Tear Your Canvas Like He Tore My Skin

Remus Lupin.

Remus fucking Lupin.

Sirius stared blankly at the quickly fleeing figure, having half the mind to chase after him or simply start screaming. 

“Apologies, Mr. Black.” McGonagall, who was clearly confused, said. “It appears Mr. Lupin is indisposed. Mrs. Longbottom may have reference photos for you at Phoenix Photos.”

Sirius barely heard her. When he’d gone to her asking for figure references and she recommended a resident artist, never in his life did he expect her to be talking about Remus Lupin.

All these years he’d walked through the Artisan Village not knowing Remus was feet away from him. How many times had they missed each other? How many times had they been that close to each other before today?

The image of him was burned into the lids of Sirius’ eyes. 

At first, he thought it was just a funny coincidence that the guy was the bartender from Sanguini’s. His next thought was how hot he looked in welding googles and a bandana, covered in grease and soot. 

Then the bandana came down and the googles went up, and Sirius saw Remus’ full face for the first time in almost eight years. His scars were large and pale, stark against his tanned, freckled skin. His nose had healed a little crooked from the laceration across his face—a part of his eyebrow had never grown back. Several smaller scars decorated his forehead, cheek and jaw, carving down his neck and disappearing past his collar. 

His hands, which Sirius remembered had been gloved at Sanguini’s, were large and bony and also adorn with several pale marks. 

He had gotten taller and leaner. His broad shoulders filled the welding jacket and tapered down to the narrow waist Sirius had daydreams about. His hazel eyes, once wide with youth and innocence, had a hooded sharpness to them that set a fire in his stomach.

Seven years, and Remus was still so, so beautiful. He looked like a Greek god, but his scruffy demeanor and sooty face made him look so tangible—so touchable.

Then he was gone, all but sprinting away from Sirius.

He went back to his apartment in a daze, but stopped outside the door when he heard James and Peter laughing within. They would know something was wrong the moment they saw him, and Sirius wasn’t sure what words would come out if they asked. He couldn’t tell them—not yet. Not while his brain was flaking away and his entire world was reshaping around him.

He walked down a few streets, not really sure of a destination. The city suddenly felt alien and every step Sirius took made him feel like a stranger within it. 

All of the emotions that he’d felt seven years ago were welling back up, reignited at the sight of Remus.

The terrible heartbreak that he’d used flimsy tape to mend was breaking its bonds and demanding to be seen again. Sirius had barely pulled himself out of it last time—it had taken the combined efforts of James, Peter, the Potters, and Uncle Alphard to drag him out of the pit he’d found himself in. The last seven years had been an uphill battle to let Remus go and focus on himself.

But every lover he had felt empty, a shell, an interim in some divine plot that ended with Remus laying with him every night, holding him, breathing him. Sirius couldn’t let him go, and he didn’t know why. 

James said it was because Remus was his first love. There was nostalgia and affection in those sort of things, which Sirius was mistaking it for still having feelings. Peter suggested that he’d never gotten closure, so some subconscious part of him doesn’t know that Remus is gone. 

What they said was true—Remus had been his first love, and Sirius never did get closure. But it felt like more than something his mind was mixing up—the flame he’d cradled close to his heart, although diminished and dying, never fully went out. It hung on weakly, grasping onto the hope that one day they’d meet again and things would be different. 

And they had met again.

His feet took him to Painter’s Porter and he found himself standing in front of his painting, the piece was he dedicating to Flamel and Albus. It was halfway done—he needed references on chests and shoulders to get the shadows right. It was why he’d gone to McGonagall in the first place. 

He stared at the half-finished, smiling face of Albus and all he could see was Remus. 

Suddenly and out of nowhere, fury unlike anything Sirius had felt flared up inside him. He glared at the smile that looked too much like Remus, the color of hair that was too amber brown, the eyes with too much green. 

Sirius screamed at the canvas, raw and grating on his vocal chords. His throat immediately ached after, but he didn’t care. He felt mad—mad like his mother and father, mad like every Black was in their rotten cores. 

Sirius seized the closest bucket of paint he could find, dunked his hand in, and threw it onto the canvas like he was pitching a baseball. Bright blue paint spattered over the faces he’d been working so hard on, but he didn’t care. 

He didn’t care, he didn’t care, he didn’t care. 

He grabbed every open bucket he could find and started plunging his hands in, clawing at the canvas, punching it, flinging his limbs and watching colors spray. He stomped in the puddles and kicked the canvas, feeling it give under his weight, leaving a dent and a mark of his boot treads. 

