Raw Hearts

It has been 775 days since Remus Lupin last saw Sirius Black.

775 days and 6 hours, to be exact. Precision has always mattered to Remus, but it never had to Sirius, who had been sporadic and almost obnoxiously spontaneous. Remus used to be tired of his whining, his complaints, his annoying posh accent and his haughtiness. Now he knows that you only truly love something when it’s gone, and Sirius Black has been taken away from Remus in the worst way possible. 

Sirius was a god, filled with light and beauty, and Remus loved him more than he loved anything else. He loved the way his hair hung down around his face, silky and black as ink and feather soft. He loved the way his eyes sparkled when he was doing something he knew he wasn't supposed to, lovely and bright and blue. He loved the way his hands found their way around the neck of his guitar and he loved the way he used to laugh, joyous and sweet. Sirius had been larger than life itself, better than anything he had ever known, and now he’s gone - locked away in a cell, dead in a memory, erased and scraped out like a disease from Remus’s mind. 

As the train tracks fly away beneath him, Remus barely holds himself in. His hands are curled around his sides, clawed and aching and bruised. The anger that normally slides through his veins in a dark, slow undercurrent has turned instead to a cushioning feeling of numbness. Memories are the only things tethering him to the past, but they ache like a wound, still trying to heal. He has learned over these long two years that it's better to try to make it all not feel real.

The silent train is almost empty, filled only with a few stragglers staggering home after working overtime. Remus has just finished the late shift at the local library, and his back aches from carting books back and forth from the storage rooms all day. The exhaustion is familiar and painful, manifesting itself in an ache in his hip that has never fully seemed to go away and in near-constant, throbbing headaches. He feels the old pang of longing for a cigarette and a drink, but forcibly turns his thoughts away, refusing to give back into his old habits right when he knows he's getting better. He is getting better. He hopes. 

A buzz in his pocket announces a call, and he sighs wearily, unclenching his hands and reaching for his phone. Mary’s ID flashes up at him, and he picks up quickly, lowering his voice so he doesn’t disturb the people slouched in their seats around him.

“Hey,” he says, clearing his throat, “What’s up? It’s pretty late.”

“We broke up.” Mary’s voice shakes through the line. “It’s all over.”

“Mary, I’m on the train right now, but I’ll head to your place if you’d like–”

“T-thank you,” she hiccups, and he can hear her crying through the faint layer of static between her words. “I don’t want to be a bother, but you know the last time this happened-”

“I know. It’s okay - I’ll be there. Twenty minutes.”

“Mm’kay.” Her voice hitches softly.

“Love you,” he says, heart clenching in his chest.

“Love you too.”

The call disconnects, and Remus slumps back in his seat as the train pulls to a stop. There are only two more stops until he has to get off, but the wait drags on, time stretching out like the uncoiling of a spring. 

Love you guys! We love you too. See you tomorrow, for brunch, right? Yeah! Okay, g‘night. Harry, say nighty-night to Uncle Remus and Uncle Sirius! 

He curses himself internally. Why does he have to think about that now? What good does dwelling on the past do for anyone? Why can’t he just let it go?

The intercom pings after a few minutes and Remus jerks, knees knocking together uncomfortably. He gets up and stretches, gathering his coat around his shoulders and stepping out into the cold, still air. The sharpness of it brings him back to the present a little, and he turns his thoughts towards how to help Mary. Breakups are always rough, although Remus has no experience with them officially. A good cry and a large amount of chocolate and talking might help, he thinks as he steps out of the station and hails a cab. It always does. 

______________

Mary’s flat is located in one of the nicer parts of the city, thanks to her parents’ generosity and her position in an international relations company. It’s on the second floor and is respectable in size; Remus has always found it to be decently comfortable, although it’s a bit posh for his taste. He jabs the buzzer and takes a step back, rubbing his hands together for warmth. Snow has started to fall silently around the awning over Mary's door, covering everything in a silent, comforting sheet of white. 

