Sirius never liked the quiet.
In his home, the quiet was like static energy, the kind that burns instead of scaring. It was like the moment before a storm, and the deepest and longest it lasted, the worse the blow afterwards.
When his mother was quiet, it was like a cold rage, and Sirius was never sure if it would burn him until his bones were out or if it would stagnate him and kill him of frostbite. Either way, that quiet was deadly.
His father's quiet was common, expected and constant. It wasn't huge and all consuming like Walburga's, but it was still scary for little Sirius. Big Sirius could take it for what it was: indifference. Negligence. Orion's quiet was a steaming metal that you grab gladly, confusing the burning sensation for refreshing coldness until your skin is melting.
For Sirius, silence burned brighter, hotter, and deadlier than fiendfyre.
There were two people he knew that said they liked the silence, and described themselves as quiet. He didn't agree with either.
Regulus was subtle, but bustling with life and energy, and love. He kept to himself, but he'd whisper secrets to Sirius late at night, and send him meaningful looks across the dead clinking of plates during supper, and touch Sirius' arm when he was scared. And those were so loud to Sirius, he could never believe his baby brother was quiet.
Remus was a different kind of loud. He didn't go out of his way to demand attention like Regulus did. Still, when he existed in a space, it was his. He commanded it, dominated the air around him, and suddenly every turn of a book's page was the loudest sound Sirius had ever heard. Every single tiny action of his demanded attention and adoration, and Sirius was so terribly willing to provide.
And then his mother went quiet. For months. She was in Grimmauld, and he could hear her silence resonating in Hogwarts' halls. When he went home for Christmas in his sixth year, she burst into the most deafening sounds.
And Regulus was shunned to silence instead.
His gazes across the Great Hall had no hidden words, he didn't whisper in Sirius' direction nor grazed his arm as they passed each other anymore. Regulus was silent and Sirius just wanted him to scream, because why are you so quiet?!
Sirius had never been known for making wise decisions, much less when stressed and triggered.
He fucked up. In all his loud glory, he'd betrayed Remus and fucked up his friendship, his possible relationship, and possibly traumatized the love of his life more than he'd ever deserve.
Remus spent weeks completely ignoring Sirius. His actions weren't silent, they were just silent to Sirius. He was loud and compelling to everyone in the world, but Sirius.
And Merlin, he'd just wish Remus would yell.
So Sirius did what he knew how to do. He got in Remus' space, made himself known, seen, and heard, and made sure Remus had no way of ignoring him. He scoffed whenever Remus did anything, rolled his eyes, acted bratty and annoying and outright like an arse, simply to get Remus to look at him and do something.
The day Remus finally snapped and yelled at Sirius, he'd flinched. Remus had stopped yelling, but he still sent glares towards Sirius. That night, Sirius cast a silencing charm over his bed and laughed until he was sobbing hysterically.
It hurt so much, having Remus yell at him. Like he was tearing out every bit of Sirius, one by one, until he was just a handful of bloodied rags. Thank Merlin.
Remus was being loud again. If Sirius knew anything, it was how to deal with screaming and pain.
Sirius never hated loudness so much.