In his frenzy, Sirius seized a knife and brought it down onto the giant painting. A satisfying ripping noise filled the air as he tore a gash through the fabric. He grabbed a ladder with his paint covered hands and climbed it, adding another near the top more along the side and corners, anywhere he could reach. He hacked hole into the canvas as if he could hack out his heart in the same manner, rid him of the Black family madness, rid him of his love for Remus that was consuming him, scorching him, killing him—

It wasn’t until Sirius slashed through the too-green eyes that he finally came to his senses. 

He toppled off the ladder and fell to the ground, covered in paint and trembling. Horrified, he stared at the canvas he’d ruined, the faces he’d covered in his rage. 

Sirius looked into the eyes he’d cut through and cried. His sobs echoed in the lonely space, reflecting the true condition of his soul.

——

It took him several hours to calm down and clean up his chaos. He couldn’t look at the painting the whole time, too ashamed by his outburst to see the evidence of it. He was just as insane as his parents had been. Their madness ran in his veins, their control over him was still there.

He felt empty and guilty. The moment of realization, of watching his hand cut through the canvas like it was nothing, all it did was remind him that someone did that to Remus. Someone as insane and dark and twisted as him did that to his skin. 

Sirius was as evil as Fenrir Greyback. 

And if he were evil, did he deserve to see Remus at all? Did he deserve a chance to talk to him, to try and get answers? How could he claim to love Remus after he had done to his canvas the same thing that was done to his body?

Once the worst of the mess was cleaned up, Sirius washed himself off. There were new paint splotches on his leather jacket, and another pair of jeans had been irrevocably ruined. His boots were tacky on the ground as he trudged to the sink to wash his hands. 

He could hate himself all he wanted. He could try to convince himself he wasn’t fit to speak a word to Remus. But he was still haunted by him. He still yearned to see him, to be with him. Selfish—another thing that made him unworthy of love. 

Sirius needed someone to tell him this war in his mind had been felt before. He needed someone who at least understood his pain, to have loved and lost. If they didn’t understand his madness, well, Sirius didn’t think anyone would. 

Flamel was the first person he thought of. Surely he knew this haunted purgatory. Albus had died too young and Remus had endured something no one his age never should’ve. He had been angry and broken. He’d lost.

“Sirius, old lad!” Flamel greeted warmly when the line connected. “How have you been? Diggle tells me you’re shacked up in one of Minerva’s studios! Good on ya, boy-o. What brings you a-calling?”

“Hey, Nicolas.” He said hoarsely, wishing he hadn’t called to ruin Flamel’s good mood. “Wish I had more entertaining stories for you.”

Flamel quieted at the tone in his voice. “A serious talk today?”

“If you’ve got the spirit.”

“Fire away, lad.”

Sirius swallowed thickly, sitting on the floor with his back to the ruined painting. He didn’t know where to start. How do you begin to ask someone to talk about the dead?

“What would you do if Albus turned up at your door one day?”

He knew his question caught Flamel off guard, because the other end was silent for a long time. Eventually, Sirius feared he’d overstepped and upset him. 

He heard a sigh, heavy and remorseful. 

“I’d never miss another breath.” The words were spoken solemnly, faithfully, as if sealing a vow with Death. “I’d never blink again just so I couldn’t missed a moment of it.”

Sirius’ eyes flooded with tears again. “Oh.” He croaked. 

“What brought this about, lad?”

He quickly wiped his eyes and sniffed, clutching the phone to his ear.

“I—er—remember that boy I told you about? The one I got my heart broken on?”

“Aye.”

“Well, er, I met him today. Saw him. It’s been seven years.”

“Did you reconnect?”

“No, no, it was an accident. He…he ran away.”

Flamel hummed. “And you don’t know if you should follow him or not.”

“Yeah.” Sirius said thickly. “It just brought up everything from back then. All the hurt and anger and…I want to find him but I…I don’t know what I’ll end up saying.”

“I was furious with Albus when I got to that hospital,” Flamel said. “I was hurt and angry and confused—everything you’re feeling now. I made sure to speak my mind—didn’t care how deathly he looked—he was damn well going to know the kind of worry he put me through. Your friend is much the same—he chose to shut you out. I think he ought to hear the consequences of that choice.

“But,” Flamel continued. “I also listened to Albus. I heard him out as he explained his reasons. They were fucking stupid reasons, I’ll tell you, but they were his, so I respected them. There are two sides to every tale, lad. You’ve got to be willing to know them both, even if you don’t like what one’s saying. Our willingness to hear each other’s sides was the reason I could forgive Albus, and the reason he could die in peace. Your friend isn’t dead, laddie. He’s here, in your orbit. If I had the chance you have with Albus…I’d regret it for the rest of my days if I didn’t follow him.”

Sirius felt comforted by him and his words. They were proof that he wasn’t going mad. Decades later, even after death, his flame for Albus was still burning brightly. He’s gotten his closure but still loved him.  