The door flies open a minute later, revealing Mary’s curvy silhouette and her tattered, worn bathrobe. Her normally warm brown skin is pale, washed out to a tan in the light. A pang of pity grips him and he steps inside, enveloping her in a hug. She hugs him back and her shoulders shake under his hands. Silently, he rubs her back and closes his eyes, breathing in her familiar comforting scent. She smells like warm vanilla shampoo and chamomile tea, and he's relieved to not smell any alcohol on her - yet.

“Craig told me I was too much for him,” she sniffs. Her voice is thin and weak. Remus makes a sympathetic noise and slides off his jacket, hanging it on the rack by the door. Mary’s face is turned towards the floor and her hands are pressed over her face, hiding her eyes from view. 

“He’s an asshole, Mary.” He lays a hand on her arm and leads her out of the entryway and into the kitchen. It’s elegantly decorated in neutral browns and whites, and her normally clean, stark counters are covered with dishes and empty beer and wine bottles. He cringes away from the sight, turning away to hide his expression. She doesn't need to see how distressed it makes him. 

“Come on, let’s lie you down on the couch,” he says, and they move to sit in the connecting living room, settling down on Mary’s plush sofa. She puts her face in her hands and Remus continues rubbing her back as she cries, releasing a torrent of racking, ugly sobs.

“I-I’m so sorry,” she whimpers, leaning into him after her sobbing subsides. 

“Hush. I’m here for you, and you can talk to me about anything, you know that.”

“I know. It’s just so hard t-talking about it, because I feel s-so miserable! Fuck!” She dissolves into tears again, and Remus wonders, not for the first time, if his all friends are - were - just a tad bit dramatic. 

“Do you want a drink? Some tea, maybe?” he asks, shifting to look at her. She blinks her bloodshot eyes and nods, settling back on the couch and wiping her nose with her sleeve. Remus grabs her a box of tissues first before looking around the kitchen for a kettle.

"Bring me a beer," she calls from the other room.

“Mary, you remember I went sober a few months ago, right?” he calls, propping the fridge open with his foot. It's filled with a few meager portions of leftovers and packs of beer cans, and Remus feels ice slide down his spine at the sight. He doesn't want to think about how they've coped right now. He feels horribly out of depth all of a sudden, and bites his lip, worrying at the dry skin between his teeth. 

“Yeah. Just get me one, alright?” she mumbles drearily. He picks one and brings it over, cracking it open and handing it to Mary with a gentlemanly nod.

“Anything for you, then, madam. ” She laughs weakly and takes a long drink, sucking it down in a way that Remus knows will make her feel sick. He taps her shoulder gently and holds his hand out, and she grudgingly passes him the now half-empty can.

“Drinking won’t drown your problems. Take that from the experienced.”

“I know. Don’t lecture me, ‘cause I’ve already heard it from my therapist,” she shoots back, rolling her eyes and beginning to look a bit more like herself.

“You have a therapist?” Remus is genuinely surprised. Mary doesn’t seem like the type of person to need a therapist, but apparently there’s a lot more substance to her struggles than she lets on. I'm a horrible friend, he thinks darkly, gazing at the half-empty can on the coffee table. 

“Yeah. What do you expect, after what happened… back then.”
“Seven-hundred and seventy-five days.” It feels strange to say it. His mouth goes dry and he swallows too loudly, and Mary turns towards him, a worried expression on her face. He quickly averts his eyes from hers. He can’t do eye contact right now.

“What?” She knows what, but she’s asking anyway - to help herself? To help Remus? He doesn’t know.

“Since everything basically went to hell for us. You’re the only one keeping me afloat… emotionally.” He trails off awkwardly and starts to fidget, picking at the leg of his trousers. The conversation has flipped quickly from Mary onto him, and her uncanny ability to deflect things from her own troubles unnerves him more than he wants to admit. It’s just another coping mechanism, he thinks, repeating the thought like a mantra. We’re all just getting by. 

“I… have you seen anyone?” Mary asks after a long moment, her voice soft and scratchy from crying. He shakes his head.

“If you mean a therapist, no. And if you mean another person, also no. I can’t–” He chokes up a bit, and she reaches out, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay. That’s how I feel now, after C-Craig…”

“Craig is such a dumb name anyway,” Remus says, and Mary lets out a small laugh.

