meant the world to him. The practical obligations made it all necessary, but it was those sparks of meaning that made it bearable. Even joyful.
“Remus? You’ve never done this before.”
A pause.
“I’m getting worried.”
At no response, Sirius shut the bedroom door again. This was the third day in a row that Remus was spending in bed, and that was not normal behavior for the boy who always just did it.
But there was nothing to be done for it now. A conversation later, perhaps, whenever it was that Remus did emerge from his cocoon; or at least a probe for information on the type and scale of the problem. For now, distraction.
– – – –
This must’ve been what people meant by sea legs. The room swayed and swirled as Remus lay perfectly still; his bed was a ship and the waters were choppy. He knew it was annoying. He’d never planned on being the partner who couldn’t hide his darkness even when it was prudent, straining and struggling to make room for a life for himself and for Sirius beyond it. He tried to comfort himself with his intentions, but no swath of good intention and desire for balance would matter if he couldn’t execute it.
It all started last year, when he’d caught a stomach bug. He couldn’t hide his fear – apparently it’s called ‘emetophobia,’ the phobia of stomach illnesses and throwing up. But Sirius and the rest of the Marauders had supported him through challenging it, until he was living his life again.
At first, he thought he’d conquered it within a week. He called to mind what his dad had taught him about boggarts and the broader concept of laughter to bother fear, and what McGonagall said when he was a first-year about having control over how you respond to uncontrollable thoughts. He remembered how the Marauders responded to his fear with kindness, and he was convinced that with all this support, he could challenge any level of fear. He could remember that maybe, the outcome would be good.
But it ended up more complicated than that. Apparently some fear is stronger than any platitude or support system, even when you really want to gratify good ideas and good people with your success. Challenging his fear each time it reared its ugly head was something like juggling an insane amount of dungbombs, and inevitably a fair number of them dropped. So he muddled through his last few months at Hogwarts before graduation, both hurting and happy, before his joy just couldn’t keep up.
Now, he could hear Sirius washing the dishes by hand, splashing and crashing with the same clumsy rhythm as ever. A fondness surged in Remus at the noise. He slid one foot out from under the covers perhaps to tease and playfully take over, momentarily forgetting his resolution to make himself scarce until he could be what Sirius needed.
Then he slid it back in, remembering. Sirius probably didn’t want the hug from behind that was waiting to be released from Remus’ arms, making them shake a little, or the kisses dropped in flowing hair. He probably just wanted to be left alone, and maybe to text James.
– – – –
“Remus?”
Sirius padded into their bedroom that night unwilling to let his boyfriend hide any longer. He had opted to take a long shower after doing the dishes, using the time to collect his own thoughts. A new hopelessness had taken Remus since graduation, and Sirius would be lying to himself if he said it hadn’t affected their relationship. At Hogwarts, they’d built their relationship on trust and joy. The joy seemed to be gone now. And perhaps the trust was fading too, more and more with each apology.
“Hm?”
“What’s going on?”
“Sorry.”
“You’ve said. Can you tell me about it?”
The silence was heavy. Remus wanted to tell Sirius about it, more than anything. He wanted to promise to stop saying sorry when what he really wanted to know was whether he was worthy of the love he was being given, and he wanted to promise that he’d return to the heady but steady, goofy and loving personality he’d had when they first fell in love if he could just have a little more time to recalibrate. But he wasn’t sure he could promise those things, because what if this was his new normal? Phobic, exhausted, and unsure of himself and his capacity to love the way a healthy partner would need for him to love?
“I’m not what you need.”
“And who are you to tell me what I need?”
Remus knew he should be reassured. That’s what Sirius was trying to do, right? Underneath all the various formulations he’d used in the past few months was the same: don’t worry, we’re fine. But he wasn’t – he was cracking under the pressure of asking himself how long they could be fine if he wasn’t fine.
“Fair point,” Remus mumbled. He scooted closer to Sirius, wanting to show him that he’d heard, even if his doubting mind wasn’t letting him believe. Sirius gladly took him into his arms and held him.
He kissed the top of Remus’ head. “I like being here for you, you know,” he said, “it’s because I love you.”
Internally, Remus vowed to keep working on needing less and doing more, because he wouldn’t let himself consider that he didn’t need to earn love that way. But on the outside, he squeezed Sirius’ hand and hummed.
“I love you too.”