Sirius and Remus fit together effortlessly. They always had. From the first time Sirius had noticed the curly-haired boy, with lanky arms too long for his body and a sweater pulled down far over his hands, whose nails were painted a soft violet, to the first time Remus had told Sirius to "fuck off" when Sirius had stolen from his beloved stash of chocolate, Remus had made sense. And Sirius, with his untamed hair and his even less tepid laughter, well, he didn't make so much sense to Remus-- Sirius was very proud of that as he fancied himself an enigma. But still they made as much sense together as the stars did with the moon.
And so they never planned on being apart.
That's not really the type of thing to be planned. Sirius' nightmares, which he later realized were more warnings, entertained the idea that he could live in a Remus-less world. But as soon as he'd kick off his covers and be met with the light of the moon, the real light of the moon that wasn't an illustration of his thoughts, that world was nothing but a bad dream. Something with which Sirius was very familiar.
Even still, nothing would have prepared him to be left without Remus' arms to hold him.
---
For Remus, blood had never been as terrifying as he noticed it was to everyone else.
Blood was innocent. It was gentle. Tender in the way it brushed his scarred skin that was meant to be covered, shy in the way it left a pinkish hue to taint otherwise colorless water, curious, but cautious, in the way it slowly emerged from his skin, letting the fresh air that rarely got to meet the scarlet liquid sink into just a drop of it before it decided to trickle trustingly along a blank surface. He found it difficult to believe that such a harmless liquid, with such an eager spirit, could be so feared by the very people through whose veins it flowed, whose hearts it supplied, whose flesh it pinked.
Remus noticed that when blood was seen, it became demon. A monster capable of draining any person or creature of the life that gushed from wounds and trickled from cuts. When blood was seen, it didn't seem so innocent. It left its memory to stain any reachable surface, its favorite being the skin. Even the shiest trickle warranted an undaunted fear from anything with a heartbeat. And so blood was left unspoken by the very people whose hearts pumped it.
Blood was a secret.
And scars its teller.
Scars were honest. They were unwilling to keep the secrets that were bound beneath the skin. Freckled along their gashes, emerging from their scratches, scars let the truth trickle from them in pure scarlet streaks that could hush the busiest of rooms with their silence and entertain the dullest of eyes with their own darkness. Scars spoke wordlessly the truth that nothing with a heartbeat dared to utter. Bandages, makeup, icepacks only temporarily sealed the door through which the truth seeped. The truth that stained every towel and cloth with its reminder that it was only a skin's thickness away from meeting the light of the sun. Or that of the moon; it wasn't picky.
If blood was the secret that went unspoken by everyone who owned it, Remus was fine with that. Too many times had he faced the unsympathetic truth that poured out of every gash in his skin. Too many times had it been dragged from his skin by the moon, who seemed to be eager to rid it of its secrecy. Why Remus' blood was the one for which the moon longed the most was beyond him. But that didn't seem to matter. His skin was far too familiar with the tender touch of blood.
The honesty of scars was something Remus had come to understand before even the age of six. His first scar-- not a scrape from falling off his broom or a paper cut from turning a page, but a proper scar, with a story that slipped down his skin in streams of blood that his eyes met with shame--, was quick. Short and fast to bleed, but followed by hundreds more that stole away his innocence the second they ripped apart his flesh. And the secret was out, running along his young skin and letting it feel the mocking liquid with which it would quickly become accustomed. After the first time the moon had preyed on him, he never thought he would know such pain again. And every month he would tell himself that. Every month, when the moon was young and seemingly harmless, though he'd eventually know better, he promised himself that the milky sliver of light that cut through the navy sky would never fill. That it would stay new and pure forever. But every month, without fail, he was reminded how stupid such a hope was. And as if the moon had gained strength in its time away, feeding off his childish wishfulness, the scars became more and more painful. Apparently they were bearable, he supposed, or else he wouldn't be at the disposal of the moon when it was full again. But he always was.
Somehow, every month the moon seemed to get even fuller than the last. Remus was surprised it didn't overflow. How pretty that would be, he thought. For the silver liquid to trickle from the heavens, draining the moon of its power and streaking the sky in shimmering silver streaks. The liquid moon would spill gracefully down to the people who had only ever been able to admire it, or fear it, from a distance. Hypnotically it would spill, dripping down the sky with the same ease with which Remus' blood slipped down his skin. Maybe he imagined it to feel equal to the moon. To rid it of its blatant superiority. Maybe if the moon bled too, it would understand. It, too, would know the feeling of being hollow. A feeling with which Remus had become far too familiar. Maybe it was best that the moon didn't leak. Not for the sake of light-- the stars could handle that task--, but because he wouldn't wish upon anyone, or anything, the ability to understand true emptiness.
But eventually, for a reason he couldn't fathom, he began to long for the pain of scars to overtake his skin. To rob him of the safety he was supposed to want. Because pain was human. And the scars, the ones that he only had because his body was robbed of its humanity, they were his reminder that he was human. Too human, even-- he found it ironic. The blood that would spill from them without fail every night when his skin was too tired to keep it in, bleeding his humanity, was the same liquid that flowed through the veins of his friends and enemies alike. It was the same blood that flushed his cheeks a soft pink when Sirius would kiss him. The same blood that slipped from anyone's cuts and scratches, though it seemed to enjoy spilling from his much more. How flattering, he figured.
