The first thing Remus noticed when he stepped into the bathroom was the silence. It was oppressive and thick, and it wasn’t the sort of quiet he’d been used to—no, this was new. It was a silence that hung in the room, thick and weighty, like it had its own presence.
And there, slumped over the edge of the tub, was Sirius. He looked so much smaller than Remus remembered. His hair was hair falling in messy tangles over his shoulders. It was long now, too long—greasy, unkempt, a shadow of the wild, rebellious mane Remus used to run his fingers through when they were younger. He didn’t look up, just stared at the water running.
Remus knelt beside him, so close that his own breath shook as it brushed Sirius' pale skin. He was also careful not to move too fast. He’d learned, over the weeks since Sirius had come back, that sudden movements unnerved him. They reminded him of something else. Something unspeakable. Remus had never asked about Azkaban. He couldn’t bring himself to. The dark hollows under Sirius' eyes were enough to tell him what he needed to know.
"I’ll take care of you," Remus managed to say quietly. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Sirius' shoulder, and the skin there felt cold, almost brittle, as though it could shatter under too much pressure.
Sirius didn’t flinch, but he didn’t respond either. His eyes were half-closed, staring blankly at the water filling the tub.
Slowly, Remus picked up the shampoo bottle, his fingers trembling as he squeezed a little into his palm. The mint scent hit him—sharp, cool, and clean. It filled his lungs, a refreshing bite that stung his nose, waking something deep inside him. A memory. Something from the past, before everything fell apart. He worked the soap into Sirius’ hair, the crisp smell of mint cutting through the air between them. He moved slowly, his fingers weaving through the coarse, knotted strands like he was trying to untangle more than just hair.
"I’m here," he whispered, feeling like he needed to say it, but the words felt too thin, too light against the weight in the room. But they were all he had.
Sirius let out a breath, but he still didn’t speak. He hadn’t spoken much since he came back. There were moments when Remus thought he might never hear Sirius' voice again—at least not the voice he remembered.
The water rippled softly as Remus rinsed Sirius’ hair, watching the suds swirl and drift away in the bathwater, disappearing into the murky depths.
He wanted to say more. About how it hurt—how every day since Sirius had been locked away felt like a gaping wound in his chest. About how much he hated himself for doubting him. For thinking, even for a second, that Sirius had betrayed them. Betrayed James.
He swallowed the words, unable to voice them out. Too much time had passed, too many wounds left raw and bleeding between them. He didn’t know where to start, didn’t know if saying it out loud would make the pain better or worse.
Without saying anything, he grabbed a pair of scissors from the sink. He hadn’t planned this, but as he looked at the mess of dark hair clinging to Sirius’ gaunt face, it felt right. Something to give back to him. Something small.
Sirius didn’t react as Remus carefully lifted a section of hair and began cutting. Snip. The sound was too loud in the quiet, echoing off the tile. Thick strands fell, hitting the floor in soft heaps.
Remus worked slowly. He wasn’t an expert, but that didn’t matter. The hair was long, so long it seemed to swallow Sirius whole. When he was finished, it was still long, but lighter now, brushing just past his shoulders instead of hanging limp down his back. It framed his face, sharper now, still thin and pale, but more familiar.
Remus placed the scissors on the counter, brushing the last strands off Sirius’ neck. "There," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Better."
Sirius blinked slowly, lifting a hand to touch the shorter ends. His fingers lingered there, as if he wasn’t sure it was real. For a brief moment, Remus saw something flicker in his eyes—maybe recognition, maybe relief. He couldn’t be sure.
Then they simply sat there in the bathroom. Two broken men, trying to find the pieces that still fit.