“I think you know what to do, lad.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. Thanks, Nicolas. Really.”

“Listen to him. Make him listen to you.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“Anytime, boy-o. I’ll leave you to it, now. Diggle’s coming over to beat my ass in chess again.”

Sirius choked out a wet laugh and they parted ways.

They had met again. It was a chance he couldn’t afford to lose. Sirius knew he wasn’t worthy of Remus, but he did know he deserved a chance at closure. He was owed that much. The darkness inside him didn’t have to reach him for that. Remus never had to see that side of him as long as Sirius kept his flame close and quiet. 

He deserved better than to see a side of Sirius that was the same as the man who took so much from him.

——

Sirius barely slept that night. When he returned to the apartment, James and Peter had already gone to bed. 

He tossed and turned until morning came, and stayed in his room when he heard his friends moving about. He ignored James’ knock on his door for breakfast, and just stared at his ceiling.

He had to find Remus. The best place to look was Sanguini’s—he knew from McGonagall that Remus had a studio in the Village somewhere, but he’d be insane to check every single house and barge into other people’s workspaces without permission. He could try The Metal Crow again. Beyond that, he had absolutely no way of finding him.

Sirius waited until he heard Peter leave for work and James hop in the shower before getting out of bed and quickly leaving the apartment.

He headed for Sanguini’s. It was too early to be open, but he hoped someone would be in for the prep shift who could give him answers. Maybe even Remus himself.

Sanguini’s was quiet and the lights were off, but when Sirius peeked through the windows he could see movement. He knocked on the glass.

After a moment, a body emerged from the darkness and the redhead that often worked with Remus peered from behind the door panes.

“Oh! You’re Mary’s friend, aren’t you?” She greeted, opening the door and leaning against the frame. “We’re not serving Cosmos ’til six, sorry.”

“No, that’s fine, er—“ Sirius glanced hopefully into the shadowy depths of the bar behind her. “I’m actually looking for someone. Remus Lupin?”

The girl surveyed him for a moment before she hummed. “You’re the guy that freaked him out.”

“It was an accident! I already apologized! Look, we’re actually old friends, and I really need to talk to him. Is he here?”

“Old friends? He’s never mentioned you before.”

“We, uh, we don’t talk much.”

“Mh hm. I wonder why,” she replied dryly. “look, he’s not here. He actually quit last night out of the blue. Maybe you know why, old friend?”

Sirius gulped and shrunk a little under the redhead’s fierce gaze.

“I just want to talk.”

“I can’t help you.”

“Right. Okay. Sorry.” He quickly hurried away after that. 

He went to The Metal Crow next. Hagrid greeted him warmly, but shook his head when he asked for Remus.

“Finished his work here, ‘fraid to say. Packed it all up and moved it las’ night.”

Maybe he’d lost him all over again. 

Sirius said goodbye to Hagrid and walked back out into the bitter December weather. The Village was empty at this time of year—exhibitions were in the spring, and holiday parties had already happened. Everyone’s attentions turned to family, but Sirius had nowhere to go. 

He was lost without a compass, the same way he’d felt after Remus left him seven years ago. Directionless and spinning in circles, making him queasy and dizzy. He was losing his chance. Maybe it had been yesterday. Maybe he should’ve run after him in the courtyard before he could move out of The Metal Crow and quit his job. 

Maybe his one chance had already gone.

——

James and Peter confronted him about his behavior less than 48 hours after it started. Sirius kept himself locked in his room in a very un-Sirius-like way, so he hadn’t been that subtle about it. 

Peter eventually picked his lock, and the two they flooded his room. Sirius rolled away from them. 

“So,” he began, re-bending the wire hanger he’d used on the door. “are you going to tell us what’s wrong or are we playing good cop/bad cop?”

“I call bad cop,” James started without waiting for a reply. “Sirius Black, I will burn all your band t-shirts in a dumpster fire if you don’t tell us what’s wrong.”

“I would’ve gone with his leather jacket, but alright.” Peter grumbled.

“If I said that, he’ll try strangling me!” James hissed. “Remember when I joked about turning it into a handbag? I couldn’t wear a tie for weeks!”

“Well you’re the one who wanted to be bad cop! Be bad!”

“Why don’t you do it if you’re so—oh, for fuck’s sake. Padfoot, talk to us!” James flung himself onto the bed, jostling Sirius from his resolute position away from them. “We haven’t had a morning so peaceful since you got your tonsils removed and it’s freaking us out!”

“Has someone died?” Peter asked bluntly. James immediately gasped in horror.

“Oh god, Pads, that’s terrible! Is that what happened? Don’t tell me it was Alphard—“

“No one’s dead.” Sirius snapped, stopping James from going full mother-hen mode over something that wasn’t true.