Maybe everyone else's blood was shy, finding comfort and refuge in the secrecy that skin provided it. Remus rarely saw anyone else bleed. The liquid almost looked unnatural coming from anyone else's skin besides his own. As though he were the only one capable of bleeding. Or maybe the only one deserving of it, he guessed. But the moon didn't prey on everyone else. It didn't leave its reminder in their skin or hover the horrifying anticipation of its rise over the heads of everyone else.
When Remus began to long for such pain, when he began to itch for the reminder that he was at least as close to as human as James or Sirius, the moon wasn't around to help him. Remus guessed it was full of spite. Or maybe narcissism, only showing him his blood when it wanted him to see it. It made sense that the moon felt so godly. Hovering over every person, tree, and building there ever was, harnessing the power to steal away the world's light or fill every crevice and alley with a blinding shine in just the blink of a fragile eye, of course it felt superior.
And Remus was left feeling helpless.
He promised himself that he, too, could perform at least one of the tasks the moon could. So he would dig his nails into his skin. Greeted with the familiar tepidness of blood emerging from a new scar, Remus was in control. And there it was. His reminder that he bled the same, though more often, as everyone else. His blood was just as deep a red, just as full of secrecy, just as feared as anyone else's. But he wasn't scared. Not of the blood, at least. He doubted anyone else found comfort in watching the shy liquid gain confidence as it flowed from his homemade scars, quickening its pace as it dripped along his skin just as eagerly as the wax of a candle melts to the rim of its candelabra.
It had surprised him to see how foreign blood was to everyone else. When his scars would reopen and the blood would sneak out from whatever cloth or sleeve he used to prevent it from doing just that, Remus was simply bothered. But his friends were beyond concerned. Though he appreciated Peter's "are you going to be okay?"s, James' stupid jokes that were clear attempts at cheering Remus up, and Sirius' gentle kisses soothing the skin around the reopening scars, Remus preferred to keep them hidden. If blood wanted to remain a secret, he wouldn't be the one to whisper it.
When he could, Remus would cover the truths that his scars so badly wanted to bleed; that he was out of control, that he was a victim of the moon's wrath, that he was scared. And he was. No amount of familiarity with the scars would ever soothe his fear. His fear would never bleed out of the gashes. That was there to stay. That was there to fill up the hollow shell of a boy that only seemed to breathe for the sake of appeasing the moon's spite. He was surprised that his fear didn't overflow like he had imagined the full moon would. It would spill out of him, relieving him of its burden and maybe granting him the chance to breathe for himself. Not for the moon.
He was determined to hide the moon's marks; long sleeves even when the sun was at its brightest, turtlenecks even though he loathed the feeling of wool nagging his neck, inexpensive makeup and powders to disguise his skin as untouched even though the cosmetics stung. Of course blood, eager as it was, wouldn't always obey the long sleeves and copious amounts of bandages that Remus used, finding its opportunity to indulge in its curiosity and seep through his clothes to hopefully meet the sun's light. So Remus couldn't always evade the concerned expressions of his friends and lingering eyes of his peers.
Eventually, the other Marauders learned not to ask questions and not to stare when Remus' cream-colored sleeves were suddenly freckled, or even streaked, with red. But of course, as overprotective and loving-- almost to a fault-- as they were, Remus could still tell when they noticed. Peter, with his readable eyes and curious glances, would do his best to avoid staring. James, with his quick wit and rumbling laugh, would suddenly turn into a comedian, as though he were trying not to let Remus notice Remus' own blood staining his clothes.
Sirius didn't hide his concern so easily. Laughing along with James' jokes and pretending not to notice Peter's wandering gaze, he would wrap his arms around Remus, holding him together when he knew that Remus was ready to fall apart. Remus, softer than he let himself act, appreciated greatly their every forced conversation, shitty joke, and familiar hug when he knew they saw the scars he didn't have the energy to hide. As hesitant as he was to admit it, he loved their failed attempts at nonchalance. He'd even let Sirius hold the arm that leaked his misery when he felt comfortable enough and really needed the feeling of his boyfriend holding him so close.
After full moons, there was no point in pretending. Remus couldn't move more than a blink, which was painful enough itself. His tears would slip from his eyes without his permission, but he barely noticed. His skin, consumed by the stinging reminder of every new scar, was oblivious to something so gentle like a tear trickling down his cheek. Tears weren't as full of silenced truth as blood was. They were less taboo. When they dribbled down someone's skin, they were elegant and beautiful. Songs, poems, entire books could be written in honor of the grace of a single tear finding its way down a person's face. Blood wasn't so easily admired. Even still, Remus felt no more comfortable with the clear droplets slipping from his eyes than he did with the deep red ones slipping from his scars.
As hellish as full moons were, Remus became dependent on the soothing presence of his friends and boyfriend. As much as he wished he could shoulder the moon's attacks on his own, they didn't let him. And he was glad.
