The sweet descent into insanity
For what it was worth, Remus Lupin didn’t literally descend into insanity. Insanity, was a much, much more serious state of mind that Remus was fortunately spared from. Although, and don’t argue with him there, Remus honestly, truly believed that he was losing his mind for the weeks to come. In hindsight, it was hilarious; but in the heat of the moment, the agnostic Remus literally turned to the sky and prayed.
Remus would later describe his three-pronged approach to insanity as follows — the utter hell of yearning; introduction to masochism; and finally, God, please take me into your arms. It might have been Remus’ worst two months of his life.
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Part 1: the utter hell of yearning, by Remus Lupin.
Yearning, could possibly be one of the worst feelings known to mankind. It was a constant wanting; a desperate need, some might say, for that one thing, that one fucking thing, and not getting it. Yearning was that horrendous point in time where you could never know if you were going to get what you want, or not, and God, Remus hated it.
Honest to God, Remus would rather be upright rejected than to yearn. He hated not knowing; he hated standing between the lines of ‘Please, please, give me what I want!’ and the unknown decision that followed the plead. It was torture, and Remus didn’t quite like being tortured. Well, not yet, at least; leave that for Part 2.
“Get fucked.”
That was the last message between them, and to be more accurate, that was the last message that Remus had sent Sirius, before slamming the book of Sirius closed. Glued it shut, even. It was the end to their seven-year long story, as Remus dictated, but that didn’t mean it was easy for him.
Ending that story felt rather akin to slamming a door shut with his fingers held between. It was horrendously painful, except it wasn’t his fingers that hurt, it was the entire cavity of his chest. He felt like a pumpkin on Halloween, carved into with a cold metal spoon, all sleek edges to make it extra slow, extra painful, extra torturous. Remus would much rather be hit by a car.
Maybe he was stupid, but he never expected it to hurt quite like that. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the anger that fuelled him when he sent that message, but now that all those jagged feelings had subsided, he was left with nothing but a deep wanting. A deep yearning for the person he just told to get fucked to reply him. To pay him just a little bit of attention. It was quite disgusting, really, how quickly his own mind turned on himself. How, within a span of a week, all those rough energy had manifested into an ache that plagued him like, well, the plague.
After the first week, Remus eyes were metaphorically glued to his phone screen. If he didn’t have to commit to a thing called work, he’d probably glue it down, literally. So, yes, Remus did spend the whole of the second week waiting for a message to pop, and not just any message, a message from Sirius Black. It never did come, and boy, did it hurt him like hell.
By the time the third week plunged around, Remus’ phone screen was almost permanently displaying his instagram messages. When day slipped into night, and his time spread free like a harlot and her legs, Remus was there, on instagram, waiting. He waited, and he waited, and he waited some more and it always led to the same conclusion — nothing. Sirius Black had forgotten about him, and it felt like someone had reached through his ribcage and gone to town on his heart with a potato peeler.
In the dead of the night, when the roads were quiet and the people were asleep, he sent a quiet pleading to anyone who would listen. Mind you now, he wasn’t praying — he was an agnostic after all — but he figured, if anyone did hear his pleads, maybe they could help him. Some way or another. Well, his pleading fell on death ears; maybe he should have done it when the world was awake.
Part 2: introduction to masochism, by Remus Lupin.
Two weeks after he had been snubbed, left on read, forgotten by his first love, Remus Lupin had turned to a new coping mechanism. No longer was he pleading to the mystery man that could grant his wishes, no, Remus Lupin began his search into the depths of hell, scouring every nook and cranny, all in the search for pain. Yes, Remus had quite fallen for a thing called pain.
He did everything short of actually hurting himself. It started with work. Remus plunged himself headfirst into all the assignments and projects at work, and for a man that didn’t enjoy what he did, he sure did a lot. He was part of at least three ongoing projects, two of which had an upcoming deadline within the month. For him, that meant that August had bled into September so seamlessly that he hadn’t even noticed; he was too blinded by the utter workload that he carried on his back.
