A/N: Ohoho the Britpickers are going to have a field day with this one. Sorry about my liberal use of a certain word that would not necessarily fit with the era/geographic setting. Consider it poetic license.

It's 1967 and Remus has never believed he was tough enough to stand up to playground bullies.

"C'mon, Lupin. Didya get that scar from getting the shit beat out of you?"

Remus fidgets, not quite scared. Yet. He's more concerned with thinking logically in the face of those bigger and stronger than he is. Being seven years old, bigger and stronger sums up nearly everyone he encounters.

Today in particular, Remus finds himself corned. It's happened before, at least a dozen times, and he's been lucky enough in the past to escape with a few scrapes and bruises; perhaps a twisted ankle now and then. It's not that he doesn't fight back (because he most certainly does) - but more that he's always outnumbered. When the odds are three to one, Remus considers it nothing short of a miracle that he's able to slip away unscathed.

"Yeah, I bet he did. Someone punched him in the face, I bet."

The scar in question stretches from Remus' left eyebrow, down the side of his face, and crosses over his lips. The remnant of his last transformation.

"Pretty ruddy big fist, y'know."

Tentatively, Remus touches the scar with his thumb, still not speaking.

"Pretty ruddy big scar. Look at it. It's bloody hideous."

Cue laughter. Remus doesn't have to feign indifference.

"Look!" One shouts, grabbing Remus by the shoulder and pushing him towards the others. "He's got 'em on his arms, too."

In a flash, they're on all sides of Remus, casting shadows over his smaller form. Remus rocks from one foot to another and formulates an escape route.

"Getting beat up all the time, eh?"

"What a wuss!"

"Gross! Look how ugly they are!"

One lunges to yank at Remus' shirt. "Let's see where else he's got them!" But the plan clicks into place when Remus spies the slightest sliver of an entrance in the crowd . Sharply, he darts from the tight circle and breaks into a run.

"Don't let him get away!" a voice over his shoulder shouts.

The older boys run hard and fast, but naturally, unsurprisingly, Remus is faster. Remus doesn't stop, doesn't think- he knows nothing but the sound of his feet slapping against the pavement, over and over again. The consistency of noise fills up the humid air, beautiful in its ceaselessness. One by one, the other boys break off, falling to the ground to catch their breath, faces red. Remus ignores the stitch in his side and pushes forward.

Finally, behind him, he hears the final boy give up. Peering over his shoulder, Remus sees him. Kneeling on the sidewalk, panting. The boy spits sloppily out of the corner of his mouth.

Lungs burning, Remus hears something other than saliva slip from the boy's mouth. Something hissed, something malicious. Something cruel.

"Faggot."

Remus doesn't stop running until he is safely home.

xxx

It's 1980 and Sirius and Remus are lost in the streets of London.

It was Remus' idea to bring a map, and Sirius' response to snort derisively at this suggestion. "Moony," he had said, utterly scathed, as though Remus had violated some sacred oath, "For fuck's sake. You don't bring a map with you to a nightclub."

Resenting the jab at his own social inadequacies, Remus had let the issue drop. He instead took to studying the map as intricately as possible, eyes scanning the streets and alleyways for all of two minutes before Sirius yanked him away, and dragged him out the door.

Sirius was the one who had snagged the invite to the urban Muggle soirée. A friend of a friend owns the place, he had shrugged. There was nothing in the world Remus had less interest in than spending the evening with a group of elite, intoxicated 20-somethings, but Sirius was insistent that it would be a good time, so long as Remus took great care to not doing anything silly, like wear a polo or bring a book along.

It had been exactly as Remus imagined. Miserable. After Sirius had gone through five drinks before Remus had finished his first, and Remus was just about to suggest that they leave when he realized that Sirius had disappeared, lost somewhere in the endless rage of noise and bodies and heat.

He had eventually found Sirius leaning in too closely to a blonde boy with an ear piercing and a devilish smirk. Remus had caught him by the wrist and dragged him through the exit as fast as possible, much to the slurred protests of Moony, thisswas the 'sssomething silly' Iwarnedyou 'bout.

And now, under the heavy cloak of night, they are-

"Moony, we're fucking lost." Sirius announces. Remus takes note of the fact that he doesn't use the nickname unless he's under the influence, lately.

