Run Boy, Run
Remus should be good at running. He had long, gangly legs which granted him a fast pace that Regulus always had to jog to. He should be good at running, in the physical sense. But he wasn’t. He actually had shit lungs.
But he was excellent at running in the metaphorical sense. He’d been perfecting it for seven years.
He left Sirius and McGonagall in the courtyard of The Metal Crow, ignored Marlene’s calls after him, and ran to The Clay Cat.
He locked himself in his studio and proceeded to have one of the worst panic attacks in recent memory. His knees gave out under him, and he slumped against the door.
The whole world was shrinking and expanding with every hammer of his heart. Noises went muddled and a ringing filled his ears. The cold light of clouded sunshine was bright and artificial, too much like hospital lights.
Remus heaved as his whole body lay paralyzed and shaking, the phantom ghost of Greyback’s knife ringing against his healed skin. The sharp memory of hospital antiseptic filled his nose, followed by the pain, pain, pain.
With a weak, shaky hand, Remus called Pomfrey on speed dial.
He usually didn’t call her except to catch up every once in a while. He’d been able to manage his attacks on his own for a few years, so usually his calls were updates on his life and asking about her’s.
“Hello, dear,” Pomfrey answered as she always did. “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Remus tried to speak, but could only let out a desperate wheeze, hoping she’d understand.
She always did. Her casual tone sharpened with awareness, but stayed light.
“Where are you right now, Remus? What do you hear? What do you smell?”
Hospital. Gauze. Beeping. Sweat. Blood.
“Do you hear traffic? Birdsong? Do you smell food? Or clay?”
What? All he could smell was bleach. All he could hear was beeping—ringing?
“Feel around yourself, Remus. Just as you’ve always done. What’s underneath you?”
His skin felt the memories of stiff hospital sheets but as his fingers moved around, all he could feel was smooth, cool concrete covered in a thin layer of clay dust. Remus clung to it like a lifeline.
The smell started replacing itself with the usual musty smell of his studio—of clay and graphite, like the interior of an artist’s tool kit. Remus sucked in the smell, slowly regaining control of his breathing.
“Look around you, Remus. List five things you see around you. Name their colors.”
Gray concrete. Clear windows. Brown desk. Black sketchbook. Green chair.
He wasn’t in pain, he wasn’t in a hospital. He was in his studio in New York, seven years removed from that nightmare.
“I’m back.” He croaked when the ringing finally faded. He was covered in sweat and exhausted.
“You never really left.” Pomfrey replied simply. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Will it help?”
Her usual response was to ask if Remus thought it would help, but the desperate, almost childish way he asked made her switch tactics.
“Talking of the issue, giving it a space to show itself, is the first step to confronting it.”
Remus let out a sigh and slumped further against the door.
“I saw Sirius Black. I saw him a few months ago. I had my face covered—he didn’t recognize me. Until today. Saw my face. Heard my name. He knows.”
“What happened then?”
“I ran and ended up here.”
“How did he react?”
“He looked like he’d seen a ghost.” Remus laughed bitterly. “He did.”
“Are you a ghost, Remus?”
“Getting closer every day.”
“Condolences.”
He smiled at the dry reply to his dramatics.
“Did you have an attack when you saw him the first time?” She asked.
“Yeah. Not as bad as this.”
Pomfrey was quiet for a moment. Remus focused on his breathing.
“What are you going to do?”
That was the big question, wasn’t it? What could he do? Sirius undoubtedly would want to talk to him, perhaps to get closure or make amends to alleviate guilt. Remus knew he hated leaving things unsaid.
Or maybe that was the Sirius he thought he knew. The real one, the one he had just seen, was the one who chose to abandon him. Maybe he didn’t care about Remus or closure at all. Maybe he had no guilt.
Sirius Black, who he once thought he knew intrinsically, was a mystery to him now.
“I don’t know.”
——
He talked to Pomfrey for another hour after that. She’d sensed he no longer wanted to talk about it, and started telling him about the honey she’d been collecting from her beehives. Remus mostly listened, letting her soothing voice center him.
By the time they hung up, he had to get to Sanguini’s. It wasn’t until he’d changed into his uniform that he realized Sirius might try to find him there. The thought of it nearly sent him into a spiral again, but he forced himself out of it and trudged to the bar.