“No one’s dead, but you smell like it, Padfoot.” Peter told him. “When was the last time you had a shower—are those your pants? What the hell happened to them?”

Evidently, they had discovered the ruined clothes from Sirius’ fit of rage the other day. 

“Did you slip and fall into Jackson Pollock? Sirius, there’s paint in your hair!”

Sirius just grunted. His friends knew how sacred his hair was. The fact that he’d mar it with paint without freaking out was unheard of. He didn’t bother when James reached over and started picking it out. 

“Pads c’mon,” he said quietly. “it’s us. You can tell us anything.”

Can I tell you I’m a monster? Can I tell you Remus ran from me? Can I tell you I’m heartbroken over a boy I don’t know?

“Look, I’m off today and James doesn’t have rehearsal ’til late. You can either tell us what’s up and James’ll do your nails while we can watch romcoms and order whatever takeout you want— or I can get my recorder and James will get his kazoo, and we’ll make your life hell.”

The last time either of them had such instruments, Sirius threw them out of the thirtieth story window to relieve the migraine it caused. He didn’t need his head hurting more than it already did. And his nails did need repainting after his rage fit.

Begrudgingly he rolled over and looked at them. 

“I saw Remus Lupin two days ago.”

——

They had migrated to the living room by the time Sirius finished. James was applying a glittery dark green nail polish and Peter was continuing to pick paint out of his hair.

“Fucking hell,” he sighed. “So you met months ago and didn’t realize it?”

“He must’ve known,” Sirius said miserably. “He freaked out when I introduced myself at Sanguini’s, he’s known for months.”

Remus knew for months, and didn’t try to reach out. That was the part that killed Sirius. 

“So, what’s with all the paint then?”

He swallowed tightly, and hesitated. 

“I, uh, I kinda took it all out on my painting.”

James popped his head up from his work. “Not your—?”

“Yeah.”

They were both quiet. Sirius had been raving about his painting for months, showing them pictures of his progress and talking about how much meaning it had. All of that effort was ruined.

“What’re you going to do?”

“I don’t want to think about it right now.”

“And Remus?”

Sirius closed his eyes. “Flamel said I’ve got a right to speak my mind and I should listen to Remus too. He thinks I should find him.”

“Maybe then you can leave this all behind.” Peter suggested. “Seems Remus isn’t looking to make amends, but clearly both of you are still dealing with what happened.”

“If I ever find him again.”

“He must still work in the Artisan Village,” James suggested. “you’re bound to run into him there.”

“I hadn’t for three years before that. I hadn’t even been looking for him when I did.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t try.”

Sirius sighed and stared blankly at the television as it played Pride and Prejudice. Evidently, James and Peter sensed he’d checked out of the conversation, because they didn’t speak of it again for the rest of the day. 

They ordered takeout from his favorite restaurant while Sirius burrowed into his mountain of blankets and tuned them out. Elizabeth had just rejected Darcy’s proposal, and they were arguing in the rain. 

He liked watching romcoms. They always had a happy ending with love or self realization. Sirius only ever rewatched the same fifteen movies over and over because during the conflict, it helped to know the characters would sort it out and love each other through it. He actually forced James and Peter to watch new movies first and tell him if it ended well or not, and refused to watch the ones that had dissatisfying or ambiguous endings.

Sirius had had enough ambiguity for a lifetime, he didn’t need it in his entertainment too. 

Pride and Prejudice was one of his favorites. A period piece with strong feminine characters written by one of the best authors Sirius knew, paired with the fact that the chemistry was unmatched and the character development was intrinsic and dimensional—it was his all time favorite comfort movie.

He knew Elizabeth’s rejection of Darcy would cause him to change not for Elizabeth’s love, but because she made him see a prejudice he didn’t know he had. He made himself into a better man because it was the right thing to do, he relinquished his prejudice of class and standing, and knelt humbly before the altar of the woman he loved. 

Elizabeth, in turn, discovered her pride in judging character and subsequent judgement of Darcy, to be foolish. Her iron clad deductions of his morality were proven wrong when he saved her sister from scandal and reunited Jane and Mr. Bingley. She humbled herself because of this, stood defiant for herself and Darcy against his aunt, defending a man she now realized she’d pushed away in her own arrogance. She didn’t change for Darcy any more than he changed for her. She changed because she had been wrong, and humbly opened her heart to his affections.

There wasn’t any love more beautiful than that. It was devotion in it’s purest form, a love that didn’t ask for reciprocation, but existed only to make each person better themselves. It ended with them getting together anyway, but the whole point had been selfless change and humility.

Sirius didn’t know if love like that existed anymore.