"We are not lost," Remus assures, fighting the urge to say I told you so. "Look, we'll just Apparate."

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows that it's a heinous idea. Venturing a look over his shoulder, he sees Sirius, his face green and slack, even in shadow. Apparation while drunk can be highly dangerous, not to mention deadly, even for an experienced Wizard, or an experienced drinker and Sirius-

"Sirius," he begins dryly, "Are you sure you're going to make it home without collapsing onto the ground and slipping into the sewer?"

"I'll be fine s'long as we don't get lost." Sirius looks at his surroundings briefly before adding, "Moony. We're fucking-"

"Lost. Yes, I know."

"'Slooks like someone where the Mmmuggle mmmafia- S'where they hang out."

"That's a comforting thought." Remus marches several paces ahead of Sirius, spine rigid, not looking backwards, hoping his inebriated counterpart will keep up. He tries to contain his frustration, at least until they get back to familiar territory.

"No, really. I'm shhhhure there are all kinds o' sketchy Muggle gangs around here, I'm shhhhure of it, because we're fucking los-"

"Yes, but we're Wizards."

Sirius laughs too loudly for too long at this. "Fuck, Remus," he slurs. "If we were attacked, you wouldn't be the best defense, you know what I mean?"

"No." Remus stops walking, and speaks carefully. "I'm not sure I do."

"Well. You're not the most. You know." He lets out another obnoxious laugh and sweeps a hand before Remus' frame. "Built."

Something livid and hot flushes underneath Remus' throat, but he swallows it and looks down at his feet. "Let's have this conversation later, after we get you home." Turning around, he reaches out to take the sleeve of Sirius' jacket, who is more than willing to cozy up to him. Sirius clutches at Remus' body, pulling him closer than necessary, fingers slipping, hands shaking, face so close that the stench of alcohol burns Remus' eyes.

"You fag," he murmurs affectionately, burrowing into the crook of Remus' neck. "You fucking fag."

"You're drunk." Remus keeps his body frozen, and tries to do likewise with his emotions. "For the love of God, Sirius, stop talking; you're absolutely gone."

"No really," Sirius insists, gripping Remus' wrist too tightly. "I mean it. Listen to me."

Remus breathes in deeply through his nose. "I'm listening." His teeth are clenched.

"You're all- pretty. And things. And faggy."

"So you've said."

"And. What was that- Moony. Did you hear that noise?"

"You're imagining things, Sirius." He grinds his teeth, and tugs on his tie. He's right, look at this color, who wears pastels besides complete shirt-lifters? "There's no one there."

Without warning, a shadow invades from the corner of Remus' vision. Large hands grab Sirius, forcing him to the ground. Remus whirls around, finding himself face to face with three men, clad in black masks and clothing.

The first punch is thrown before Remus' reflexes can kick in. It hits him squarely in the jaw, and he jerks backward, feeling Sirius slip from his arm. Remus' first instinct is to lunge to help Sirius back up again, instead of to protect himself, and so the second blow strikes between his shoulder blades. But Sirius is already on the pavement, groping in vain for his wand, reflexes too muddled for his fingers to close around anything but thin air.

Remus swears quietly and turns again, wand at the ready. The attackers are clearly Muggle, he deduces, from their reliance on physical strength and their genuine surprise at the sight of the new weapon. Sweating, Remus holds it out at an arm's length, and two out of the three freeze momentarily, eyes fixed on it. The third Remus can see out of the corner of his eye, grappling with Sirius, who in turn is grappling with the filthy ground, muttering weak protests.

A wave of fury surges through him, and Remus' anger towards Sirius' silly, offhand comments is suddenly flipped outward. He hears himself let out some kind of a distant roar, much to everyone's surprise, and without knowing quite why, lowers his wand, charging at the darkly-clad duo with brute force.

The wolf is there, without neither Remus nor the moon having summoned him. Remus can feel the howl in his throat, his heart; a searing desire to attack and tear and deconstruct. For a moment, it's as though he is moving in slow motion, and then his fist collides with skin, and everything turns into a bloody, messy blur.