“I guess it is. Still… I know I overwhelmed him. I know it was too much for him… me and my baggage and my family being estranged and my lack of stability at first… we were together for three years, Remus.” Her head is in her hands again, bushy curls obscuring her face from view.

“I know, and I’m so, so sorry. You deserve a long-lasting relationship, and you deserve someone who loves and cares about you the same way you thought he used to.” 

“Do I though? He told me he fell out of l-love a while ago– oh, Christ!” She wipes away a tear again, voice breaking with another onset of tears. “I can’t stop fucking crying!” Reaching for the beer again, she downs the remainder of the can and sets it down with a clink on the coffee table. She hiccups loudly, swiping furiously at her face and turning her head to stare at the ceiling. 

“You can let it out, I swear I’m not judging you. You’re just as strong for crying as you are for holding it in.”

“Then how come you’ve never bawled on my shoulder like an overgrown baby?” she quips, and the joke stings Remus like a thistle.

“Because I’m different.”

“Well… that’s true.”

They both go silent for a moment, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Remus tries to keep his mind off the upcoming holiday, but it doesn’t work for long. Suddenly, the idea of the beer in the fridge seems enticing. Drinking it all away into oblivion, like he used to… But no.

“Don’t you dare.” Mary interrupts his thoughts with a short smack on the ribs, and he jumps away, scooting to the other side of the sofa. “I know that look, but just because I get to have one beer after my breakup doesn’t mean you get to raid my fridge just to handle your own trauma. What did you say earlier? ‘Drinking won’t drown your problems?’” 

Remus sighs heavily and runs a hand through his already graying hair.
“Yes, I know. I was just–”

“Wishing it could all go away. I know. Me too.” She watches him for a moment, her brown eyes trained steadily on his. “How about you stay here tonight?” she asks him abruptly, getting up from the couch and wrapping her robe tight around her waist. Her dark hair is frazzled and coiled into tight ringlets, and her polka-dot sweatpants hang low on her waist, exposing the faintest trace of an appendix scar. Remus suddenly remembers the night she’d had it out - they’d all waited for her at the hospital, and Lily and Marlene had been so relieved when she’d come out all-clear. 

“Yeah, that’s alright. I know where to go.” He stands up and pulls her into another hug, stooping a little to press a soft kiss on her forehead. 

“Thanks for sticking with me,” she whispers, and they pull apart and smile in that special way that only best friends can. Remus’s heart warms a tiny bit.

“You know I’m always here.” She nods at him, and he gives her another small smile.

“Goodnight.”

“‘Gnight, dummy.” 

_______________

Healing is like draining pus out of a wound. It seeps out slowly and painfully first, gooey and sticky and as ugly as all those untold truths that hide in the dark. The infection digs below the skin and festers until the wound is finally sliced open, and only after that pain has subsided can it finally begin to heal. It aches for weeks afterwards, and the wound itself misses the pus, and feels like something is missing, feels like that disease should still be there despite the old pain.

Remus falls asleep that night with the echo of Sirius’s voice in his ears. He can’t get it out of his head some days, and it breaks him down bit by bit when the flashbacks come, a vivid, terrible reminder of all he’s lost. The nights are always the worst, since it’s the only time when those dark thoughts feel safe enough to crawl out of the hidden cracks in Remus’s mind. He shivers under the covers in Mary’s spare bedroom and waits out the storm. He passes out from exhaustion around 3 am. 

The next morning is typical for London in the winter - cold, rainy and filled with oppressive fog. He hears Mary yawn from her bedroom down the hall and stretches his stiff limbs, chasing out the usual cramps and aches that burrow in his bones from night after night of restless sleep. The light coming in from the curtains is gray and bleak, and he gets up and pulls them back, looking out to see the dreary view.

“‘Morning,” comes her voice from the door, startling Remus out of his reverie. He turns and gives her a small smile, taking in her messy, unruly hair and tear-stained cheeks. 

“‘Morning. Sleep well?” he asks, walking over to the foot of the bed and shrugging on his sweater.

“Nah. You?”

