A bottle lies discarded on the scratched and scuffed floor, inches from the collapsed figure of Remus Lupin. His eyes are almost closed, the vestiges of sleep apparent on his worn features. A hand acts as a pillow, protecting his heavy head from the hard floor, though he's far too gone to care about such trivial things as pain.
A door slams, and he stirs briefly, because it's just a sound, just another distraction from this place where nothing can harm him, until something clunks in his mind and he thinks Sirius and suddenly he's wide awake, snapping to attention, climbing to his unsteady feet as quick as he can muster. A cruel voice in his head echoes his lover's now frequent tone, beginning to follow a well-tread path and words (Death Eater, traitor, spy) Remus can't quite recognise fall smoothly to the tip of his tongue.
He thinks he's about to be sick as his head spins from the giddying rush of standing, but he fights the urge and instead draws his attention to the cold sweat at the nape of his neck and the plummeting sensation in his stomach. He gropes his way to the wall, and rests a moment, calming his breath, already ragged in the promise of a night of lies and deception and mistrust.
Heavy, impatient footfalls make their way to their sitting room, and as Sirius enters, Remus thinks it must have gotten about ten degrees cooler.
Sirius remains quiet for a few moments, his eyes flickering between the empty bottle of wine and Remus' off-balance stance, one hand still clutching the wall desperately.
"You drank it all, didn't you?"
Remus casts his eyes downwards, feeling ashamed. Ashamed of showing his weakness, of his disgust, of his terror.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
A fist collides with his jaw, splitting his lip and Remus feels as if he's going to throw up again. A grunt escapes his mouth, and while his eyes have shut with the punch, he knows Sirius will have that God-awful smirk on his face, proud of his destruction.
What's wrong with me? What's wrong with him? His look of triumph when I fall. When did that start to happen? When I stopped trusting him? With the whispers and the outright lies and the plans that I wasn't a part of, did he really expect me to believe every word he said? And even if we didn't avoid each other as best we could, what are we supposed to say? "Hey, babe, how was your day? Did you hurt the baddies? Killed anyone yet? Decided to pass information on to Voldemort, have you?" What repulses me most of these revelations is not that they are possible – or even likely – but that I've come to accept them. Traitor…
Remus isn't sure if he heard or simply thought the last word, and his heart screams that he thought it, Sirius would never say these things, he loves you, but his mind reasons that Sirius wouldn't avoid him, or hit him, or let him drink the hurt away if the scrap of a relationship he was so desperate to call love actually existed anywhere outside his head.
His musings twist sharply into reality as fingers grasp his slender wrist, and pull him roughly towards their bedroom and Remus makes no move to stop. Instead, he stumbles blindly forwards, spitting out blood as he goes, the metallic taste almost lost on his alcohol-numbed mouth.
A few unconnected thoughts drift through his foggy mind - Remus wonders drunkenly if he should ask Sirius to slow down, or stop altogether. They seem laughably childish in the wake of this new Sirius - perhaps such a line would have caused old Sirius to pause, but this stranger's temper can never be predicted and Remus thinks that a few moments of discomfort are well worth hours, maybe, of peace and solitude.
One of Sirius' hands has worked its way to Remus' waist, and his nails dig painfully into the pale skin as he draws the small man closer. Remus thinks he can smell liquor on Sirius' breath, or perhaps he just smells the liquor on his own.
The dark man begins to shrug off his jacket, all the while keeping a firm grip on Remus, and a cold fills him, a cold only associated with being this close to Sirius, infiltrating him from somewhere below his navel and slowly making its' way upwards, clenching at his stomach and slowing down his heart. He wonders if Sirius can feel him stiffen, as they press up against each other, but then dismisses the idea as delusional. Sirius wouldn't notice. He'd barely care.
Sirius' hand twists around the bottom of Remus' shirt and slides it over his head, and Remus raises his arms obediently, as a blush stains his pale cheeks, feeling as though he were a child being undressed by his mother, albeit savagely.
He lets Sirius push him backwards onto their bed, the bedsprings creaking even under his frail frame. Sirius follows him down onto the bed, peeling off his own shirt, looking strangely impassive as he places his hands either side of Remus' chest.
Remus' hand itches to move towards the other man's shoulder, in an embrace or an attempt to push him away, he's not entirely sure. His fingers curl lightly and then settle back on the bed sheets, almost as a nervous twitch. Nervous as hell, he thinks, and knows that no amount of alcohol can prepare him for the fever, the focus, the fear in his eyes.
Sirius leans forward, and smashes their mouths together and Remus blinks as their teeth clash ungainly. He notes - as he would possibly have done in class a billion years ago, detached and for posterity - that Sirius would be able to taste Remus' blood on his lips. He wonders if the other man gets a small sense of satisfaction from it.
Sirius' breathing becomes harsh as he unbuttons Remus' trousers, and Remus lets out a whimper, a dry sob that catches in his throat, and Sirius flinches almost unconsciously at the sound, snatching back his hands. Remus closes his eyes in a desperate attempt to stop the tears from spilling, and tries to focus on his deep, measured breaths.
Remus feels Sirius shift his weight in a sudden pause, and his heart skips a beat, wondering if tonight is already over, hardly daring to move in case he breaks whatever precious fragment of nothing-ness is transpiring. He senses Sirius is about to speak, and forces the roaring in his ears - that he never notices until Sirius stops - to quiet.
"I'm going to be the Potter's Secret Keeper," Sirius hisses, his hands already worming their way to places they really shouldn't, and Remus thinks to himself, God help them, because you damn sure won't.