Remus lands a hard hit on the taller one that sounds like it breaks his nose, and crying out, the man staggers about, momentarily distracted. The shorter one opens his mouth to say something, but Remus seizes him by the sides of his face, a punch colliding with his jaw, knocking his head back. He reels, and then falls to the ground. The taller man, now regaining focus, begins to move towards Remus, but Remus is too quick, drawing his wand once more. "Impedimenta!" He, too, falls.

Behind him, he hears Sirius struggling, the sound of a fight, and in no time at all, Remus has stunned the third man, whose body falls on top of Sirius'. With a hiss of breath, Sirius shoves the attacker's hulking frame off of him and looks up into Remus' withering gaze, which is nothing short of red and furious.

And then suddenly, it's quiet. It's too quiet, and Sirius is still lying on the ground, face half shoved into the pavement, hair stuck to his forehead where the skin has split. Breathing hard, he moves to sit up, looking anywhere but at Remus, who keeps his distance. Remus knows the proper thing to do would be to reach out, stretch his hand towards Sirius and say that it's all right, that they'll both endeavor to forget about the incident soon enough and that will be that and they'll move on- they'll always move on-

But instead what comes out of Remus' mouth is-

"I'm the fucking faggot now, aren't I?"

He's angry. Remus doesn't remember ever being quite so angry, or the anger being quite so misplaced. Sirius, whose life he just saved, Sirius who was just nearly beaten to death, Sirius who is looking up at him, confused, dark eyes not quite grasping-

"If you ever. I swear to God."

Klaxons blare in Remus' skull, warning him that what he's doing is ridiculous. He's not supposed to be the fist-fighter. He's supposed to be the nice one, the sensible one, the one who wears proper shoes and actually knows how to tie a tie- And you wonder why they call you a poof, for fuck's sake- and Remus Lupin has never been the one to lose his temper or to resort to physical violent or to shout at someone who is already sitting on their ass, bleeding, in a back alley.

"-Calling me that as though you weren't the one fucking men, too. Fucking me."

He doesn't know where all this language is coming from either, or the poor sentence structure. In any other situation, Remus would blush with the error of his own fragments and pathetic choice of words. But now is not any situation and Remus finds himself embracing whatever stray obscenities float out from his lips.

"I go to bed with you. I tolerate your verbal abuse. I act like. Like I'm the only. Tosser or nancy or whatever. Or." He chokes. "Or."

Or what? There isn't a word nasty enough. Remus wants to spit, he wants to kick, he wants to cry out and shake Sirius by the front of his shirt and make him understand- I can't do this anymore if that's the way you feel I can't I can't I can't Padfoot you bloody idiot-

Don't hate me too. Don't hate me too, even if it's a joke-

Especially if it's a joke-

"I know I'm not good enough for you," he says, this time very softly, not caring if Sirius can hear him or not.

He sniffs heartily. Remus doesn't realize that his eyes are welling up with tears. Horrified, he hastily brushes them away and clears his throat with a rough growl. Sirius, on the ground, is mystified at this display. Probably enjoying it; probably using it for ammunition later. Remus' stomach churns, but he pushes the sensation away.

After a long silence, in which Sirius says nothing, Remus whispers, with a small jerk of his head, "Come on." He kneels at Sirius' side, and tries to clean him up, help him to his feet.

And in the dim lamplight, hoisting one of Sirius' arms around his shoulders, Remus muses. He realizes that he isn't quite sure why he's always been the sensible, concentrated one. The fag. Because- and he looks over his shoulder, as though daring anyone else to come and find them like this- the new and strange role of the irrational, impulsive beast seems to suit him just fine.

It's 1978. Lying in bed, Sirius wants to know why Remus has never taken him home to his parents.

"I was thinking. And I mean. You haven't told them about me have you?" he runs a finger down Remus' forearm.

"No." Remus doesn't try to lie.

"Why not, though?"

"Bloody same reason you haven't," Remus mumbles, too taken aback to be anything other than embarrassed. He curls against Sirius and prays that the questions do not wander any further.

Sirius thinks about this for a second, gets distracted, and decides that kissing Remus is a far more appealing option than worrying about whether or not Remus really loves him.

xxx

It's 1983. Sirius is in Azkaban. Remus is on his back, and can't breathe.