Hogwarts, December 1978
Remus sat, almost immobile, in the bed in the back left corner of the hospital wing. Too familiar was the mattress that had begun expecting his presence every thirty days. Rather than comforting him, the familiarity of the pillow holding the weight of his head was mocking, reminding him of the countless times he'd stared out the window and studied the tiny scratch in the bottom right corner of the pane, and how many times more he'd be looking at the cracked glass again.
It was just two days after the most recent full moon had once again surprised him when it didn't overflow and his scars were still raw. The moon had begun to fade back to its crescent state, probably too tired from draining Remus of blood to remain at its fullest. As Remus stared at the tiny imperfection in the corner of the window, the moon showed itself, hiding partially behind the Slytherin tower opposite him, appearing mockingly innocent as just a sliver in the sky, just a slit of silver light cutting the navy sky, as seemingly inconsequential as the scratch in the window. The night was as young as the new moon would soon be, but the sun left no trace whatsoever, as if its golden light hadn't ever so much as grazed the horizon.
Remus was left to stare at the moon, wondering how it could look so... small. He wondered if it would fall. Or just fade into the navy of the sky. The stars were gentler. Not as breathtaking, but less spiteful. Even if they wanted to hurt Remus, they'd probably leave nothing more than a dent or bruise that would fade after just a day or two. Maybe it would be easier to have billions of stars pitted against him rather than something so hypnotic and easily trustable as the moon.
Its weak light only seemed to encourage the scathing of his scars.
He shut his eyes, tighter than he would have if he'd intended on sleeping, but just tightly enough to see nothing but a pure black and, to the moon's chagrin, none of its light. In a few days, maybe a week if he was lucky, its light would be too powerful to shut out, and probably too enchanting from which too look away, but for now Remus reveled in the ability to ignore the seemingly-shy moon. He inhaled deeply, appreciating the breezeless air of the hospital wing, even if it felt heavier in his lungs than it should have. He winced as his chest fell during the exhale, being reminded of the countless scars, both new and old, that hugged his waist.
He sensed Sirius' concerned presence beside him before he heard the rustling of his t-shirt as he sat at Remus' bedside.
Sirius, tracing with his eyes the silhouette of Remus' face that was lit to a demure silver by the harmless starlight, knew Remus was aware of Sirius' trembling breath and tear-rimmed eyes even though Sirius tried to steady his breaths and blink away the tears and Remus didn't even have his eyes open. Sirius, unwilling to penetrate the thick silence with his voice, shifted in his seat to warn Remus of his presence, though Sirius knew Remus was aware. And Remus knew Sirius knew. This was not an uncommon routine.
Remus hummed gently his acknowledgement, keeping his eyes closed and not so much cracking the silence with the low note as tickling it, rather. Sirius stood from the chair that had begun to expect him monthly just as much as Remus' bed had come to expect him. Sirius hovered his hand over Remus' cheek, locking eyes with Remus and letting the stars be the only source of light to cut through the otherwise pitch blackness of the cobblestone room. There was a candle to Remus' right, but its flame was flickering and weak and its wax was minimal.
Remus stiffly nodded his head, nearing it to Sirius' hand as much as he could. Sirius gingerly rested his hand on Remus' cheek and rubbed his thumb across it, not breaking the comfortable gaze they shared. Sirius didn't think Remus noticed the tears that were streaming, not at all subtly, down his face and Sirius simply brushed them away with his gentle finger, wordlessly.
They didn't need words. Not anymore. During first and second year, Sirius, with his enthusiastic hugs and anxious energy, hadn't so easily kept a gentle touch. But, now both in seventh year, Sirius' every breath and every heartbeat was tender and calm, careful not to coax out further pain from the scars that he knew were already unbearable thrashed across Remus' every inch. Remus winced, lightly, still, at the touch of Sirius' hand on his cheek, but sank into it. The scars would burn no matter what. Better that they burn while Sirius was holding him.
Remus eyed pointedly the small space next to him, not big enough for even a first year Sirius. Sirius, after lifting his hand from Remus' cheek, stepped closer, hovering a leg over the bed.
"Can't really move," Remus uttered weakly. His voice was a glass with cracks claiming every inch, just a weak breeze away from shattering.
"That's okay," Sirius whispered, somehow fitting himself in the sliver of space at Remus' side, still facing him.
Almost fully covered by the aggravatingly familiar wool if his blanket, Remus' scars were mostly hidden. The bolder ones that stretched all across his front, starting at his scrawny hip bone or wrapping around his rib cage, still emerged from the frizzy edge of the blanket, twisting up his neck and groping for his face how a leafless tree gropes for the Winter moon. They hadn't yet faded to their light pink, the same pink of a cherry blossom or a blood-kissed pond. They weren't exactly a bright red either, just a shy maroon freckled with stubborn specks of blood that were still to trail down his abdomen and tickle his skin. Dried blood was still chipped all along his shoulders and face, though under the dim light of the stars, the dried flecks mostly blended in with the night.