——

Weeks went by without any sign of Remus in the Artisan Village. By the third week, Sirius had stopped looking. Clearly, his old friend didn’t want to be found. 

In that time, Sirius had returned to his studio in a better headspace. It still killed him to see months of hard work wiped out by the destruction he’d caused, but Alphard had been the one to convince him to try and work with it. 

“It’s pretty punk in my opinion, kid.” He said. “So what if you broke some rules? That’s what they’re meant for. Make it a part of the narrative.”

Sirius stood before the ruined canvas, surveying the splatters and dents and slashes. He could make something of this. The painting could still be in honor of Nicolas and Albus, but that didn’t mean it had to a perfectly repainted rendition of Flamel’s photograph. Looking at it now, Sirius realized there was no soul in it—he hadn’t been doing anything to convey the emotion behind the story. He’d focused too much on making sure he captured the likeness. Even if he wrote a paragraph to explain the meaning, no one would feel the impact Sirius had felt when Flamel first told him the tale.

But this, looking at the chaos he’d created with fresh eyes and a calmer mind, this was impact. This was all the rage and grief and terrible sadness that his story carried—that Sirius’ story carried too. This was the pain and agony and fear that Albus and Remus endured, told unspoken in the damage.

He could work with this. 

Sirius pulled out a sharpie and started drawing.

——

When he was in the headspace, he sat in it for hours. No one, even James or Peter, could rouse him until he was finished. 

He carefully mixed the oils on his palette, painstakingly color matching tones to map out rudimentary forms and shadows. He was taking a different direction this time—a looser style instead of realism. 

Sirius ditched his fine tipped brushes for spatulas and scrapers instead, adding more texture and dimension to make the subject emerge from the chaos around it. 

Slowly, surely, and in a way that gave him hope, he turned his madness into art.

——

It was dark by the time Sirius finished what could be done. He climbed down from the ladder and stepped away from the canvas to survey his work.

The beginnings of a figure was taking shape, parts of his form interrupted by the slashes as he intended. The destructive quality of the background paired nicely with the impasto style, and Sirius stared at the figure that loomed over him with satisfaction. 

He cleaned up, put his things away, and checked the time. It was well past midnight—and although the city never really got dark, the soft lamp light from the street below were still needed to guide the way.

Sirius left Painter’s Porter and headed down the cobblestone streets of the Village. It was a still, cold night, and he dug his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket to keep warm. The hum of the city echoed vaguely in the air, but otherwise it was silent. His boots echoed against the cobblestone and rang up against the darkened Houses. It felt like the windows were staring at him.

His head spun with ideas for the next step in the painting, mentally adding unconventional things to the image in his head, weighing their worth in the narrative. He could go beyond paint—why not add objects? Mirror or glass? Maybe he stitched up some of the rips in the canvas with shoelaces, or perhaps something with more movement like newspaper—

Sirius ran headlong into someone and ricocheted off their chest with an oof! He stumbled backward as the other person cursed in apology. A clatter of things hit the cobblestone, and he instinctively ducked down to pick them up.

The guy also stooped over, but when he bent his knees forward, Sirius brained himself on his kneecap in the dimly lit dark and fell on his ass. His temple throbbed.

“Jesus fuck, sorry.” A low voice said as a warm hand touched his shoulder. “Are you ok—?”

The hand immediately whipped itself away, and it made Sirius look up. 

Perhaps the universe had decided Sirius’ long awaited rom-com moment had come. Because it happened to be Remus Lupin’s chest and knee he’d so elegantly hit himself with. 

They stared at each other as time came to a halt. Suspended, trapped in each other’s gaze, Sirius could do nothing but drink in the exact shade of those hazel eyes, wildly constructing the color in his head so he could mix it with his paints—

Remus jerked back and fell on his ass too, as if he’d suddenly realized how close their faces were. He never looked away from Sirius, never even blinked. 

The moment could have been seconds, but it extended into infinity for them. 

Up close, Remus looked even more beautiful. Sirius mapped the angle of his cheekbones and the shadow of his jaw, lost himself in the curve of his lips and his long tawny lashes. A small scar cut down the right side of his lips, changing from pale peach to bubblegum pink as it traveled from skin to lip and back. Small, light freckles dusted his nose and cheeks—Sirius could have sat there  for hours to count them.

His quiet admiration of him was cut short by Remus shooting to his feet, evidently coming to his senses, and backing away.

No.

The thought, so vehement that it rattled his heart against his ribcage, drove Sirius to lunge, seizing the soft wool of Remus’ sleeve. He tried yanking away, but Sirius hung on like some wild animal, refusing to let go.

“Please don’t run away from me,” he choked out. Too many emotions were bottling up in his chest, clogging his throat and trying to throttle him. “Please.”