This was a complete and utter waste of money, he realizes, because the man who looked, in the shadows of a dingy whorehouse, like Sirius, is actually frightening and mangy up close. This man, this prostitute, has pock marks on his neck and yellow teeth. His eyes are dull. He has tight muscles that pull and twist under skin like wax paper.

Remus has his hand around the man's wrist, guiding it against his own windpipe. He applies force in all the wrong places; all the pressure points that are supposed to kill him if one pushes down long enough-

Kill Remus. Kill the wallflower, the introvert. Kill the werewolf and the faggot, and all the other parts of him he doesn't want anymore-
"Call me names," Remus rasps, without knowing what he's saying. "Make me believe that you hateme."

Sirius could never do this. He was never convincing enough. Name-calling one second, and sweet nothings the next. The inconsistency was far worse than any one insult, worse than any lance at his sexuality. Here, bathed in orange lamplight and smelling of mothballs, Remus tries to convince himself that this is what he really wants; what he's always needed. Black spots are beginning to squeeze around the edges of his consciousness. He closes his eyes and rolls his head back, trying to distill his knowledge of himself down to the physical, the pitiful, and the hateful.

He doesn't think twice before hissing, "Do whatever you want to me."

For a second, the pressure on his throat is relieved, and as air rushes back to his brain, he considers the possibility that this isn't just what he wants- This is what he deserves. For not being able to handle any of it earlier; for not being able to take Sirius' antagonizing like a man. For not caring enough to help him, to make him stay.

The rentboy slaps him across the face, hard. Pain like fire spikes across his jaw.

This is more like it.

The black spots come rushing back, and he smiles.

When it's over, Remus dresses quickly, catching the bruises already forming on the inside of his thighs, around his elbows. His neck feels tender and swollen. He stands in the doorway shuffling his feet for a moment.

"Eh?" The prostitute raises an eyebrow as he lihts up a cigarette.

Remus just shrugs and turns to leave, but when he feels the man watching him, impulse drives him to turn around again. He speaks without inhaling: one long, pitiful breath.

"I apologize," he begins softly. "I wanted you to remind me of someone. Someone I can't have. It was unfair. I wanted you to fill a void that you couldn't possibly fill. I couldn't have who I wanted, so I wanted someone who could hurt me, instead."

The rentboy just shrugs, blowing smoke rings. "Isn't that what everyone wants?"

Remus shakes his head. "Not as much as I do."

By the time Remus gets home, he's shivering so badly he can barely get the key in the door. His teeth chatter loudly against each other. His muscles seize, again and again, tightening under his scratchy clothing. He wipes his nose on his sleeve, but his fingers are cold and trembling. It's July.

xxx

It's 1995. Sirius is out of Azkaban, standing in Remus' living room. And no one laughs.

Sirius himself doesn't even laugh, despite the fact that he's the one making such a terrible joke. Instead, he just stands there, fingering the crème trim on the curtains and eyeing Remus suspiciously.

"I guess you're still quite the fag, eh?"

Awkward and raw, a crooked smile tries to split Sirius' face, but comes up flat. He tugs gently at the curtains, nods in Remus' direction. "They're really- I mean. You were always. Good taste. You know."

Remus blinks. "Oh."

They both marvel over how easily a joke can get lost in the cavernous expanse of so many years, and although Sirius opens his mouth briefly, he has the better sense not to voice whatever else he is thinking. He shuffles and lets go of the curtains, feeling drained, dry. The wit can't keep up any longer. His register of wisecracks and one-liners is blank, and without it, Sirius has nothing to say. When faced with the opportunity to utter to Remus what he hasn't said and hasn't said and hasn't said for so long, his own candor falls short.

He knows full well what Remus wants him to say, and it's exactly what anyone would want to hear at a meeting like this. Sirius wants to hear the words too, but whether from his own lips or from Remus', he doesn't know. Part of him wonders if something catastrophic –or wonderful- will happen if he's able to make that tiny push forward, to breathe or squeak or whimper past the seemingly insurmountable verbal barrier.