"How bad?" Sirius asked, eyeing as many of the scars he could take in at once.
"Not too," Remus lied.
One of the almost-black beads of blood that had been burgeoning from Remus' skin since Sirius sat finally let itself succumb to the eager pull of gravity, slowly tracing its scarlet path along Remus' chest. The trail of blood reflected the starlight easily. It was almost pretty. Some of the most feared things are. The thin drip, stretching patiently down Remus' front held such power that it could steal away the light of the stars only to reflect it even more hypnotically back up at them.
As the bead of blood stretched into a stream, Remus shuttered.
Sirius accidentally met Remus' gaze with pity. He corrected his expression the second he noticed, but Remus still looked away, too weak to shoulder the sincerity of eye contact.
"How bad?" Sirius asked again, letting his eyes follow the thin stream of blood that was picking up speed.
Remus conceded, "bad." The word trembled from his lips, the frailty of his voice answering the question better than the word itself.
Sirius held at bay the wave of pity that was crashing against his chest. A brief silence lingered between them as he swallowed his empathy, ignoring the small tear that dropped from the corner of his closed eye, not bothering to slide down his cheek before thudding the blanket under him and seeping into its wool.
Sirius reached for the small wooden bowl that Madam Pomfrey always left by Remus' bedside. The candle flickered its weak reflection in the bowl of warm water, its light almost inconsequential and threatened to be swallowed by the darkness of the room. The light it was casting onto the wall was barely light at all, just the last breath of the flame kissing its gentle yellow to the wall. Sirius brought the bowl to his lap and grabbed the small towel that had rested beside it. It would have been warm had the fire of the candle been any more powerful.
Sirius bunched the towel in his hand, which trembled lightly, and looked to Remus for permission.
Remus nodded a small nod.
Sirius dipped the towel in the water that was freckled with the reflection of the stars and let it soak for a moment.
Cautious with every dab and gentle with every breath, Sirius pressed the towel to Remus' shoulder. Instantly, Remus' entire body tensed and his eyes shut tightly in efforts to hold in tears but that only encouraged them. They fell so gingerly down his cheeks so as the white fluff of a dandelion slips from its core or a leaf does from an Autumn tree. It felt as though the empathetic tears were trying to comfort him before falling and fading into the towel under Remus' jaw.
"Sorry," Sirius said, meaning it.
Remus shook his head, "it's okay."
Remus was rendered thoughtless with the scathing of his scars filling his mind like a boiling liquid and breathless with each trembling exhale escaping his lips to leave him without oxygen. The moon took the liberty of reflecting itself in his tears as it emerged from behind the tower. The same moon that did this to him, watching its expert work. With tender, skillful hands it had ripped mercilessly into Remus' flesh and it sat, proud in its height, watching.
Sirius hadn't brought the towel back to meet Remus' skin again, letting the heightened pain fizzle away as much as it would. "Again?" Sirius asked, not sure for which answer he hoped most.
"Go-" Remus started before wincing at the lingering pain, "-ahead," he finished.
Sirius obliged, pressing firmly back on the scar draped over Remus' shoulder. Remus whimpered at almost every touch, though he tried to hide it. Sirius was certain that desperate screams were throwing themselves against Remus' throat. He knew just how quickly even one of the cries would shatter his heart. As quickly as a rock splashing into a peaceful pond and rippling its innocent surface. As effectively as a fist driving into a mirror, cracking whatever harmless reflection resided on its glass into hundreds of pieces. Bloody was the fist that shattered the mirror, and exhausted was the fist that didn't let itself bleed. And Remus didn't let the cries free. Their echo left him in the tears streaming down his face.
"Sorry," Sirius whispered again, meaning it more with every repetition.
"It's okay," Remus always answered.
The towel coaxed blood out of even the driest-looking scars, extending its cloth hand invitingly enough for the shy liquid to seep into it. It didn't take long for the entire towel to be marbled red. When it was, Sirius cast a quick spell to wash it and started again, appreciating the few seconds during which muffled cries and winces weren't dragged from Remus' tightly-pursed lips.
Eventually Remus grew used to the pain. Or maybe he was just numbed. Either way, he watched in an almost mesmerized state as his own blood took possession of the small towel, stealing away its innocence as it tinted the water red. But it wasn't the blood's fault. It had nowhere else to go. It wasn't the scars' fault. They had no other place to lie.
In his numbed state, Remus was reminded of the duality of scars. Just minutes before, they had been robbing his skin of its clarity and proving him fragile. They were cracking him without granting him the satisfaction of breaking. But now, watching Sirius' tender hands tracing his neck, brushing his jaw, dabbing his cheek, the scars were a promise. A promise that Remus was human, a promise that if he really was a monster, that was only part-time. A promise that even half-monsters were deserving of touches soft and sweet. Scars were as fickle as the moon that birthed them. So harsh the moon could be, tearing apart whomever it desired, but so gracefully it rested, reveling in its reign over the sky and granting every puddle, window, and teardrop its radiant reflection.