Lily immediately picked up on his mood and wordlessly took the brunt of the workload with only a brief squeeze of his hand in acknowledgement. He was endlessly grateful.
Every time the door opened, his heart skipped in fear. Every new guest moving up to the bar had his hands shaking. It was the worst shift of Remus’ life, but by some miracle Sirius never showed up.
Perhaps Remus’ second analysis of his character had been right. But he wasn’t taking any chances.
Regardless, during his break he warned Lily that he was going to quit Sanguini’s that night. He felt terrible—her face fell and she was clearly disappointed—but she gave him a quick hug, told him to do whatever he needed, and that she’d miss their shifts together. She immediately followed that with a threat to hang out more often or she would personally ensure Remus’ entire sense of style was outcasted by society.
Remus had no doubts in her abilities to do so.
Slughorn was seemingly both annoyed and relieved when Remus told him he wouldn’t be returning. He’d clearly never cared much for him, but was agitated he hadn’t gotten a two weeks notice. Remus told him he’d get his uniform dry cleaned and Lily would return it to him, and left.
——
After quitting Sanguini’s, Remus went to The Metal Crow in the middle of the night and moved his metalwork to his studio. He’d thankfully finished the welding, and no longer needed to be anywhere except in his own work space.
He disappeared from any space where Sirius could possibly try to look for him. He locked his studio whenever he was there, as it was the one potentially known space he couldn’t afford to leave. He covered the lovely glass walls with paper so he couldn’t be seen and when he wasn’t at The Clay Cat, he was a hermit in his home.
Regulus raised a cool eyebrow when Remus told him he wasn’t working a second job anymore.
“Can you afford rent?” He asked, although he didn’t sound all that concerned about it.
“I’ve got some savings until I find something else.”
So, Regulus just shrugged and Remus moped around the apartment for a while. It was weird having hours of free time. Regulus’ rehearsals were in the evenings, so he either hung out with Remus or with Barty, Evan and Pandora somewhere. As far as Remus knew, he didn’t have a job beside the Broadway gig. Vaguely, he wondered how he was affording rent.
He tidied up and did a deep clean of their apartment—not that it was particularly dirty. Regulus liked keeping things pristine, but Remus had been slacking to pull his weight in chores.
He worked on a few of his smaller projects in his room, usually little sculpted animals or faces that he sometimes sold during exhibitions at The Clay Cat.
He did some job hunting, looking for any bars or cafes hiring bartenders and baristas, making sure to look farther than walking distance from Sanguini’s. No promising leads just yet, but it was only the first few days.
——
A few weeks passed in this fashion. Remus only worked at his studio at night when everyone else was gone. He spent the rest of his time at home.
He didn’t even know Regulus was concerned about him until he called for an intervention. Marlene, Dorcas, Lily, and Pandora showed up on a random Wednesday afternoon and cornered him with Regulus.
“You’ve become a hermit, Remus.” Dorcas began gently.
“We don’t see you anymore. You don’t take shifts at The Clay Cat. Mrs. Figg keeps asking where you’ve gone.” Marlene said next.
“I’m this close—“ Lily held a small gap between her fingers. “—to eradicating your wardrobe from society, Lupin.”
“Too late.” Regulus cut in.
“Fuck off,” Remus grunted. “I’m fine, Mrs. Figg will live, and my wardrobe is timeless.”
“You dress like my grandpa,” Marlene rolled her eyes. “I swear to god, I’ll visit and think he’s you crabbing about how no one wears cashmere anymore and ‘only wears that polyester crap'.”
“Cashmere is comfortable!”
“Not when it’s a cardigan from the forties!”
“Guys,” Pandora interrupted. “we’re getting off topic.”
Marlene huffed, and ran a hand through her mullet. “Right. Look, you need to get out of the house. My brothers have a bar in Little Italy. There’s an opening and we think you should take it.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“We all know that Remus,” Lily said gently. “but it doesn’t mean you have to.”
“It’s not much fun to call you poor anymore,” Regulus put in. “just sad. And true.”
“Thanks, Reg.”
“What Regulus means is that he’s worried about you.” Pandora translated as Regulus cut her a glare.
“Marlene’s brothers are wonderful,” Dorcas added. “they’ll love you.”
