Grief knits two hearts in closer bonds
than happiness ever can; and common sufferings
are far stronger links than common joys.
–Alphonse De Lamartine
Grief is a hard thing to deal with, Remus knows. He's spent years locking it away, not thinking about it all, trying to find solace in the fact that Sirius was alive, if having every happy thought sucked out of him, but such a dark fate for his friend, his love, who had to be innocent, was not a comfortable thought. It was a fate worse than death, so it was another thing that Remus Lupin locks away and tried not to think of.
James, Lily, Sirius, Peter. Their faces float around in his head, along with every happy moment he can think of and every bad bit of news he got from when they died whenever the lock on them weakens, sometimes right after he wakes up, sometimes in his dreams. He could turn around, roll over, and wake up Sirius, who may or may not be in dog form. He knows he still has one of them, one of his friends, the friend he loves in a different way that he loved the others.
He doesn't push Sirius away, even though his very presence serves to remind him simultaneously of everything he's lost and everything he still has. It gives him a very strange emotion, a combination of sorrow and love that twist together until he's not sure where one feeling ends and the other begins. Sorrow has usually been a companion to his love, when he was still convinced that Sirius would marry some pureblood girl and his insecurities poked and tore at him, only now it weighs as much as the other feeling does.
Remus tries not to think of James and Lily and Peter's betrayal when he's around Sirius, but then the guilt creeps in, right from that weakened lock. Minus Peter, they don't deserve to be ignored because their memory hurts too much.
Sirius tries to forget them and remember them at the same time – probably suffering from the same sort of guilt that plagues his friend. (lover? Remaining survivor? Remus didn't have a word for them anymore.) Sometimes, Remus notices, when one of them cracks a joke, they'll glance around, as if waiting for James to laugh or Lily to call them immature.
But they're gone, and the laugh dies almost as soon as it started.
"He was a brother to me, Moony." Sirius says one night, leaning against him, pulling him closer. "I don't want to forget him."
"Me either." The words feel empty, somehow, as if the fact that had been repeated in his head over and over again had lost its meaning. "We have Harry."
But Harry isn't James or Lily, he is a strange combination mixed in with parts of personality that were wholly his, and while he helped lessen the absence that was somehow tangible, he couldn't fix it, or get rid of it altogether.
"And each other," Sirius adds quietly, so quietly Remus isn't been sure it he heard right.
Remus wonders often why the grief has persisted with years. Time was supposed to lessen the pain, to the point where he could smile and even laugh at their old antics and the wonderful memories he had, but every time he attempted it, the images were always tinted with that ever-present absence.He didn't have Sirius to help for many years, years of knowing that Sirius would never have given away James and Lily, nor would he have murdered those people and Peter. Sirius was a Black, but those crimes would be more fitting to someone like his brother or a Death Eater, not the friend that Remus knew, who'd undergone illegal spells and potions for his friends.
Then Sirius escaped, and found Harry and found him, too, and he got the full story, finally, after so many years of going between doubt and belief in his friend. Remus loves him, and he says it often because sometimes he feels as if Sirius needs to know it, to know that someone did after so many years of every happy thought being sucked out of him in Azkaban. They grieved together, trying not to remember the rest of their pack and everything that happened.
Now and then, Remus dreams of all of them, back together again. Many of his dreams are what ifs, dreams that he makes no attempt to remember the next morning because "what if"'s only bring more suffering. They're a sort of mental torture.
Grief is a hard thing to deal with. Their absence is tangible, like a house missing its support or a wand missing its magic.
"Remember…" Sirius murmurs against Remus's cheek. The room is dark, and Remus is glad that Sirius isn't a dog at the moment. He's silent for a long moment, and the werewolf wonders what's on his friend's mind.
"I remember everything." Remus whispers. "I miss them."
Sirius is quiet for so long Remus is certain he fell asleep, until he pulls Remus closer to him and says, "I just want to be able to smile when I think of them." Remus isn't shocked to feel tears on Sirius's cheeks. He isn't shocked to find himself crying, either, and he clings to his last remaining marauder until he drifts off to sleep.
Eventually, he'll be able to smile and laugh as he thinks of them. He'll ask Sirius if he remembers this, or that, and maybe Sirius will laugh with him. The grief will still hurt then, but it won't be as painful, as present, and maybe things will get better from there.
What started out as a drabble morphed into this.
I'm pretty sure it's been done, but I wanted to point out that the Remus/Sirius pairing wouldn't be too fluffy set in any story during the series. I know it's over. I loved the book series. I love Tonks, and I like Tonks/Remus as well. I feel that Remus loved Sirius and loved Tonks as well, because as the quote says, common suffering knits people together closer than common joys. (and no, I do not think Tonks would morph into Sirius. I do not like that kink.)
Enjoy. Critique? Flames will feed the fire. Mistakes? Tell me. :D