Blood was the tears of the skin. How it let loose its frustration to drip down Remus' skin. Scars couldn't scream. They couldn't punch walls or accept hugs. So they wept. Scarlet tears, echoless sobs. And with Sirius' every gentle touch, Remus' scars felt soft. As hesitant as he was to let them be seen, not having to clean them on his own or watch his blood spill as he sat helplessly was so easy. His scars weren't just his anymore. They were Sirius' to see, Sirius' to clean, Sirius' to love. And Sirius did. There wasn't a freckle on Remus' nose or a curl in his hair that Sirius didn't love. Scars were no exception. If blood was a secret that no one was meant to utter, it was one Sirius and Remus shared. But not in words. In the light touches that Sirius left over old scars, convincing Remus that they weren't there to be hidden. In the soft kisses that Sirius placed across Remus' nose where his first scar rested. In whispered reassurances whose words barely registered in Remus' mind, so hypnotic was Sirius' breath running along fresh scars.
Sirius cast his fourth spell on the towel and pressed it to Remus' neck after dipping it in the water again, which was tickled an orange red. Sirius traced his finger under the shortest scar that cut across Remus' neck so lightly Remus wasn't even sure he had done it. When Sirius noticed no blood on his finger, he leaned forward to move onto the scars on Remus' face. He started with the few that further defined Remus' already-sharp jawline and framed his chin. Sirius' hair fell to tickle the tender skin of Remus' chest and Remus giggled; something he had never done in so much pain. Remus outstretched his hand to tuck the disobedient strand of hair behind Sirius' ear and let his hand linger, twisting the curl around his thin fingertip.
Sirius smiled, weakly but sincerely, "you're so pretty, Moony."
Remus mirrored the smile no less genuinely, "shut up."
Sirius giggled and moved on to the scar that underlined Remus' cheekbone. Remus had let his hand slide easily down to Sirius' free hand, with which he'd played absent-mindedly before intertwining their fingers. As the warm water mingled with the fresh blood, Remus winced and squeezed Sirius' hand.
"Sorry," Sirius whispered.
"It's okay," Remus said without thinking. The words were so familiar to fall off his tongue they had grown habitual.
Sirius lightened his already feather-like touch and pressed the towel lightly to the ridge of Remus' nose, where his oldest scar rested. That was the same scar that had witnessed the making of all the others. It was the first to bleed, the first to introduce Remus to the tickling of blood running along his face. When he'd first felt the drip of blood brushing his face, he'd brought his hand to meet it. Such a playful feeling as that of blood rushing along the bridge of his nose didn't make sense. When he'd stared down at his bloodied hand and it was a dark red that he'd only ever seen in the movies that had him trembling under blankets and shielding his eyes, he was shocked. How could something so ticklish be so objectively terrifying? It didn't take many scars for the initial fear of blood to fade away. He hadn't expected to become so familiar with blood so quickly.
Sirius had tended to that scar for as long as they'd known each other. He left kisses on it whenever he left rooms, having kissed it at least as many times as he'd kissed Remus' lips. He ran his finger along it to tickle Remus' nose, inviting Remus' hearty giggle to harmonize with his own. He cleaned it after every full moon, knowing its every dent and curve. That scar was his as much as it was Remus'. And it was theirs as much as it was the moon's.
Remus crinkled his nose in delight to the warmth of the water hugging the scar on his nose. Sirius inclined his head, hovering his lips just over the tip of Remus' nose, "can I?" he asked, his breath gentle and cool on Remus' skin.
Remus pressed the tip of his nose to Sirius', "yes."
Sirius outlined the wise scar with light kisses, softening its every harsh corner with the delicate press of his lips. He followed the trail of kisses down to meet Remus' lips ever so gently.
In pulling away, Sirius rested his forehead to Remus', "how bad?"
"Better," Remus answered, hoping he wasn't lying.
"How bad?"
"A little better," he answered more truthfully.
Sirius sighed and drew his head back, but first let his breath run through Remus' hair. Hints of blood has nestled themselves in Remus' pillow, finding comfort in the cushion next to his shoulder. Sirius noticed the dark red peering up at him, "sit up, love," he whispered.
Remus did, but not effortlessly. Sirius had to pull his shoulders upright and steady him before he could let go. Remus repositioned unsteadily and the blanket folded into his lap. Sitting upright, Remus found himself looking out the window for the first time since Sirius had sat by his side. The moon had gained confidence, not that it didn't have enough at any given point, and emerged from behind the Slytherin tower fully. It looked smug tracing its light along his scars and Remus glared up at it, unwilling to grant it the satisfaction of averting his gaze.
Sirius noticed Remus' cold expression. Stiff and emotionless like the statue of Merlin in the courtyard. Sirius followed Remus' gaze up to the moon. It paid him little attention, focusing most of its light on Remus' face. Sirius set the damp towel by Remus' leg and stood. He took a few graceful steps to the window and drew the curtains closed with little effort. The moon was left inconsequential.
"Thank you," Remus whispered, doing his best to stay upright.
Sirius hummed his 'you're welcome' wordlessly before circling the bed back to Remus' side. He didn't sit in the same place. He took the towel back into his hands and sat at Remus' back. "Is this okay?" he asked, not fully comfortable.
