Remus Lupin was almost always tired. He was almost always just barely defying gravity's desire to drag his shoulders to the floor, he was almost always looking through glassy eyes that were blanketed by a hazy desire to sleep. To just sleep. That's all he wanted. Nothing but a few hours where he didn't have to pretend not to hear his incessant thoughts that were only encouraged by his lack of sleep. Those never got tired, apparently. After full moons especially, he found himself drained. Beyond drained. Of course physically he could barely move, barely open his eyes, barely even twiddle his fingers without reopening a fresh scar and drenching the hospital wing's sheets in his blood. But mentally he was even more exhausted. He was nothing but a glass for his thoughts to shatter, a surface for them to scar.
And so he sat. Doing nothing but staring at the ceiling, whose chipping beige paint was freckled with rainbow dots and red blotches that his mind conjured when it was too exhausted to keep them away. He would watch the blobs swim around at their own will until he was too tired to even tell shapes from colors. He had gotten used to the constant attention that gravity seemed to grant him. He started to believe he didn't mind it. Maybe everyone felt this way. Maybe everyone felt the weight of piles of dirt sitting on their chest as if they were already six feet under. Maybe no one really slept. "A good night's sleep" was probably a myth, he figured. It sounded like a children's book. A nursery rhyme, a fairytale. And so he believed that that's all it was.
Even after his stays in the hospital-- when his scars were stiff but not reopening every half minute, when the circles of his eyes were a dark purple instead of grey, when he didn't have to wear that stupid gown that was more familiar than the hugs of his own mother and when he could slip on his baggy sweaters that made him feel like he had disappeared under their cotton-- he was tired. But he wasn't sentenced to a bed. He didn't have an excuse to sleep, or act like he could. So he trudged his way from class to class, barely alive, a walking corpse, barely present.
Very little distracted from the exhaustion. Even when he was with his friends, laughing his rare laughter that was mesmerizing and smiling the smile that he was convinced was authentic, the exhaustion wasn't far away. It was just waiting for the smile to fade. Not pushing his expression back to its normal apathetic haze-- it wouldn't want to be so impatient-- but just waiting. Maybe it took more satisfaction in washing over him after he had seen just a sliver of peace.
His scars hurt. Most of the time they hurt. Not constantly a pain that scathed his every inch and left him with no other option than to writhe in his misery, but always at least a little sting that was just uncomfortable. He had gotten used to it. After all, what was skin if not a surface for the moon to gash and stab when it most wanted? It was fine, he decided. If all he was was a way for the moon to leave its mark on the world, if the moonlight wasn't enough, that was fine. Just fine.
He hid his scars most of the time. When he could. Makeup, long sleeves, obvious excuses. He was well practiced. He could even convince himself that they weren't there sometimes. That they weren't marbled different shades of red along his shoulders, that their blood wasn't constantly peering out of the gash, eager to reach the light of day.
Water helped. As much as anything could, at least. "Helped" is a stretch. Its different temperatures were like completely different remedies. When he couldn't feel, when his mind and self drifted away like a balloon from an eager child's hand, and his skin allowed for not even the deepest scars to feel, he let scalding water run along his skin. Burning it red and seeping into the openings of his scars, which he decided were just doors to allow in more pain. Doors to let in the light of the moon that had done this to him. How convenient. Even the water that burned his skin raw was barely enough to make him flinch. But it was grounding. His skin would tingle as though his nerves, subjects to the wrath of the scalding water, were desperate to escape. He was too. He felt trapped in his skin. Maybe if his skin felt trapped with him, it would understand.
Cold water was kinder. But he didn't know if he liked it more. Whereas under the stream of burning water he could simply stare at his indifferent face in the fogged mirror as if there were no reflection at all, the cold water wouldn't let him. It was understanding. It wanted to help. And that made him uncomfortable. It wasn't supposed to understand, he didn't want to bother it. He could handle the wrath of the moon and the scars it left on his own. The cold water needn't bother trying to help. Its trickle along his skin was tender and desired to soothe him. It tickled his scars, careful not to spill into them, it didn't want to overstep. Cold water was a hug. The kind of hug that made him feel transparent but only because it understood him so well. The kind that made him want to cry because it was holding him, he could trust it. The kind that he never wanted to end.