That made him pause his attempts to pull away. In all the years of their friendship, Sirius had never been so vulnerable with him—aside from his love confession on his porch seven years ago. 

Remus was still holding his trapped arm up like some sort of defense, like Sirius was going to attack him, but made no move to run. 

Sirius had spent so many weeks hoping for a chance to talk to him that with the opportunity before him, he had no idea what to say. 

Remus wasn’t looking at him—he’d lowered his chin and hunched his shoulders, like he was trying to hide. Sirius didn’t realize what he was doing until he looked at him—he was trying to hide his scars.

He was devastated by the realization. His heart broke for him, wishing more than ever that things had gone differently. He wished he had been there to convince him how beautiful he’d always been—and still was. He wished he could’ve held him and kissed every single mark. He would have gladly dedicated every breath to reminding this boy that he was whole and perfect and divine. 

But he had never been his to do that with. Sirius had tried, and Remus ignored him. He’d never been allowed to do all the things he wished he could.

Listen to him. Flamel had said. Make him listen to you.

“I—“ Sirius began, trying to say something to keep Remus there. “It’s…it’s really good to see you.” It was weak, nothing like the depths of his soul he wished he could say, but it was a start.

Remus’ downcast eyes snapped to his, narrowing.

“I’m sure.” He said flatly, cryptically.

“So…so you’re the guy from Sanguini’s,” Sirius tried again, unsure how to respond. “when you recognized me…”

“Don’t.” It was a low warning that set the hairs standing on his neck.

“Sorry.” He went quiet, losing courage. The silent hung between them.

“Heard you went looking for me.”

Sirius winced. “I…I wanted to talk to you.”

Remus glared at him. “Spit it out then.”

“Look, can we…is there somewhere we can sit and talk?” He asked a bit desperately. He waved his hand around at the empty, dimly lit street. “It’s kind of…open?”

Remus, with Sirius’ hand still latched to his sweater, crossed his arms. “I’m fine right here.”

“Right. Okay.” He was momentarily distracted by the movement of his arm as it followed Remus’. “I’m sorry I tried looking for you at Sanguini’s. I just wanted to talk to you, and…and clear a few things up. I…I wanted to see you.”

Remus snorted, glaring at a spot to his left. “Never cared to before.”

Sirius blinked. “What?”

That glare was back on him. “You heard me.”

He had no idea what Remus was talking about. Was he upset Sirius didn’t see him again after apologizing at the bar? Or not chasing him at The Metal Crow? He’d only known who he was for a few weeks! Remus couldn’t honestly be upset that he hadn’t been pursued by him, how was that Sirius’ fault? He was the one who disappeared after they met!

“Look,” he said, getting a little frustrated by Remus cryptic responses. “I hated what happened seven years ago. It was fucking unfair. I know you were dealing with something no one should ever have had to go through, but I thought I was giving you the space you needed to heal. I thought you’d come back when you were ready—“

This time, Remus yanked his arm away so hard that he was sure his hand got rug burn. He looked absolutely livid, glowering like he wanted to punch him. Sirius gaped, his fingers stinging.

“Unfair?” He demanded furiously. “You think it was unfair? You don’t get to tell me what’s fucking unfair. Don’t fucking try!”

This wasn’t what Sirius wanted. Making Remus angry when he was just trying to clear the air was not what he intended.

“That’s not what I meant!” He backtracked immediately. 

“And what the fuck to do you mean, ‘giving me space’?” Remus snarled. 

“We were giving you space! To recover! We were waiting for you to come to us! We missed you so much—I missed you, Moony—“

“No!” Remus roared, storming into Sirius’ face and jabbing a finger at him. “Fuck you! You don’t get to call me that anymore! You fucking left me, you fucking coward. You abandoned me and left me to go through hell alone! Do you know what it’s like having your body torn apart and stitched back together? To have to piss and shit in a pan in front of a nurse because you can’t move? To have to cover up mirrors so you don’t have to see how fucked up you look? NO! You three fucked off the moment I needed you, don’t try to tell me you were ‘giving me space’. That’s fucking bullshit.”

Sirius stared at him in utter disbelief at the words flying in his face.

“What the blood hell do you mean, ‘abandoned you’?” He spluttered defensively. “We went to the hospital the moment we heard you’d been attacked! We stayed in the waiting room for two days straight and visited every fucking day for three weeks! We weren’t allowed to see you—we weren’t family. But that didn’t stop us from coming anyway. We only stopped after because we thought you needed time!”

Something very odd was happening to Remus’ face. The righteous fury clouding his face was mixing with confusion and suspicion. He took a step back and scowled at him, crossing his arms again.

“Then how come you didn’t visit after I got released? How come you didn’t text or call or sent a goddamn letter?”