“I don’t sleep much anymore. I guess that’s one thing we’ve got in common,” he says, and Mary chuckles. Remus runs a hand through his disheveled hair and sets about making the bed, briskly fluffing out the pillows and airing the sheets. 

“Thanks for letting me stay, though, I really appreciate it. It means a lot, you know.”

“No problem, Remus. I’m always here for you.” She smiles at him softly and turns away, heading into the kitchen. “Are fried eggs okay?” she calls, and he pokes his head out the door to answer.

“Of course. You act as if I haven’t been eating fried eggs for the majority of my life. They’re literally the staple of my existence at this point, along with chocolate.” He hears her laugh as she starts up the gas stove, clanking around with pots and pans. Something about the quiet domesticity of it all brings back that ache inside, but he shoves it away and tries to allow himself a moment of quiet morning peace in the company of a friend.

______________

After breakfast, Remus decides to leave and head back to his own flat, which is about fifteen minutes away downtown. He bids Mary goodbye and gives her another tight, comforting hug, praying silently that she’ll be alright. He knows how it feels to appear strong until you can’t anymore, and to have that festering inside you, and he doesn’t wish that on anyone else. 

He hails a taxi and climbs into the cigarette-smelling car, directing the driver to his dingy flat and handing him the last bit of money that he has on him. When he opens the door, he allows himself a moment to slump against the wall, feeling yet another onset of feelings holding him down. Something presses hard against his chest, sudden and heavy as lead. 

Don’t cry, you idiot, he tells himself angrily, knocking his head back against the wall. Fuck. 

After a minute or two, he pushes himself to move and breathes through the abrupt weariness that has taken hold. The weight on his chest is still there; it’s a constant companion these days, carrying a different weight to a different degree on some days more than others. He knows today will be rough - day 776 - but he promises himself it will be okay and that he just has to get through this. He just has to keep pushing. Keep going, keep breathing and keep the hell away from things that he knows he shouldn’t have. 

The familiar comfort of his beaten old couch envelops him as he slumps down into it, reaching over for the remote and for his phone charger. He clicks through a few channels mindlessly before deciding to turn on the news, kicking his feet up and settling back to watch. His phone dings with a text from Mary, but he decides not to pick it up, focusing instead on the newest headline:

Escaped inmate poses a danger to the local public, authorities say. 

A shiver trails down his spine and something like fear lodges in his throat. It can’t be… It’s a useless thought. He knows it’s an unreasonable thing to think, he knows he has to stop seeing signs of his betrayal everywhere he goes but he can’t help it—

Sirius Black, convicted murderer, has escaped from Pentonville Prison this morning. Police are on the hunt for Black as fear rises throughout the city, but authorities assure…

All the breath leaves his lungs in a whoosh. He chokes, feels like he's going to vomit, then gets up suddenly and rushes for the sink. He throws up his breakfast in a disgusting heave. Everything feels surreal, filled with static and the sound of buzzing. His phone vibrates from a call on the table. His nails dig into the dry flesh of his palms. Acid burns the back of his throat. 

Free. Sirius has escaped. Is on the loose. Rabid and wild and— and—

Remus can’t finish the thought. He slumps to the floor, back against the kitchen cabinets, shoulders shaking. Everything is upside down, way too fast. 

He’s back, he’s back, he’s back, and there is nothing to protect Remus from his wrath except for the four flimsy walls of his dirty little flat. 

He knows Sirius will come for him, after what he did to them all last year. He feels it in his bones, and shakes and shakes and scratches his wrists raw. The cabinet is hard against his back. He doesn’t know how long he sits there trying to control himself, to steady his breathing. 

He’s not safe. Mary is not safe. 

All that recovery, all that time, suddenly ripped away with a single headline and a row of subtitles projected on a screen. All that pain and then finally the relief of getting better, finally —

Something knocks on the kitchen window, a harsh tap with the force of a fist. Remus startles and balls his hands into fists. The noise comes again, this time accompanied by the scrape of the lock turning on his window. 

He takes a breath and pushes himself up, whirling around to face the window and raising his fists, bracing himself for the worst.

Remus only has a second to duck before the entire window shatters and the gaunt figure of Sirius Black tumbles in.