The scars on his arms bothered him the most, constantly aggravated by the itchy wool of his sweaters. But when the rest-- the ones that slashed across his shoulders, cut close to his heart, hugged his waist-- bothered him, he sat in the bath. When he chose hot water, he let his mind drift. He was nothing but a body for the water to take. The burning across every nerve of his skin was draining. So he was gone. But his body sat, not necessarily hugged, but owned, rather, by the boiling water. He rarely opted for cold water, it wasn't such an easy escape. At least hot water rushed reality away before it consumed him.
Drifting above his body like a shadow over the ground, his mind wandered. Its thoughts echoed along the marble tiles of the bathroom, which were fogged with the ghost of the water whose steam tickled every square. He didn't pay the thoughts much attention. Typically he would have no choice but to listen to them, but the pain seeping through the scars that took up at least half the surface of his skin was a nice distraction. Well maybe not nice, but effective.
And with the water drifting along his neck line, burning it when its small waves rushed over the skin, but leaving it cold and longing when it waded away, only one thought prevailed.
He would let go. For just a second he would let gravity win. He would grant it what it wanted all along. All it ever wanted from him. And he let himself slip, the water taking ownership of more of his body as his chin drew nearer and nearer to the scalding surface. Gradually, he let gravity take its course. If it was going to win, it might as well enjoy it. It might as well savor every moment as it pulled his head underwater.
It was easy.
And when he was under, nothing was real. Nothing but the pull of gravity and the hug of the water. He was one with the liquid. It didn't burn him anymore, it accepted him as its own. It held him. Maybe he shouldn't have let it, but god was it persuasive. He never wanted to bother anyone with his thoughts. And even if he did, he didn't have the energy. But the water understood. It didn't ask questions, it didn't pity him. It just took him.
And he let it.
He let it burn across his back until it didn't burn anymore. Until he couldn't tell his own hands from the water. Until the swishing around him stopped and everything was silent, until his breath didn't want to come back. He let the water close over his head, his hair swaying in its freedom. And he wasn't so tired anymore. At rest in the arms of the water, he didn't need to thrash. There was no kicking left to be done, he wasn't left to gasp for air. He just relaxed. He was safe from the moon. It couldn't find him. If it were there with him, it would do nothing but reflect off the surface of the water and gloss right over him. He wanted nothing more than to be inconsequential to the moon and its light. And in the water's embrace, that's all he was.
But he always resurfaced. He thought maybe one day gravity wouldn't let him. Maybe one day he wouldn't have the energy to push back up and let the oxygen refill his lungs, but it always did. Whether he wanted it to or not, it was there. Entering and exiting his lungs as it pleased. Air wasn't understanding. It thought it knew what was best and he wasn't going to defy it.
His hair stuck to his skin, too lazy to fight gravity when it wasn't drifting freely in the water. It didn't want to face the world either. His hands were wrinkly, missing the water that held them and laced his fingers. His heart beat faster, making up for the lost time when it didn't have sufficient oxygen to thud at its normal consistent rhythm against his chest. It probably wanted to rest too, he thought.
After his baths, which he didn't take too often, he would feel guilty. When Sirius would run up to him and plant kisses along his skin that still shined the memory of the water under which he had let himself relax, when Sirius would wrap him in his arms-- his real, human arms, with nerves and a pulse--, disregarding the water that clung to his clothes when it bled through his shirt from Remus' skin, when Sirius would whisper 'hello love' in his ear so sweetly, Remus felt guilty. Guilty that he had let his breath slip away, guilty that he hadn't felt remorse when it did. Guilty that he had let the water hold him because he thought no one else could.
But Sirius could.