Sleep became a luxury that Remus couldn’t afford. Luckily for him, sleep wasn’t what he was after, rather, it was pain. As his nights grew shorter in exchange for impending deadlines and a stark increase in workload thanks to incompetent colleagues, his pain increased tenfold. His back hurt so much so that sitting was painful. He had taken to standing while he was at work, and lying down as soon as he got home. Then, there were the migraines, and they were bad. They bore into his head like a wayward drill that couldn’t be turned off, and sleep just got that much lesser. The lesser the sleep, the worser the headache, and it was just one vicious cycle.
He revelled in it, all that pain that was inflicted on his body from his unworldly schedule. Not only was he getting paid overtime, which was always a welcomed exchange for his time, he was absolutely getting wrecked. He was a zombie; all he wanted to do was bite, bite, bite, bite into the work and never let go. Never feel that ache in his chest. It worked marvellously. He was in so much physical discomfort that for a really, really great month, he forgot about the emotional pain. He forgot about the instagram messages. He forgot about him.
Pain, physically anyway, was his new comfort. It soothed him in the way nothing else would, and he let himself be consumed by the pricks, the aches, the dull thuds against his skull. Pain, as it was, became his reason to keep going; it was his secret pleasure. A masochist, Remus concluded one day, he was a masochist. Boy, was he misguided. And wrong. And so utterly stupid that one could do nothing but pity him.
Part 3: God, please take me into your arms, by Remus “no longer an agnostic” Lupin.
The worst of it came in October, a whole year after he turned down the proposal. While one might think that to be the reason for his final descent into insanity, they would be so indisputably wrong. Remus Lupin was, after all, insane; and the insane were unpredictable, at best.
It began with the conclusion of the majority of his projects — namely the two that kept him occupied over the past month and a half. That, unfortunately, meant that he had more time on his hands, and therefore, had the opportunity for rest. Despite himself, he succumbed to it, and it was with a relatively painless body that had him in attendance of the wrapping up drinks.
Remus, who had been one of the highest contributing members of the project, was being celebrated. He was being toasted left and right, and his glass never remained empty for more than a minute. He was the man of the hour; congratulations and words of gratefulness showered down on him and he drank, and drank, and drank. It was more out of obligation than anything that he drank so much that night.
He must have been weaker than he thought, after all those sleepless nights, because he was tipsy by the time he downed his seventh drink of the night. Lucky seven, as they said. His mind was abuzz, and it was a funny thing, really, that it felt very much like the wings of bees and hummingbirds from that night, where the buzzing was in his head rather than his stomach. That thought should have stopped him. He shouldn’t have continued drinking after that resurfaced memory from that night. After all, it was that night that started it all; the night where Sirius Black had gifted him a keychain with that stupid tender smile that he loved so much.
That was the catalyst for the night, really, it was. With the keychain at the back of his mind, thinly veiled by the memory of bees and birds and all things fauna, Remus’ drunken gaze all but zeroed in on a familiar keychain that hung on the zipper of a bag from way across the pub. A manta ray keychain. No, more accurately, a blue fucking manta ray keychain. A stupid fucking blue manta ray keychain, quite akin to the one that he gifted Sirius, in reciprocation of his own black one. His mind blanked.
Eyes traced up the keychain, falling upon the muscular shoulders, and then onto a mop of black hair. Black hair, Sirius had black hair, Remus remembered through the haze in his mind. The keychain, black hair, Sirius Black was in the very same pub as him. Sirius fucking Black, the fucker that snubbed him two fucking months ago, was in the very same fucking pub as him. Oh God. Oh, fucking God, indeed.
Remus stood from where he was seated, determination written across his face. He was drunk, he was upset, and he was angry; he was going to confront Sirius Black. He excused himself from the table, not that anyone was paying attention to him anymore, and with careless stumbles and ungraceful strides, he made his way over to the table where Sirius was sat. Angry, angry, angry; he was buzzing with adrenaline, and alcohol.
