The thing is, he knows it's not the end. When he looks at him, he knows there will be something else, something beyond this and this cell. He knows he can't stop what was, knows he doesn't want to. Sometimes, he thinks he can stop what will be. But then he'll close his eyes and picture the way they were before the war, and he knows he can't stop what's coming.

The thing is, he still wants him. Even after everything, he wants him. He believes he killed them, but he still wants him. He craves his touch when he's looking at him through these metal bars. He almost wishes he were brave enough to put his fingers on the cold steel. Even with the man's tired, dirty hands, his traitorous body yearns for his rough fingers to run over his torso again, for his short fingernails to scrape the back of his neck. He even wishes those hands would just run over his, like those accidental bumps back in school. The familiarity of harsh beater's palms would be a comfort. He wants to fall into him, into his embrace, like nothing was wrong, because he doesn't want anything to be wrong.

The thing is, nothing was ever supposed to go wrong like this. They knew things would be hard for them, especially with the war. They knew both of them would be solicited to join Voldemort's side, and they had talked about it. He thought the boy had understood. He thought he had gotten through his thick skull. He realized all these years later that in reality, he had only gotten through his pants – not a very hard feat. Still, he had never thought something like this would go wrong.

The thing is, he thinks the git deserves this. He deserves to be this cold and empty and tired, but when he sees him in this place, it makes him want to run away. He doesn't want to see him like this. He doesn't want to see his deep-set eyes and gaunt face, doesn't want to see the madness behind his eyes. He doesn't want to see the way he looks at him, like he's starved for something besides food. When he looks at him like that, he can feel his body betraying him, and he knows his mind isn't far behind. But he doesn't want to be a traitor to their memory, not like he was.

The thing is, he can't bear to listen to him. His tortured, screaming words won't leave his mind. He knows he shouldn't believe the things he says, but he can't help himself. He looks so desperate, his eyes are pleading as he's never seen them plead before. He wants to believe him so badly; he wants to know that he wasn't a huge mistake. He wants to assure himself that he was a good man—that he is a good man… but he knows he can't. He knows his eyes were always a weakness, and he knows he can't fall for them now. Not now, not ever again.

The thing is, he can feel the hopelessness. It radiates from everywhere. There are mad people here, people who are screaming and shouting about how they're innocent—or worse—about how they're not. Vicious details of the crimes they committed are spewing out of their mouths, reverberating off the walls, crashing into his ears, and sinking to the pit of his stomach. He can feel the words settling down in his gut, can feel the wracking of his body trying to get it out.

The thing is, he felt that wave of despair when a dementor walked by. He felt that horrible clenching of his heart; the icy feeling that completely engulfed his senses. He felt the pain of thinking nothing could ever go right ever again. He felt all his good memories being drained from his body; he could feel his mind becoming weak. He was aware of the good times rushing out of his mind—he saw James and Lily and Peter disappearing, and then he saw him.

The thing is, he almost starts crying when the images of him flash through his brain and then he can't find them again. He falls back against the wall with his head in his hands and moans, trying desperately to cling to the memories of him. He sinks his teeth into the moment when he first said 'I love you', he won't let it go. It means too much to him to say goodbye to 

that moment. He feels like everything about their relationship is wrapped up in that one confession. He grits his teeth and slides down the stone wall. There is despair in his chest. He can't believe he can't let go of someone who hurt them so bad—his friends! He can't believe he can't let go. But then he closes his eyes and the feeling passes, and he looks up.

The thing is, he's looking at him now. His eyes are boring into his brain, and he can't get them out. The man—the man who he knew as a boy, a rambunctious, mischievous boy—puts his hands on the bars and tries to say what words can't express with his eyes.

The thing is, he used to be able to read those eyes.

The thing is, he still can. And it's so wrong, because he doesn't love him anymore. He can't love him anymore. But those eyes are the same eyes he saw when they were younger, only with less shine, more madness, and a touch of humility.

The thing is, he knows they're the same eyes he fell in love with, but they're completely different, too. The old eyes were alight all the time with unknown joys, bouncing with excitement and happiness even when there was nothing to be happy about. The old eyes had a certain glint to them. These eyes are so much different… so very different, he can scarcely see the old boy in them.

The thing is, he can. He can see that glint, only it's much more dull now. He can see it; only it's hidden by all the bad things he's seen in this tiny little cell. He can see it, and he knows he's still in love with him. He doesn't know how he'd be able to see it otherwise.

The thing is, he did so many things wrong, but he knows he would forgive him if he had half a reason. He knows it would be just like it was back in school with the Whomping Willow. He knows he would throw himself at the man—even the man he has become after all the time in Azkaban—if only he had a shred of evidence it wasn't him.

The thing is, Sirius—the Sirius he knew—doesn't deserve this. The thing is, the monster Sirius has become does. The thing is, when he looks at this monster, he can still see his Sirius. The thing is, he doesn't think James could ever make a mistake that big. The thing is, he wants to believe in Sirius with every bone in his body—he wants it all to be a mistake.

"Remus…" Sirius says hoarsely, hand gripping the bars of his cage. Remus closes his eyes and shifts his head so it's facing the ground. He can hear the longing in Sirius's voice, the unasked question: can you ever forgive me?

Remus looks up again, and his eyes lock on Sirius's. He quickly looks away, because he can't say it to those eyes… they're too much like the eyes of the boy he loved so much when he was younger. Instead, he trains his eyes on the bars above Sirius's head.

"The thing is, Sirius, I just don't think I can."

But the thing is, Remus sits there until the next dementor drives him away.

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