Sirius could hold him with an affection that the water couldn't. He was warm. Not boiling, not burning every inch of his skin. Warm. How a hug should be. His breath was intoxicating, his heartbeat was grounding. He was the air that Remus actually wanted to breathe. In Sirius' arms he didn't feel tired. He could relax. Sink into his embrace and still have oxygen filling his lungs. Sirius could hold him without gravity becoming so strong that he might as well have been trapped under a rock.
Sirius was his escape.
Remus sat in the bath, his back aching at the discomfort of the marble prodding his exposed spine. He barely noticed. His chin hovered above the surface of the water, feeling the heat that ghosted its surface and preceded fully submerging his face. He slid slowly, gradually letting go of the energy it took to sit up. His eyes hazed before the water, whose heat bled into them before he decided to close them.
With the water slowly claiming more of his face with each passing second, he let himself relax.
He didn't hear the knock on the door.
"Moony?" Sirius' voice was calm, normal. "Moony?" It came again.
Remus still didn't hear it. His mind had already started to evaporate from his body the same way the steam did from the water's surface, ready to let him be lost in the arms of the too-hot water. It waded against his jawline, ready to seep into his ears as he continued to slide gradually.
"Remus?" Sirius' voice had started to lose its composure, attaining more concern with every repetition of Remus' name. "Re. Can I come in?"
The water took possession of the scar across the ridge of Remus' nose, claiming the cut as its own and burning it until it didn't hurt anymore. Until it wasn't his anymore. It was the water's.
"Moony, I'm coming in." Sirius cracked the door open gradually, listening for any complaints in case Remus simply hadn't heard him from behind the closed door. He looked to the floor, still waiting for a reaction. There was none.
Sirius looked up.
He crashed to the floor as he lunged to the tub, grabbing Remus' shoulder, which was fully submerged in the water, and hissing in retaliation to the water scalding his hand. "Remus!"
The water had reached just over Remus' eyes, aligning with his eyebrows before Sirius shook him back into reality. Remus stared at Sirius for a few seconds as his mind descended back from hovering above him. He was cold. The water hadn't fully hugged him. His chest and shoulders were exposed to the air, which was much less understanding than the water. Where the heat had once fully claimed his skin, the air chilled it. He trembled.
"Remus?" Sirius' voice was weak. It echoed its frail reminder off the bathroom tiles.
"Sorry," Remus whispered, barely acknowledging the word before it trembled from his lips.
Sirius thought he was fighting his tears successfully until they dropped from his color-drained cheeks to ripple the water of the tub. "No." He brought his hand to Remus' chin and matched eyes with him. "Don't apologize."
Remus' head crashed into Sirius' shoulder. The rim of the tub nagged his rib cage but he ignored it, no longer wanting to be held by the water. He didn't need it. All he needed was Sirius. All he ever needed was Sirius. "I'm so sorry." He whispered involuntarily through delicate shuttered breaths that brushed their desperate air along Sirius' neck, "I'm sorry... please forgive me... I'm so sorry."
Sirius pulled away only to look into Remus' eyes again, leaving a hand on Remus' cheek because he knew how heavy his head could be. Remus' eyes looked fragile. As if just a glare could crack their hazel glass. They looked so exposed, so easy to shatter. Filled with nothing besides fear. He looked so scared. "It's okay, love."
A single tear slipped from Remus' fragile eyes, as delicately as the moonlight falls from the sky, as innocently as a petal falls from a flower. "Help." His voice was somehow even more frail than his eyes. Like it didn't have the strength to leave his throat anymore and when it did it could so easily fade into the breezeless air around them. Remus lifted his trembling hand from the possession of the water. A few drops slipped away and trickled back into the tub. His skin was raw, his scars were the red of an aggravated flame.
Sirius left a kiss on the top of his forehead and leaned to the faucet. He turned it to the cold setting and left two fingers under the stream of water to wait out the leftover scalding water. After a few seconds of cool water filling the tub, he turned the faucet again. "Is this okay?" Remus nodded a small, weak nod. Sirius shrugged off his leather jacket and kicked off his shoes and socks before crossing his arms in front of his waist to pull off his shirt, "can I?" Another small nod. Sirius tossed his shirt to the side and lowered himself into the tub. Remus shifted forward to let Sirius in before sinking directly back into his embrace.