And now is the moment. He's made mistakes before, he's made mistakes as recently as thirty seconds ago, but Sirius steels himself and draws his chest up and looks Remus in the eye and for once in his life, thinks twice. Letting air deep into his lungs, he pieces the words together in his mind, but the sentence he produces is disjointed-

fag sorry missed needed long time mistake mistake mistake love

-and Sirius wonders if he'll possibly be able to keep himself from vomiting upon uttering those words.

"Would you like some tea?" Remus asks. The lines of his face strain with the effort of keeping his lips pursed.

"All right," Sirius mumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets.

And the moment is gone.

xxx

It's 1995 and Sirius, after three weeks of lying low at Remus', has found the photographs in the top-left dresser drawer.

Craning his head into the kitchen, he tries to be innocuous. "Do you still have the skirt?"

Remus turns briefly. "I'm sorry?"

"The skirt." Sirius fiddles with the photograph behind his back. "It's plaid."

"What skirt?" Remus doesn't even bother to sound interested. He's exhausted. "Sirius, I don't own any skirts."

"Where'd you get this one, then?"

"What-?" But Remus has suddenly become immobilized, and it doesn't matter that Sirius is now brandishing the picture with a smirk, because Remus knows exactly what picture he's talking about. His tone goes cold. "Where did you get that?"

"Found it," Sirius says casually.

"Sirius. Were you going through my things?" He crosses his arms over his chest.

"There's no reason to be such a prick about it." Sirius rolls his eyes. "Yes, Moony, I was going through your things. Some might call it snooping or being nosy, but I daresay such titles are for more uptight gits than ourselves."

Remus works his jaw, caught between tying to adequately dispel the implications of the photograph and trying to keep himself calm.
"Sirius. That was private."

"D'you know-"

"And no, this is not the time for you to make a joke about other private things."

The corners of Sirius' mouth quirk upwards, then waver at Remus' strained expression. "Moony. Come on. You know I'm just teasing you. It's all in good fun."

Remus takes a deep breath. He weighs the consequences. If he doesn't say it now, he never will. "No," he begins slowly. "It's- it's not all in good fun. It's actually quite frustrating."

"Oh, stop it. We both know you've got thick skin-"

"Sirius. Shut up."

"Come now-"

"Shut up. I won't stand for it anymore." Remus goes slightly pink at making such an admission sixteen years late. "I can't listen to the jokes about my- Well. You know."

Sirius stares at him blankly.

"My- my sexuality."

"Your-" Aghast, Sirius gapes at him for a minute, then folds his hands together and declares, "Remus. You're bloody brilliant, but that is perhaps the stupidest thing I have ever heard come out of your mouth. Your sexuality is my sexuality, too. How can I be offending you?"

"You've done a bloody good job of it for ages." He crosses his arms over his chest, then adds darkly, "Even before I came out, mind you."

"Name once."

"I don't like your use of the term 'faggot.' I happen to find it pejorative."

"Well, I don't. It's just joking."

"Joke's on you then. Because it's not funny."

"Not- not funny?" Sirius sputters. "What am I supposed to do? Ignore the fact that we're both enormous poofs?"

"No, but you could at least pay it some respect. I'm gay, and it's a- a big fucking deal for me."

"You're- Well, of course you're-" Sirius doesn't know where to start. "Honestly, respect? This isn't bloody like you. Acting all self-righteous. I'm an equal part of this. You don't think being gay is a big fucking deal for me, too?"

Remus scowls. "Hardly. You never even came out to your parents!" The accusation is childish, but he's been waiting to say it for so many, too many years now.

Sirius flinches visibly. "Yes, I did," He says in a voice that is suddenly quite small. "When I was sixteen."

"What," He snorts, derisive. "Once you were already safely living at James' place?"

Sirius fiddles with the top button of his shirt before mumbling, "No. Remus. I never ran away from home. I was kicked out."

The truth takes a moment before it settles, hot and caustic, in Remus' stomach. "Oh." When Sirius doesn't say anything more, Remus mumbles, "You never told me that."

"I never told anyone that."

Remus is silent for a moment, then says in a cheap, half-hearted voice, "You could have told me."

Furious, Sirius slams a fist down onto the table. "No, I bloody well couldn't have! How would you have thought of me? I wouldn't be the same anymore! I wouldn't be the-" he deliberately looks anywhere but at Remus. "the tough one. I wouldn't be the manly one."

