James can't remember when he stopped being able to tell where Remus ended and Sirius began.
Neither could Sirius, but he would like to think that it was the day they moved into their shitty little East London flat together. They danced and sung along to Bowie in the living room, courtesy of Remus. They kissed and when their lips touched, Sirius forgot where he began and Remus ended.
Remus has stopped trying to make Sirius get clean. He cries when he sees the needles in the bin, and refuses to touch the baggies he finds in the bathroom. Words go unsaid.
Sirius has stopped trying to make Remus get clean. He cries when he sees the bloody tissues in the bin, and refuses to touch the blades he finds in the bathroom. More words go unsaid.
Words have been said. Time and time again, shouted in eachother's faces. ("You're telling me to get my shit together? I've seen your fucking arms, Remus.") Things have been done. They have cried, screamed, done absolutely fucking everything that they could've done. (Fuck you, Sirius. I've had to clean up your vomit twice this week.) Nothing has worked at all yet.
"I love you" Remus whispers into the dark. They're lying in bed together and it must be around three in the morning by that point, but he hasn't been to sleep, he can't. He whispers it over and over again, until he feels like it's painted onto his lips. Sirius rolls over and stares at him with pinprick pupils. "Yeah, you too" he slurs, and goes straight back to sleep.
James knows that there's something quite wrong with both of them. The only person he has ever really acknowledged it to is Peter. It feels like treason when he whispers it to Lily in the dark, that he knows neither of them will get better, and he knows it isn't good for either of them to constantly be around each other. Lily listens, then plants a gentle kiss on his head and reassures him they'll work it out.
They don't. It's all normal, mundane, day-to-day for them now. They're adults now (they're only seventeen). They've dropped out of sixth form, and now they have responsibilities. They have work in the morning. Sirius works at the record shop, and Remus works at the off-licence. Remus steals fags from the back when his boss isn't looking, and Sirius gets his fix from one of the boys that work there.
Michael is only two years older than Sirius, and he's been running drugs for his brothers for years. He almost pities Sirius, but he'll still sell to him every single time. He'll need the money if he wants to carry on shooting the shit up himself.
Sirius discovered smack in January 1976. A few short months after his sixteenth birthday, at one of his friends from school's parties. Xenophilius had always been an odd one, but Sirius loved him in that moment, when he tied a belt around his upper arm and passed him his first syringe. He'll always remember the sick hit of euphoria he felt that first time. He doesn't think anything else has ever felt that good (except maybe the first time him and Remus fucked).
Remus can't really remember the first time he cut himself. He thinks it was around 1975, so he must've been fifteen. He can't remember the first time he unscrewed a pencil sharpener, but he can remember the euphoria he felt the first time he saw the blood. The adrenaline makes his head spin and for a split second, he feels like a person again.
Sometimes, when Remus sees the track marks on Sirius's forearms and Sirius sees the cuts on Remus's, they wonder if they feel the same type of euphoria. They can't ever hide anything from each other anymore. Being queer already feels like enough of a dirty secret that there's no point keeping anything to themselves now.
Especially when they've seen every inch of each other's bodies. It's a peculiar feeling to be so intertwined with someone that you barely feel like two separate people anymore. It's also the second best either of them have ever felt. The best is the euphoria, of course.
"Do you like living like this?" Remus murmers into Sirius's hair. They are tangled up under the covers, and he cannot tell where he ends and Sirius begins.
They can both feel the raw scabs that litter each other's arms. Sirius's are pin-pricks, evidence of all the times he has shot heroin into his veins. Remus's are straight lines, evidence of all the times he has dragged sharp metal across his skin. They are everything and nothing all at the same time.
"I like living with you." Sirius murmers back, and he plants a gentle kiss onto Remus's head. He holds onto Remus' hand a bit tighter, and he cannot tell where he ends and Remus begins.