The Promise

A week passes in dull, murky silence. They eat breakfast at the same table and coexist amicably in the afternoons, but that’s the extent of their interactions. Sirius doesn’t know how to apologize for snapping, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to. He’s repentant one moment, but then angry all over again the next. His moods swing like a weathervane in a storm and he wonders if that’s new or if he’s only just become aware of it himself. Moony would know, bloody observant bastard that he is, but Sirius isn’t about to break their armistice just to draw attention to the fact that he’s a loose fucking canon.

So he does what any jaded adult would do to avoid addressing their problems- he drinks whiskey straight from the bottle and passes out once the room is well and truly spinning around him. Sometimes he puts on his old records which he lies down and listens to on the floor, or trashes something for the hell of it, but mostly he just sits with his back against a corner until his thoughts mercifully stop making sense and his heart rate slows to a pace that doesn’t make him feel like he’s dying.

This, the alcohol, he’s sure Remus has noticed too, from the anguished and resentful looks Sirius is shot if he sets foot in Remus’ vicinity after seven o’clock (the time that Sirius has deemed it appropriate to get well and truly hammered). But Sirius glares at him and ignores it, and Remus doesn’t share whatever it is that he’s dying to say. But Sirius doesn’t need to put words to the disappointment so clearly written on Remus’ face.

“Makes fucking two of us,” Sirius thinks. “You think I wanted to come back like this? Less than functional? Less than you deserve?”

Sirius can’t find it in him to feel much regret at not being high-school crush material anymore. If that’s who Remus wanted, his expectations were too high. Hell, even if Sirius had spent a single week rotting on that godforsaken island and not twelve years, Remus would’ve been sorely dissatisfied with the man that came back to him.

So Sirius rolls his eyes privately and wanders back upstairs. He was always a disappointment to dear old mother, so it’s really nothing new to be one now. He’s fine. Or maybe he isn’t. Maybe it doesn’t matter to him. Yeah, that’s it. It doesn’t matter if he’s a lost cause- at least lost causes can get drunk and black out in peace.

…

Remus knows he has to say something- he’s leaving in three days, and he’s going to be gone for two weeks- but he can’t. The words stick in his throat like honey, heavy and cloying, and all he can do is watch Sirius’ retreating back and squares shoulders every time he tries in vain to speak.

But he can’t just watch the other fall to pieces. They sit at breakfast and Sirius doesn’t touch his food once, just stares despondently at his coffee cup, which Remus can’t help but wonder at the contents of. The afternoons are worse. Sirius fidgets and paces and jumps at loud noises. Otherwise, he’s so deep in his thoughts that his face becomes an apathetic mask, and Remus is too afraid to bring him out of it because he doesn’t know which is better; For Sirius to feel his emotions, which are overwhelmingly negative, or to feel nothing. Is the latter a mercy? Is the former a necessary evil?

It’s a Thursday night, uncommonly warm, when Sirius tromps through the living room where Remus sits reading. He’s wearing a black Joy Division tshirt and blue jeans with a ratty, oversized green cardigan thrown around his broad but thin shoulders. His stark white collar bones are vivid against the dark cotton and swirling black tendrils of tattoos he has given himself, mostly while imprisoned. If he were healthier, he would look quite attractive, but instead his eye sockets are hollow and hungry, and there’s a distinct sheen of sweat on his brow. His cheeks are flushed, and Remus can’t tell if it’s from anxiety or alcohol. Sirius shoots him a hurt and paranoid look when he notices Remus staring. “Both then,” thinks Lupin as the other stomps off into the kitchen, where glass clinks and liquid sloshes, excessively loud. Is this Sirius asking for help? Or is he showing Lupin how little he cares that the he’s concerned for Sirius’ well-being? It’s impossible to determine without talking to him, but this obviously isn’t the right time for that. In fact, it never feels like the right time these days, and the words Remus plans on saying never seem like enough. Instead, they feel twelve years too late and a couple thousand quid short.