Sirius’ shoulders were shaking, he was laughing, and Remus scoffed, from where he was still making his way over. How dare that little bastard laugh, have the time of his life, after the emotional torture he had put Remus through! He was a stinking tosser, and Remus was angry, angry, angry, and nervous. He was nervous; he hadn’t seen Sirius since that time in the aquarium.
He was now a foot away, staring down at the mop of hair. His vision was dancing in twos, no, in threes, and keeping himself upright was a sport in itself. But no, Remus was still angry, and he was very nervous, but most of all, he was so, so drunk.
“Sirius,” he called, slurred actually, as he tapped on Sirius’ shoulders. Tap, tap. Two hard taps because he was angry and he was nervous and oh, his heart was thrumming an obscene beat in his chest. He wondered what that was about.
Sirius turned, and fuck, did Remus not recognise him anymore. He was wearing glasses, and Sirius didn’t wear glasses, did he now? Did his eyesight worsen since they last saw each other? The brown eyes, that wasn’t Sirius’ either. Sirius’ eyes glistened under the sun, it was all blue and it was the sky and it was the ocean; it wasn’t mud. It wasn’t stupid, muddy brown like his eyes were. His skin, When did Sirius get a tan-, and all at once, Remus realised his mistake. It wasn’t Sirius.
“Mate,” the guy said, “do I know you?”
Remus stared, his mind reeling. It was his turn to speak now, wasn’t it? Not-Sirius asked a question, it was proper etiquette for him to respond now, wasn’t it?
“Hey, you okay?” The guy asked again, brows furrowed. “Sirius is running late, but he should be here soon, all right?”
Sirius will be here soon. Sirius. Here. Soon. Fuck.
Remus turned away, wordlessly, rudely, and he was gone. He weaved between the crowd, blood rushing through the vessels of his ears. It was deafening, like a waterfall embedded in his eardrums. He couldn’t hear, but he could only hear all at once. It was hell, it was hell, and he wanted to rip his ears off. He wanted it to stop.
Sirius would be here soon. Sirius would be in the same pub that he was in, soon. Sirius who he had told to get fucked. Sirius who had not replied to his message. Sirius who he so fucking missed. Sirius, Sirius, Sirius, and he would be here soon. Remus needed to leave. He couldn’t see Sirius. He wasn’t angry, the adrenaline was gone, all that was left, was dread. A dread so deep, so dark, so sharp, and Remus heart was bleeding into itself. He had to get out.
He found his colleagues, all in varying levels of tipsiness, and he bade them a goodnight. He had an emergency, he told them, and that honestly wasn’t even a lie. He had to get out, and so he did. He left the pub without a second glance back at his colleagues, at Sirius’ mates. In fact, he left with his own head hung low, just in case, just in case a certain noiret walked in as he left. He wasn’t going to take the chances. All these because of a stupid fucking manta ray keychain.
When Remus got home that night, or early dawn for that matter, he fell onto the floor. A baby giraffe, with legs splayed in all directions and slipping hooves. At some point in time, he had cried, his cheeks were now caked in the tight strain of dried up tears. He needed help, he desperately needed help; and for the first time in his life, he looked to the sky and prayed.
Clasped hands and whimpering words, Remus prayed. He prayed for the feeling to stop. He prayed to be pulled ashore. He prayed for the pain to ease. Blubbered apologies and knees knelt to the ground, Remus prayed. He prayed for forgiveness. He prayed for his sins. He prayed to be given a chance. Desperate heart and a pain so, so deep, Remus prayed. He prayed for the story to end now. He prayed for the book to seal shut. He prayed for no more Sirius Black.
God worked in mysterious ways, Remus knew that. God created the people, and he loved them like his own, he did. Those that he loved so, so much, God usually called them back early. They were given a raise in the ranks, they got to be an angel. While Remus wasn’t worthy of that angel-like love, God still answered his prayers. He answered his prayers in the mysterious way that he did, by doing the exact opposite of what Remus had asked for.
His phone vibrated to life with a single message at 4:44 in the morning. Angel number and all that other astrological nonsense — a sign from God himself, some might say.
“I think we need to talk."