Sirius gestured wildly around him, having no clue what Remus was trying to accuse him of. “What the ever loving fuck are you talking about? I sent you thousands of texts every fucking day! You were the one who never answered! I maxed out your voicemail inbox trying to get you to talk to me. James and Peter too! And who the fuck sends mail anymore, Remus?”

Something was clearly amiss here, but their rising confusion was only making them angrier at each other. Sirius wanted to punch him. He also still wanted to kiss the bastard, which only made him angrier.

“You’re lying!” Remus shouted. “I never got anything from you or James or Peter. Radio fucking silence!”

“No, I’m not!” Sirius roared. “I’ve still got the fucking receipts to prove it! You’re the one who ignored my goddamn love confession at your front door!”

Remus spluttered incredulously. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Maybe!” Sirius bellowed. “Maybe the Black family madness is finally taking over and I’ll skewer myself with a letter opener just like my dear mum and dad, and then you’ll be sorry! I was in fucking love with you, Remus John Lupin! I screamed it into your house and you fucking ignored me! What the fuck else was I going to think other than you didn’t want me anymore? You ignore me, you ignore James and Peter, so we thought you didn’t want to see us anymore! We—well, I eventually did—we respect your stupid wishes to leave you alone because that’s what you clearly wanted!”

His voice rang across the silent Village and the Houses seemed to shudder against his words. Sirius was panting, seething with rage at whatever bullshit game Remus was trying to play. He was well within his rights to tell him to fuck off, but he didn’t get to make it out to be Sirius’ fault. He chose to leave. He was the one who ended it.

Remus was no longer angry. His arms hung loosely at his sides as he stared at Sirius, his expression cracked open. His face had paled and he was pulling in shuddery breaths.

“You…you loved me?” He asked faintly.

“Yes.” Sirius said bitterly. I still do.

“I…you…I never heard you.”

He frowned, searching Remus’ face and trying to figure out if he was lying. All he saw was devastation, and then Sirius was deflating.

“I went to your house after you didn’t reply to my calls. Your father wouldn’t let me in. He told me you didn’t want to see me. You must’ve been home, where else would you’ve gone? I shouted it so loudly you have to have heard.”

Remus was getting paler by the second, staring at Sirius like he was suddenly a ghost. 

“I didn’t.” He said hoarsely. “I—wait, what time where you there?”

Sirius shrugged, trying to remember. “I dunno. After school? Two-ish?”

Remus’ shaky hands covered his mouth, and Sirius suddenly wished he had convinced him to sit down for this conversation. He looked ready to pass out.

“Remus—?”

“I wasn’t there.” He whispered, looking at Sirius in absolute horror. “I saw Pomfrey for therapy at two every day. I wasn’t there.”

Sirius was suddenly the one feeling weak. “You…? But why didn’t you answer my text messages? Or my calls?”

“I-I never got them, Sirius.” Remus told him. He looked like his entire world was turning upside down. Sirius knew how he felt. “I swear, I never got them.”

“I can show you the receipts—“

“No, I…I don’t understand…why didn’t I get them?” Remus turned away from him, but not to run. He wandered a few steps away, running his hands through his hair. He used to do that in school when he was trying to solve a hard question.

“Well, considering you were the one to tell us to fuck off, maybe you blocked our numbers.” Sirius snipped, crossing his arms. 

“No,” Remus said sharply. “I didn’t. I never said that. I wanted to see you. I wanted to see all of you so badly. But you didn’t…you…” His face went suddenly slack. “Oh god.”

“What?”

“My dad.” The storm that had been brewing on his face was churning up again. “It was my dad.”

Sirius frowned. “What do you mean—“

“My fucking dad.” Remus snarled, the venom no longer directed at Sirius. “He…he got me a new phone because Greyback smashed my old one. He must’ve changed the number. I don’t know how I didn’t notice. He told me he’d tried getting you to visit me. He told me you refused.”

“That’s a fucking lie,” Sirius snorted. “your dad was the one who told us to leave you alone at the hospital. We got into a row at your house the last time I tried to see you. He—“

The realization Remus had come to was starting to hit him now. Everything was fitting into place. Lyall had been the one to tell them of his son’s apparent wishes. They’d never heard it from Remus himself. And if Lyall did change his number with the new phone…of course their messages and calls didn’t reach him.

Seven years living on lies, all orchestrated by one man. The one man who Remus was supposed to trust. For seven years, Sirius thought he had abandoned them when all along Remus thought the opposite. All because of Lyall fucking Lupin.

“I’ll kill him,” Remus growled, staring at the ground between them. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

Sirius was quiet for a moment, wondering what to say. What can you say when a son discovered his father’s betrayal?

“I’ll, er,” he said hesitantly. “I’ll help you bury the body?”