That night, he doesn’t hear the tell tale screaming of Sirius’ night terrors, but he also strongly suspects a silencing charm has been placed around the other’s room. If he’s sleeping at all. Remus sure as shit isn’t.

He checks his cracked wristwatch. It’s four o’clock in the morning, and he gives up on lying down in bed, staring at the ceiling. He is officially leaving tomorrow. One more sleep. One more day to find the stones to talk to Sirius.

…

Surprise, surprise. He doesn’t. Instead, he goes to Dumbledore. They talk and talk and talk some more, and finally-.

“Who did you have in mind for such a task, Remus?” Dumbledore asks, and Lupin lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He never anticipates that anyone else will care about Sirius the way he himself does, and maybe they don’t, but here’s Dumbledore, at least patient and understanding and always thinking things through. Remus wonders why he didn’t come sooner. “Because you should have just faced him yourself,” a blunt inner voice drawls, and he pushes it to the corner of his mind.

“Molly, maybe?” Remus asks hesitantly. Dumbledore furrows his brow ever so slightly.

“Are you.. quite sure? I understand that Molly and Sirius don’t always… shall we say, mesh well-…”

“I know,” Remus says quickly, “but she’s the only person I can think of who’ll keep him in line without it being too obvious that he’s the reason she’s there. And I know she’s going mad in that house with her whole brood off at school, and Grimmauld is still in shambles so he could use the extra pair of hands. So I just thought…”

To his surprise, Dumbledore smiles kindly.

“Very well, Remus. I’ll send Molly an owl and I’m sure she’ll accept.” He pauses, looking like he wants to say more. Remus waits. He’s found that more often than not it’s best to listen to what Dumbledore has to say.

“He’s very fortunate to have a friend like yourself,” Dumbledore says finally, “and for a man like Sirius who has not been fortunate in much else, I’m sure that means a great deal indeed.”

Remus feels his ears burn and he can’t help but say “We’re not… just friends, you know. That’s what makes it even worse, that I just… just let him rot in there. Let that place destroy him.” He turns away so that Dumbledore can’t see the raw grief surely painted on his tired features.

“No one can be destroyed so long as they have love, Remus,” Dumbledore tells him gently. There’s a distinct hint of grief in his own voice, and Remus wonders just how much love one can lose in over a hundred years of living. He hopes he’ll never find out.

…

He returns on the floo, wipes powdery grey ash from his eyes, and finds a place to hide. Because he hasn’t cried in front of anyone who wasn’t Sirius since he was seven years old, and Sirius is not strong enough to carry his weakness right now.

He leaves in the morning, while watery yellow light streams in and illuminates Grimmauld’s usually shadowy interior.

Sirius is awake and waiting for him. He doesn’t look like he’s slept a wink, but he looks depressingly, miserably sober. He’s sitting by the door, on the ground, with his back against the wall, as if he’d ran out of strength to hold himself up.

For one mad minute, Remus wonders if Sirius is here to stop him, to make him stay. Remus knows in his heart that the other would only have to say the word, and he would. Forever, always, without hesitation.

But Sirius doesn’t. Sirius doesn’t say anything. His face is working furiously to hold back tears, though his eyes are already red-rimmed and puffy from what Remus assumes (correctly) are previous failed attempts.

Something in Remus breaks, and he’s filled with an overwhelming desire to sink down before the other, to enfold him in a warm, gentle embrace, to promise him that once this is over, once there’s finally some peace, some hope, he’ll never leave again. But his fear makes him hesitate, and the warm, bittersweet desire to comfort and care dies in his chest. Because he did leave Sirius, for twelve years, and because they’re so different now. They’re old for one, broken for another. And more importantly, Remus isn’t sure there will ever be peace or hope again, for anyone, much less he or Sirius. Hope died with James and Lily, and they never found it again.

So he only stands on the threshold, rough hand against the wood of the doorframe, looking intently at the man he loves, while the other looks desperately back, as if drowning.

Coward that he is, Remus finds he can only manage a single sentence.

“Be back soon, Padfoot.”

Sirius says nothing, but instead of anger, his eyes are full of pain and resignation as he watches Remus go.