Chapter 2
It was dark in the room.
He was lying on his back under the covers. It was warm. It was quiet.
He breathed in and shifted experimentally. His body ached. His neck. His back. He sat up slowly in the dark and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The light was almost white behind the closed curtains. He stood carefully–his head was throbbing–and went to the door.
The bathroom was cool and dim. He pissed with one hand braced against the wall. It burned a little but there wasn’t any blood in the bowl. His hand was filthy against the tile. His fingernails were black crescents, packed with earth.
He glanced only briefly at his own face in the mirror above the sink. He looked tired. Scruffy. In desperate need of a shave. He stuck his head under the cold tap and drank greedily. The cold water made him shiver.
When he emerged from the bathroom, Nettle was waiting for him on the landing like a sphynx.
She stretched thoroughly, strode over to him and rubbed her cheek against his shin.
He caught the tip of her tail in his fingers, smiling when she snatched it away.
She ran ahead of him, tail in the air, as he hobbled down the stairs.
The afternoon sun had thrown bright diamonds across the floor and up the walls. Squinting, he limped into the kitchen.
A plate had been left out on the table, piled high with sausages, eggs, and beans, and encircled by a corona of shimmering air. Next to it was a mug of dark, black coffee.
He dispelled the warming charm with his fingers and eased himself down into one of the old kitchen chairs.
He ate without thinking and with real pleasure. He was starving, he always was the day after. The coffee was hot and rich. The old wooden table was warm under his arms.
When he had finished eating, he stood gingerly, coffee in hand, and went out into the garden.
The old bench was upturned on an old sheet in the middle of the grass. He looked at it admiringly, hands in his pockets. It looked nearly new in a fresh coat of sage green paint.
The outside tap ran in a short burst, then stopped abruptly.
He turned to see Sirius appearing from round the side of the cottage.
‘What time did I come in?’ Remus asked quietly, hands still in his pockets. His voice was hoarse and crackly.
‘Four.’
‘Did I wake you?’
Sirius shrugged.
‘Not really.’
Sirius took him gently by the nape and kissed the side of his head. He was warm, body thrumming with boyish satisfaction. He had green paint all up his arms.
'Alright?' He murmured.
After a moment, Remus hummed.
Sirius squeezed the back of his neck briefly, then let him go.
Together, they carried the bench up to the house and set it down next to the back door where it had always been for as long as Remus could remember.
Then Sirius fetched himself a mug of tea and they sat down looking out at the garden.
Remus hadn’t ever done anything to it; it was hopelessly overgrown with grasses, riotous brambles, and enormous spears of pink hollyhocks.
House martins flitted in and out of their nests under the eaves of the roof.
‘I’ll do the windows round the front next,’ Sirius said thoughtfully, legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. ‘While the weather’s dry.’
Nettle had hopped up into his lap and was butting her head insistently against his arm.
Remus watched as Sirius put his mug down and gently fussed her ears.
He was looking better, Remus thought, still underweight, but healthier. Stronger.
In the end, they sat there for a long time, listening to the birds, and watching the light change.