Notes: Ninja'd in for the Hunger Games competition (Prompts: Word, genre, weapon, subject and dialogue.) Saura, you're the loves of my life.
Innocence
It was a too familiar scenario for him: Naked, in a locked, soundproofed room. The walls were violently scratched and his own skin didn't stay behind - he was lying on a pool of his own blood, too scared to stand up to better inspect the damage.
And to think that there had been a time in which he didn't mind it as much.
Remus Lupin might've been a werewolf since he was five, but at some point in his life, he was willing to bear the pain of a thousand knifes tearing his skin open. Those mornings in which he had bruises and scars and a Potions assignment hat would be left undone. He might have hazy memories and excuses to make - but he also had the best friends the world had to give and for them - just for them - he had been willing to do anything.
Groaning, he finally got up. No broken bones. Good. But that stain isn't coming out. He sighed. That was going to cost him, but he pushed that thought to the back of his mind before slowly heading to the bathroom. Before food or proper sleep, he was in need of a shower.
But getting in the shower wasn't easy. He was sure now there had been some damage to his wrist, and even turning on the water was excruciation. But that wasn't what bothered him. No. Those showers would always remind him of Sirius - those days in which Sirius stood next to him, trailing kisses down his neck and promising he would always be there to comfort him. Where was Sirius now?
Rotting in Azkaban, Remus thought bitterly. Always the traitor.
He wanted to find it hard to believe - but Sirius had betrayed him once, hadn't he? Sirius had revealed his secret and almost taken away the one thing that was keeping him sane. After all, friends come and go, but murder is forever, and Snape's cries of "he would've killed me!" were an echo that never died down.
We would both be murderers now. Would you like that, Black?
He shook his head again. No. He shouldn't be so vitriolic. The meretricious charm of anger would die down and he would regret his words, no matter how true they were. He had loved Sirius as much as he hated him now - but it had to stop. Hatred would lead him nowhere. He couldn't hate himself any longer for longing for those lips, that spoke the wrong words to the wrong people, but the right ones to him alone, and knew how to kiss him just right.
He couldn't hate himself for longing for those hands, which used to tend to his wounds more lovingly than Remus could manage with his own. His longing for Sirius was natural -he was my friend, he was my lover- and either way, he could convince himself that Sirius the friend and Sirius the traitor were two entirely different people.
That way, maybe it wouldn't hurt as much.