Remus shifted forward, letting Sirius adjust his awkward posture, "yes."
Sirius couldn't see without the smug light of the moon. He cast a spell so easy that a first year could do it on the candle that was dwindling at his side, bringing the flame almost to life. Now harnessing the same amount of light as a chandelier or lamp, the candlelight hugged Sirius' and Remus' shared silhouette and cast their shadow onto the heavy curtains that rejected the moonlight.
Remus' back scars were worse than Sirius had expected. They always were. They wrapped around his entire back the same possessive way a vine wraps around a tree. It was almost artistic. A tapestry of the moon's best work. Remus wasn't familiar with them. Or at least, how they looked. He rarely cared to acknowledge the scars that stared back at him in the mirror every morning, let alone seek out the ones that at least had the courtesy to hide themselves. But when he did see them, almost always by accident, he couldn't look away. He couldn't fathom how they hadn't fully consumed him. It was almost cruel. How they could fully claim his body, leaving less than half of it untouched by old blood, but never fully let him disappear.
They hurt more than the ones on his front. Maybe it was that he couldn't see them or that he'd simply forget that there were even more scars than he could see. That was hard to believe too. Didn't his blood ever grow tired of dripping down his skin?
Remus couldn't control his flinching. Much less his trembling. The warm water seeped from the rag and tickled his back. It was gentle. A weird contrast to the typical wrath of the scars. Not six seconds passed without a "sorry" whispered painfully, always met with an "it's okay," whispered just as painfully. Sirius was even gentler than he had been with the scars on Remus' chest, but he couldn't stand the obvious effort Remus was putting into hiding his blatant agony for long.
When Sirius decided that enough was enough, he set the towel to the side to rest next to the wooden bowl again. It laid just as lazily next to the bowl as it had when Sirius first walked into the room, but now it was soaked in the scarlet knowledge of what hid under Remus' baggy sweaters and bled from his innocent face. "No more," Sirius whispered, glad that he wasn't facing Remus so that Remus wouldn't see the tears streaming down his cheeks. Not at all gracefully or patiently did they fall, leaking from his eyes and dripping from his chin not a second later. But Remus knew. He always knew.
Sirius left a kiss on Remus' shoulder. A tear slipped from the steady stream to drip along Remus' chest. Softly it fell, much more desperate than blood. Slowly it fell, much more patient than blood. Carefully it fell, much less familiar with the touch of Remus' skin than blood.
The gentleness of the tear pushed Remus into Sirius' arms. He fell back, letting loose the burdening breath he had been holding for too long. He crashed heavily into Sirius, just then realizing how much energy he had spent keeping himself upright. His sobs left him with lives of their own, erupting from his chest. His tears slipped away as quickly and gracelessly as Sirius' and his body was limp, fully entrusted in Sirius' arms. And Sirius had no problem holding him. He held him as close to his chest as he could, trembling in his efforts to hold him closer.
Weak "help me"s and whispered "I'm scared"s interrupted Remus' sobs, though Sirius was sure Remus didn't know the words left him.
"I'm here" and "it will be okay" was all Sirius could think to say, only the former being the one he could say with full confidence.
When Remus' sobs dwindled away, he was left hollow. A flower without petals, only a weak stem away from being swept off in the wind. Empty of tears, he stared blankly at the water bowl in front of him, watching the pinkish water ripple at his every shuttered breath. Still wrapped tightly in Sirius' arms, he didn't have to fight the nagging pull of gravity. Sirius traced his scars thoughtfully, leaving small kisses on the ones he knew wouldn't burn at the touch.
The pain of the scars hadn't left so much as ascended to hover over Remus' body like a deeply grey cloud heavy with the anticipation of rain. His skin still tingled with the shadow of the hovering pain, but Remus didn't have the energy to pay it any mind. He let his thoughts disappear into the gentle touch of Sirius' fingertips tracing his skin and his soft lips brushing it.
Remus wanted to say something. What, he didn't know. Any words that would leave his lips would work. But he didn't have the energy to remember any. Eventually, two left him in a soft breath that tickled Sirius' arm.
"Don't leave," Remus whispered.
"I won't. I promise."
---
Sirius had never had even half the number of scars that Remus did. But he was not unfamiliar with the trickle of blood along his skin or the importance of long sleeves. His scars, of which there were still many, told stories. They were his history thrashed and painted across his skin. Each with a memory of its own. Some more pleasant than others, but memories all the same. A few were dented into his chin. And whenever he'd see the small gashes, he'd laugh in pride of the time he and James had cast a disobedience charm on Severus Snape's owl and, when he figured it out, he told it in his droning monotone "do not peck the living shit out of James and Sirius" and it did just that. The scratch on Sirius' cheek, which had faded but would never completely vanish, told of the time he had promised a third-year Remus that he was fully capable of surfing his broom-- which he did for a full half second.
But not all of the memories etched in his skin, very few of them actually, told of such happy times. Most were stories Sirius only remembered because they were permanently branded into his skin. Most he wished so desperately he could forget. They were the marks of a vengeful father and a heartless mother. Of a childhood that wasn't a childhood at all. But they still recounted history. His skin told the stories he didn't want to tell, himself.
