Remus had aged.
Of course he had. The march of time was a ruthless thing, incapable of even the smallest mercies. Sirius knew that fairly well, twelve years of waiting, of feeling his sanity drain drip by drip, instilling that lesson deep into his bones. It left his skin waxy, his hair limp, his bones protrusive. It left lines on his face, dug deep into sallow flesh by grief and anger, and grey streaks through formerly obsidian locks. It his mind in tatters, only held together by the glue that was the will to protect his godson. Perhaps foolishly, he had hoped this same tragedy would not befall his closest friend.
Hope never was ideal, was it?
Remus looked worn, like the rotting and slashed wood of the Shrieking Shack. The years spent alone had done him no favors, aging him beyond his years. He had more grey than brown in his curls, and his formerly bright green eyes were dulled with experience. But despite the changes he had been denied the liberty to watch gradually, Remus was still as beautiful as the day Sirius had lost him.
“Sit, Sirius,” Remus said patiently, gently pushing Sirius to sit on the closed toilet seat..
Even his voice had changed, a gruff, torn thing that told the story of unwilling change. Sirius’ heart panged at the years Remus had spent alone, had spent transforming his own. One hundred and forty-four moons come and gone. One hundred and forty-four moons Moony had to ride alone in anguish. He swore that no more would be missed.
The adrenaline from his escape had waned long ago, and Sirius greeted the fatigue and cold like old friends. He spent the better of eight months scavenging for food and hiding away like a beast, and it had caught up to him. He was the thinnest — and weakest — Sirius had ever been, but he would do it again in a heartbeat for his godson.
That did not mean he wasn’t ashamed, it seemed.
“No! Don’t—“ The words caught in his throat, and Sirius stared wildly up at Remus. The werewolf’s scarred fingers paused at the hem of the elder man’s shirt, green eyes staring at him with barely concealed concern. If it had been anyone else, Sirius would be irritated. He did not need pity; much less deserve it, especially from a man he had wronged multiple times. Yet, he was incapable of denying Remus anything, and pity was not the exception.
“Sirius. You can barely stand,” Remus remarked slowly, as if he was talking to a wild animal. Sirius didn’t blame him; he certainly felt like one.
“Standing and disrobing are two different things,” The reply was meant to be snapped, but the irritation was absent, “Surely, you know that.”
The werewolf’s eyes narrowed, the expression pulling at scars both old and new, “It seems the years have done nothing to remedy your sarcasm,” He sounded cross, but Sirius had known Remus long enough to tell when he wasn’t, “Though, perhaps that’s a good thing. A Sirius Black without sardonicism feels incomplete.”
“Don’t pretend you hate it,” The animagus retorted.
Remus smiled wryly, “Never was good at hating you.”
It was embarrassing how quickly that went to his heart. Sirius was a sentimental man, as much as he denied it.
“Let me undress in private,” The wizard said after a moment’s pause, painfully coming to his feet. Sirius stood on shaking legs before his knees ultimately buckled, and the werewolf had to rush to keep the man upright.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” The former professor chastised, instead forcing the fugitive back to the seat, “I know you enjoy your independence, Sirius, but you’re in no state to safely take care of yourself.”
“I could hold my own in the Shack,” Sirius replied petulantly.
“Because you were running on adrenaline,” Remus reminded, not unkindly, “You had three children to save. That’s gone now.”
“Please,” The werewolf knelt down, green meeting blue, “Let me help you.”
Why did Remus have to hit him with a please?
Sirius’ eyes closed, “Okay,” He breathed.
“Okay,” The taller man’s eyes were molten emerald, an expression the shorter was sure he’d never see again.