“I’ve already threatened testicular torsion if they try anything idiotic.” Marlene grunted. “They’re stupid sometimes.”
“Like your sense of style if you don’t get your ass out of here.” Lily warned.
And through the power of friendship, badgering, and bullying, Remus took the job just to shut them up.
——
Vincent and Antony McKinnon were loud, charming, and the funniest guys Remus had ever met. They were New Yorkers through and through, boisterous and tough with kindness underneath like their sister. They greeted him as Vince and Tony and loudly introduced Remus to the entirety of Mick’s Kin, who cheered and drank to him.
The brothers joyfully showed Remus the bar, talking about its history. The name was in honor of their father, but also a bit of word play on their last name. The locals just called it Mick’s, but it always got a laugh out of their dad.
They were impressed with the bar tricks he knew, and Remus’ first day of orientation was spent trying to teach the brothers how to toss and juggle a mixer and a vodka bottle.
It resulted in an expensive puddle of alcohol and broken glass, but Vince and Tony were having the time of their lives. Remus understood why Marlene had called them idiots, but he liked them immensely.
Mick’s was the polar opposite of Sanguini’s. The atmosphere was light, relaxed and welcoming, with neon lights, street-facing windows that flooded with sunlight in the afternoon, and mismatched furniture everywhere. Remus didn’t have a uniform—whatever he felt like wearing was fine with Vince and Tony. The bar wasn’t trying to be something it wasn’t—Slughorn made Sanguini’s feel like a posh, underground club for the city richies—when in reality the quality was cheap and the uniforms from a prom website. The only time he dished out good money was for alcohol. Mick’s was just a small, local bar that promised good drinks and a good time.
Marlene stopped by often while he worked—she lived in the flat upstairs with Vince and Tony, and frequently spent time hanging around the bar, chatting with Remus or yelling at her brothers.
Remus felt welcomed into the space at once, something he’d never felt after three years at Sanguini’s. Everyone knew everyone, and soon everyone knew Remus. He’d met more people in his first week than he had in his entire life.
He entertained everyone with his bartending tricks he learned from Lily, making several men cheered and a few ladies swoon.
One evening during happy hour was when Remus’ love for Mick’s and the people was sealed.
People were drunk and the bar was loud. He was filling drinks and chatting with people as he’d done since getting hired. Everyone was having a good time, playing pool or darts, or watching the game. It was too warm inside to keep his sweater on, so Remus stripped down to his t-shirt, exposing his scarred up arms.
One customer, who wasn’t a regular, sidled up to the bar reeking of beer and started asking Remus about his face. He waved his pint at him, sloshing its contents everywhere, and started loudly asking how he got fucked up.
Before this, Mick’s regulars knew better than to ask Remus about his scars. In many of their experiences, people with marks like his threw fists when asked, and Remus was no weak lad. It was why he’d felt comfortable wearing the t-shirt.
The out of towner, however, hadn’t gotten the memo. Half the bar turned to stare at the guy, who was starting to get up in his face when he didn’t answer him.
In the blink of an eye, Vince and Tony were suddenly there, hauling the guy up by the pits and bodily throwing him out the door. Tony grabbed the guy’s pint and smash it on the sidewalk next to him. Several people in the bar jeered and booed at the guy.
Remus stared as Vince and Tony ambled inside like nothing happened.
“People should mind their business.” Was all Vince said. It was all Remus needed to hear.
——
He was making excellent progress in his sculpture. The pieces had been glazed and fired, and Remus spent his nights at The Clay Cat carefully bonding them to the metal frame.
The deadline for the curator was in two months, which was plenty of time at the rate he was going. Hagrid helped him design a tubing system for the water, and McGonagall was negotiating with the museum designers to use one of the decorative pools already in the galleries.
Regulus’ opening night for his musical was only a week after the gala, and had secured tickets for Remus and the girls. He never said it aloud, but Remus knew he was excited for them to see it.
Sirius still lingered on his mind like the pull of magnet from far away. Remus had dreams about him, some that scared him, and some that made him ache.
In his waking hours, Remus did his best not to get paranoid. If he was lucky, his nighttime excursions to The Clay Cat would go unnoticed, and Sirius wouldn’t go looking in Little Italy for him. If he was lucky.