They stayed with him through his escape from Grimmuald Place, through his seven years at Hogwarts, through his incarceration.
When Sirius returned from Azkaban, he was dulled. His skin had faded to the same lifeless grey of his cell, his eyes to the black of his weak shadow that he only saw when he was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the candle of a passing guard. Before his innocence had been stolen away on the opposite side of a lock, his presence in a room was undeniable. Heads would turn, eyes would sparkle, conversations would stop all to witness the legend that was Sirius Black. But in his cell he could have sworn he was a ghost. Or even the shadow of a ghost. If they had shadows, anyway.
He had forgotten the color of his skin. His arms, hands, even the skin under his fingernails was dyed grey by whatever dirt and dust was drifting through his cell. If his nightmares weren't there, more vivid than ever, to remind him, he would have forgotten his scars and the memories they kept entirely.
Grimmuald Place, December 1993
Sirius laid, as restfully as he could, in his bed. Sleep didn't come easy anymore. Well, it never really had, especially not with James' lion-like snoring and Remus' late-night reading back in his time at Hogwarts-- though that was a lifetime away--, but it was especially difficult now that the bars of a prison cell seemed to have a stubborn grip on his memories whenever he closed his eyes. He was free, but his memories wouldn't let him believe it.
Remus' breathing helped.
Reliable and steady, Remus' soft inhale and slow exhale tickled the silence just next to Sirius. They were both asleep. But not soundly. Sound sleep was, ironically, a dream. And a rather unrealistic one at that. Remus, in his nights at Hogwarts, had been a deep sleeper, almost to a fault-- James and Sirius had gotten into the habit of jumping onto Remus' bed in the early mornings when they woke first to go to Quidditch practice. But now, as if he was scared that Sirius would slip away just as quickly as he had twelve years before if he took his eyes off him, Remus would watch his boyfriend drift to sleep, though Sirius often faked it to put Remus at ease. And even then, Remus would wake at the faintest brush of the breeze on the window.
Sirius wasn't much different. The kind embrace of a mattress-- any mattress-- had grown foreign to him. He had been back from Azkaban for nearly five months and still, the unsympathetic discomfort of the cell floor was deeply ingrained in his memory. He couldn't recall a time he'd truly slept in Azkaban. Most nights he'd spent looking through the pathetic window, which was just the smallest barred square in the wall, in desperate search for the moon. Because maybe Remus was looking at it too.
Sirius, just on the brink of wakefulness, shifted closer to Remus, hoping to ease whatever nightmare was groping at his mind. He did, but just for a moment.
Sirius' scars, the ones he never wanted to forget and the ones he wished he'd never been forced to remember alike, hadn't been properly tended to in the darkness of his cell. He was lucky if his skin even met the light of the candle. His scars would often bleed with little warning. He'd washed them the night he got back, with Remus' help, and every night after, but his scars remembered the apathy and chill of the cell even better than Sirius. They'd cry at the memory, too. Scarlet tears, echoless sobs.
A bead of blood emerged from a scar that had almost rid of the greyish hue Azkaban had left it, on Sirius' shoulder, eager to run along his skin and curious to meet the cotton of the blanket pulled over his chest. It was shy to swell from the cut, but quick to let gravity direct its course down Sirius' shoulder. It tickled his skin harmlessly, but he startled to sit upright with a yelp.
The cry was desperate and familiar to him. And to Remus; Sirius woke to a nightmare or reopening of a scar more than every other night since he'd been back. But Sirius still wasn't used to his voice not echoing for minutes after his sobs and shouts left him. In his cell, they'd overtake the weak breeze and bounce from cold wall to cold wall, never letting his ears be left without their chill. But in the new comfort of his home, Sirius' memories searched for the echo. It didn't come.
"Sirius!" Remus tried to blink away the darkness to see if Sirius' eyes were open or not, but he couldn't tell.
Sirius' screams only intensified. He wasn't awake.
The innocent drop of blood that had wanted nothing more than to meet the cotton sheets that hugged Sirius' back continued to slip down his skin. Other scars were starting to reopen as Sirius, still trapped in his subconscious, scratched and clawed at his skin as though he were trying to rip the scars off. They didn't budge.
"Sirius!" Remus continued to cry, more desperate with each repetition.
It took at least three minutes for Sirius' screams to subside. They left the room as suddenly as they had entered it, longing for their echo, which only rebounded through Remus' mind, though that echo was endless.
"Remus?" Sirius' voice was weak. The single word wasn't an acknowledgement of Remus' presence beside him, it was a question. Like he wasn't sure it was real. Or solid. Like he could drift away in just seconds and he'd be back sobbing into the unfeeling corner of his cell, soundlessly so that the echo wouldn't prick his skin and leave more scars.
"I'm here," Remus answered. "I'm right here," he repeated. "Can I touch you?"