Remus’ eyes moved to his, and by god, the storm started to clear. He looked at him so deeply, so thoroughly, his expression cracked wide.

“I’m so sorry, Sirius.” He whispered. “All this time…I’m so sorry. I never knew.”

A dark knot somewhere in his chest loosened, and Sirius felt like he was finally breathing air after seven years of suffocation.

“I’m sorry too.” He said thickly. His eyes were watering. “I wish I had done more—tried to find you instead just taking your dad’s word. I wish I took those notes seriously, if I had, I could’ve—“

“Don’t,” Remus cut in, although there was no warning in his tone now. Just softness. Sirius hadn’t heard it in too long. “don’t do that to yourself, Sirius. It wasn’t your fault. There was nothing anyone could’ve done. Greyback’s to blame. My dad’s to blame. Not you.”

Forgiveness was a powerful thing, more potent with time. Sirius trembled as his words ran through him, as he took them in. He could breathe again. 

He wished he could tell Remus that it didn’t matter. What happened to him, how he looked, none of that mattered to Sirius. He still loved him with his body and soul, like Darcy loved Elizabeth.

But it was too new. They had just figured out so much. It wasn’t time.

“I…can I hug you?” Sirius asked hesitantly. He didn’t really know how else to express everything he was feeling. Physical touch was easier to speak with. Remus knew that. He seemed to remember it too, because a slight smile twitched on his lips.

“If you must.” He said fondly, nostalgically. Sirius didn’t move, too scared he’d touch him and Remus would change his mind. Seemingly impatient, he moved forward and folded Sirius into his chest.

He was suddenly surrounded by all things Remus—his soft, scratchy sweater, his warmth, his scent. All these years and he still smelled of old books and clay, of something spicy like fire, and something muted like tea leaves.

Tears welled up in his eyes and his quickly clung back, holding his solid warmth to him tightly. If he disappeared, he wanted to vanish with him.

Remus was crying too, judging by the tears falling in his hair and the shaking of his shoulders. 

In the light of a streetlamp in a slumbering city, the tattered remains of their friendship patched themselves a little.

When they finally released each other, they both wiped their eyes, huffing relieved, partially hysterical laughter.

“I’m fucking wiped.” Remus said thickly. 

“Yeah. Me too. What’re you doing here this late?”

“Project,” Remus gestured vaguely to The Clay Cat. “I’m trying to get a piece into the MoMA.”

“Let me guess, the middle of the night was the only time you figured I wouldn’t be around?” Sirius grinned. Remus shrugged sheepishly.

“Something like that. What about you?”

“Same.” Sirius pointed to Painter’s Porter. “I’ve got a studio over there. Working on a piece for an exhibition in SoHo.”

Remus smiled, and bent down to picked up whatever had fallen when they ran into each other. Sirius hurried to help—he’d dropped his sculpting tools, several of which had rolled away while they yelled at each other.

By the time they rounded them up, Sirius wasn’t entirely sure what to do next. Remus was lingering just as lost as he was. Both hoping the other would know the words.

“Can I give you my—“

“Can I get your—“

They stopped. Sirius could feel his cheeks getting hot. Remus didn’t look much better. Sirius gestured to his pockets.

“Here.” He said quickly. “Give me your phone. You should be able to text me when you’re ready.”

Remus squinted at him. “That’s not exactly fair, is it?”

“We could do it the other way, but the moment you leave I’ll start spamming you.” Sirius warned. “James and Peter have had me on silent for years.”

The mention of James and Peter caused another awkward pause. They both knew they’d want to see Remus, but Sirius had no intention of pushing him into something he didn’t want to do.

But he gave him his phone, and Sirius quickly tapped in his number. 

“I, er,” Remus said, rubbing the back of his neck. He was still so, so pretty. “I’ve got to be heading back. I cook breakfast for me and my roommate every morning, and he’ll probably put salt in my coffee if I’m not there.”

Sirius frowned. “Has that happened before?”

“Yeah, and other unsavory stuff.” He huffed a laugh. “He’s great.”

“Sounds mean.”

“Oh he is. S’why we get along swell.”

Sirius wasn’t sure how he could get along with someone who laced his coffee with various ‘unsavory’ things, but he wasn’t going to say anything about it. He didn’t know this version of Remus—seven years older with stories of his own. Maybe being mean was his thing—he’d always been surprisingly rude when he wanted to be.

“Alright, well…” Sirius said awkwardly. “I’ll…I’ll see you?”

“Yeah, yeah…I’ll text.” Remus replied, smiling crookedly. “Uh, bye.”

“Right. Right. Bye.” Sirius watched him go, the casual stride much different than the way he had fled a few weeks ago. 

This time, he didn’t mind letting him leave.