"The manly one?" Remus sits up sharply.

"Jesus, we've already had this conversation. You like drapes and jazz music and things."

Remus eyes him closely. Then, deliberately, he rises from his chair. He leans over the table, hands sweating against the tile, but not breaking eye contact, until the two are inches apart. Only the slightly glimmer of surprise flickers through Sirius' eyes.

"Sirius Black." Remus speaks sharply, precisely. Until now, he didn't realize that he's been waiting for years for this confrontation. "You better pick your words carefully."

And Sirius does.

"You were the reason I was kicked out."

The subsequent silence hurts like hell. "Go on," Remus murmurs, his lips a thin line.

"There's- there's nothing else to say there. It's the truth. You were the reason I was kicked out."

Remus tells himself he isn't in as much agony as he actually his. "Oh really."

This time, Sirius looks away. "Yes- yes, really."

"Or perhaps," Remus beings. "You were just too insecure to-"

"Moony." Sirius butts in, waving a hand before him indignantly. "I don't think that now is the time to have this conversation. We were just talking about you in a skirt, and I think that would be a much better way to end this argument than going at each other's throats."

"You've got to be kidding me." Remus is sick of his jokes, sick of his games.

"I'm just trying to avoid conflict."

Humorlessly, Remus runs his tongue over his teeth. "Tch. If that's your prerogative, Sirius. But I'll have nothing to do with it." And he turns and disappears upstairs without another word.

Sirius just blinks, and doesn't get it. "No skirt then?"

From the upper level, Remus groans.

xxx

It's 1998. Sirius is dead. They're having a service for Sirius today, but Remus couldn't bring himself to go, couldn't get out of bed until noon today.

Remus can't pinpoint who exactly they are. He doesn't even remember who issued him the invitation. He doesn't remember much lately. Only feels when he burns his fingers on the stove, or leaves the cold faucet running in the shower for too long. There are tiny marks on the inside of his palms from where he's clenched his fists, not out of anger, but just to feel his fingernails dig into his skin. Just to feel something other than-

It doesn't help that he's been waiting, suspended in his own grief and stubborn disbelief. Waiting for a note, a goodbye, and indication from Sirius that he, Remus, wasn't forgotten and unloved. Wasn't an errant (albeit lifelong) love affair. It wouldn't surprise Remus one bit to find that Sirius had made a mistake in judgment that spanned decades. A misdemeanor of the heart.

We were always going to end like this, Remus thinks. One gone without a trace, without pain. The other slipping away quietly, grain by grain, into a senseless heap. Numb and washed away by the time.

Perfection is too often desired by Remus, and so rarely achieved. The strangest of urges passes over him- to open the bedroom window and let some fresh air in- and it comes as a surprise to him that it's a faultless afternoon. Normally, Remus would cringe and complain about bugs flying into their room, but perhaps, he thinks, taking a deep lungful of summertime, he can let it go this time.

Perhaps, he thinks, there are other things he can let go of, considering the circumstances. Things about Sirius. Certain faults. Certain terminology he was keen on using.

No, not let go of. Not yet, anyway. But perhaps there's a place for all of Sirius' indiscretion, all of his unchecked flippancy and backhanded compliments. Stored away for safekeeping somewhere in the back of Remus' mind- That is, if Remus can bring himself to sift through every last indiscretion to memory. And for some reason, with the sun shining in against his nose, this doesn't seem like such a chore.

Perhaps, he thinks, he'll hold a service of his own. It's not forgiveness, not by a long shot, but it's the next best thing.

OH SIRIUS, YOU SILLY GOOSE. Watch your mouth. D:
A/N: This has been floating rather fucking aimlesslyaround my computer for what feels like FOREVER and even though plot-wise it's finally complete, I still don't feel like it's really finished-finished. I'm posting it I) to get it off of my hands and II) to see what kind of a reception it gets. Hopefully a positive one. One of the things that took me so long was figuring out how this all should end. Any sort of resolution between parties wouldn't have seemed realistic. At all. So y'all got this instead. Long a/n is long.

Comments are greatly appreciated.