Not a second later, Sirius had one arm stretched across Remus' middle and the other tucked under his back. Remus pulled Sirius onto his chest and let him rest his head on his shoulder. Sirius' breathing took a while to steady. Remus twirled a strand of Sirius' hair around his finger, studying it closely as if to make sure Sirius was real. He was. Laying as comfortably in Remus' arms as he had for years. Twelve years apart and their bodies still fit together as though they were made to do just that.
"I'm here," Remus repeated into the waves of Sirius' hair, letting the realness of his breath remind Sirius that this wasn't just a dream. But it was, really. An actual dream come true. Sirius had lost faith in the concept. Every forgotten conversation with the moon, every word he whispered to the bricks of his cell that was whispered right back at him, every daydream in which he had let himself indulge as he rotted in the corner of his cell, he had thought they would maybe come true. That maybe he'd be talking to more than just the moon or that when he spoke, he'd hear a voice that wasn't his own respond to him. And maybe that one of his dreams would become reality. But that belief and all the fragile hope it held were gone soon after Sirius' first night in his cell. Shattered by the shadows that had reached for him in his restless sleep, cracked by the apathy of the four walls he'd known he'd never escape, crushed by the darkness that he'd wished would swallow him whole.
So this was a dream. One in which he'd completely lost fate. But there Sirius laid, as comfortable in Remus' arms as he had always been.
Remus traced small stars along Sirius' back, gentle with every touch. "You're bleeding," he observed.
"I know."
"Is that what woke you up?"
Sirius nodded into Remus' chest.
"Sorry."
"It's okay."
Remus studied the blood for a minute, "do you want to rinse it off?"
Sirius shook his head.
Remus didn't protest. Instead, he turned his head, leaning it against the top of Sirius', to face the window. Frost blanketed the glass and turned the light of the moon a silver blue. The moon was waning and its light was fairly weak, letting the stars shoulder most of the task of keeping the delicate world below from being submerged in darkness. Remus studied the window, tracing the frost with his eyes until he reached the bottom left corner where a tiny scratch flawed the glass.
"I'll be right back," he whispered, kissing the top of Sirius' head.
"Where are you going?" Sirius asked, sounding more scared than Remus could handle.
"Nowhere, I'm just getting something from the bathroom."
"You promise you'll be right back?"
"Right back," Remus paused. "I promise." He left another kiss on Sirius' head, a longer, more thoughtful one.
He was back not two minutes later.
"Sit up, love," Remus said; a suggestion, not a demand.
"Hm?" Sirius asked, his face buried in Remus' pillow and his voice muffled by its fluff.
"Sit up? If you can."
Sirius started, his elbows trembling a little in his effort. Remus helped after setting two objects that Sirius couldn't quite make out in the dark on his bedside table. When Sirius was sitting upright, but just barely, Remus sat behind him and reached for the nightstand where he had set a bowl of warm water and a small towel.
"Can I?" Remus asked after Sirius had spotted the items in Remus' hands.
Sirius studied the moon's shy reflection in the water. "Go ahead," he confirmed.
Cautious with every dab and gentle with every breath, Remus pressed the towel to Sirius' shoulder. The blood seeped eagerly into the towel, glad to be welcomed into its embrace. Water trickled along Sirius' back effortlessly. The moon, finding its reflection in the streams of water, traced Sirius' back just as easily. It was gentle. Understanding. As though the words and pleas Sirius had whispered up to it had been heard. Maybe they hadn't been whispered back to him and him only. The moon seemed almost apologetic as it let its light slip down Sirius' back.
Remus took note of the liquid moon falling in milky streams just before his eyes. He turned to look at the moon. It didn't glare at him. It just hugged Sirius. Remus turned back, mesmerized by the way the moonlight spilled so gracefully over Sirius.
Sirius shivered.
"Is this okay?" Remus asked.
Sirius nodded, "yes, love. Thank you."
Remus ghosted a kiss on Sirius' neck, "I love you," he whispered. "I always have," he started.
Sirius relaxed into Remus and whispered, "and I always will," he finished.
Remus set the bowl back on the table and the towel right next to it. When he was relaxed back into the familiar embrace of his pillow, Sirius let himself fall back into Remus' chest. He hadn't realized just how much energy it had taken not to be held by him. Not just for the few seconds Remus had taken to lay down, but for twelve years. With a long-awaited sigh, he let loose the weight of those twelve years, he let loose the energy he had spent holding himself up and let Remus face the expectant pull of gravity for him.
Sirius let his thoughts wander, whatever nightmare that had woken him drifting somewhere far away. Where, he didn't know. Maybe somewhere in the clouds, maybe somewhere with the moon. It didn't matter. All that mattered was Remus' breath tickling his neck. Remus' real, reliable breath that wasn't going anywhere. Sirius teetered on the border between sleep and wakefulness, sensing Remus do the same as he continued to trace Sirius' scars absent-mindedly with his delicate fingertips.
Remus left a soft kiss on Sirius' shoulder before letting his head fall back into the pillow. He wanted to say something. What, he didn't know. Any words that would leave his lips would work. But his mind was too craving of sleep to piece together words.
Eventually, two left him in a soft breath that tickled Sirius' neck.
"Don't leave," Remus whispered.
"I'll do my best."