And once again, he let go.
But he could still breathe. He didn't have to fight to get the air into his lungs, he didn't have to fight to want it in his lungs, he just let it fill them. It was easy. Breathing was easy when he shared the air with Sirius. Sirius, whose arms were easy to trust. Sirius, whose breath ran along the scars of Remus' neck. Sirius, who Remus knew for sure was going nowhere. Oxygen wasn't always a given, he could easily keep it away under water. Thoughts weren't a given, he could easily escape them under the water's surface. Feeling wasn't a given, he could easily become one with the water and leave his thoughts behind, searching for him over the surface of the water. But Sirius wasn't going anywhere. Remus' breath, his thoughts, his ability to feel, those could so easily slip away.
But Sirius wouldn't.
Sirius cupped water in his hands and let it fall down Remus' shoulders, spilling over his scars and wiping away the leftover aggravation of the water that had burned them just minutes ago. And in Sirius' eyes, with the water trickling down the cuts, Remus' scars didn't feel so prominent. They were tame. They didn't own his whole body. They weren't only his to wear. They were Sirius' to see, Sirius' to soothe, even Sirius' to love.
"Is the water too cold?"
Remus shook his head before resting it in the crook of Sirius' neck. "You don't have to do this," Remus whispered into Sirius' chest.
"I know." Sirius poured water of just a few more scars before wrapping his arms around Remus' chest, tracing a small scar that laid where his hand rested.
They sat in a comfortable silence until their fingers marked the passing of time with wrinkled skin. Sirius heard nothing but the unsteady patterns of Remus' breath. The shy tickling of the water, the padding of droplets slipping away from the faucet, the sound of his own breathing were all muted. They didn't matter. As long as Remus was breathing, as long as his heart was beating, as long as his face was above the greedy surface of the water, everything would be just fine.
"I want you here even if you can't want that yourself," Sirius whispered into the back of Remus' neck.
"I'm just so tired."
"Then sleep. I have you." Sirius kissed the top of his head.
"Thank you. I'm sorry that I'm so-"
"No. Don't apologize. You never have to apologize. Especially not for existing."
"I love you."
"And I you."
Remus relaxed further into Sirius' embrace. He was easy to trust. And he could finally sleep. He could finally escape his thoughts without banishing them to hover over the water while he disappeared under it. Breathing was easy.
"Remus?" He had his forehead pressed to the back of Remus' head and spoke into the dampened curls of Remus' hair.
Remus hummed his acknowledgement. The shy note rebounded gently off the tiles of the bathroom, rippling the surface of the water as it did.
"Please don't leave me."
He sounded scared. His breath was shaking down Remus' neck, chilling the slicked skin that was glistening the memory of the water. "I promise I won't. Ever."
"I need you."
Remus rested a hand on Sirius' arm, which was wrapped around his chest. He brushed his thumb gently along Sirius' skin. "You don't leave either."
"Never."
And he didn't. For as long as Sirius could control it, he didn't leave. He was always there to admire Remus' scars and to soothe them when Remus couldn't. He was always there to hold Remus and keep him warm when nothing else besides him and the water was capable of doing it. He was always there to want Remus alive when Remus couldn't. He was always there to make sure Remus knew that Sirius wanted him to be. That he needed him to be. He was always there.
Until he wasn't.
But it wasn't his fault. Though it didn't matter that it wasn't his fault. The bath was empty. Empty of everything but the water that was once again scalding. Tinted with the reddish hue of Remus' blood seeping from his scars, fresh and old, the water was there. It hugged him. When there was no one else there to hold him, it did. It burned, but then it didn't. Once again, it embraced him. It held him close until he became a part of it. Until his thoughts were inconsequential and the moon would be incapable of telling him apart from the blood-tinted water.
Until he was reminded just how easy it is to drown.