Post-Azkaban, obviously. Vaguely inspired by Nickelback. If you don't know the song, you'll understand just as well. In which you remind me of what I really am.
Sirius had always suspected that Remus might be his guardian angel.
It starts, as all things that don't actually start here do, with Remus Lupin all alone again. I never made it as a wise man. I couldn't cut it as a poor man stealing. I'm tired of living like a blind man.
I'm sick inside, without a sense of feeling.
Then Sirius returns but the sight of him just makes Remus all the more sick and all the more dead.
Oh, Sirius. Sirius, what have they done to you?
Sirius looks up. So he'd said that last bit out loud. Excellent. Sirius is sitting at the small, clean mirror in Remus's tiny bathroom, staring at himself, blood licking down his chin and dribbling down his throat onto one of Remus's old shirts.
Why the bollocking fuck have you got my razor, Sirius?
Sirius has been shaving. His ragged beard is still mostly intact, although cut short and smeared with soap. His chin is covered in thin soap lather mixed with blood, which runs from at least two separate cuts. Why would you shave? You'll cut your fucking throat out. How the fuck could you expect yourself to remember how to shave?
Wordless. Sirius drops the razor into the sink. His fingers are bloody and so is Remus's shirt. He slumps hopelessly and tears begin to dribble down his face. His chest hitches as he leans forward and Remus silently reaches over him and picks up the razor.
They're in Remus's tiny little bathroom, Sirius cross legged on the floor, dull eyes staring into space as his head droops. Remus kneels behind him, Sirius's head in his hands, and carefully shaves his beard and stubble all off, avoiding his two minor cuts and his one deep one.
It's a fucking razor, Sirius, you suicidal idiot, they're sharp, you can't just go hacking at your face with it.
Sirius's throat is hot. He swallows nervously and his throat makes a rhythmic movement against Remus's unready hand. His pulse feels the same as it always did. And this is how you remind me, of what I really am. Tears drip down Remus's face.
Sirius doesn't say anything. It's not like you, to say sorry, I was waiting on a different story. Remus stops to wipe his tears and Sirius wordlessly leans his head the other way.
Remus cradles the once-beloved head in his lap, because it's easier, and scrapes the blade so carefully along Sirius's throat and chin. He scrapes away the hints of Azkaban from his jawline and upper lip. When it's finished Sirius merely looks malnourished, not crazy. Still beloved? Remus smiles bravely at him as he stares at his face, gaunt and hollow and clean-shaven, a weird contradiction. Sirius's dull eyes stare at himself, feeling his chin tentatively. Still beloved.
This time I'm mistaken, for handing you a heart worth breaking.
Remus gives his brave smile and Sirius continues to stare in the mirror at his different, different face and touch where he'd cut himself and Remus had healed him and rub the smoothness of his throat and Remus excuses himself and locks his door and curls up in his bed and thinks of the careless gleeful grin that Sirius once did and his pulse beating stubbornly in his neck and cries and cries and cries. This time I'm mistaken, for handing you a heart worth breaking.
It's the day after the day after that when Remus drinks his morning tea dully and then decides to just go back to bed and finds Sirius in his bed, nestled where he had been, sobbing. I said I love you and I swear I still do. So he leaves him, and sits on the step with his dry hands wrapped around the cooling mug and stares at the moon.
The same day, Remus tries to cut off a loose thread from one of the shirts he's assigned Sirius and Sirius snaps at him. It's not like you didn't know that; I said I love you, and I swear I still do.
Remus relents, silently worrying at his thumbnail and staring at the ceiling.
Sirius wakes him the next morning with a pile of all his clothes returned, and Sirius is wearing something he's bought. He hasn't folded Remus's clothes: they both know it's because he wouldn't do it properly anyway. I said I love you and I swear I still do. And it must have been so bad, because living with me must have damned near killed you. Sirius wanders to his cupboard and silently fingers the few thin carefully-darned garments. He strokes a trouser leg tenderly with his thumb.
Remus wells up again and Sirius doesn't understand why.
Sirius apologises for Sixth Year, and Remus just stares at him. He doesn't understand because he doesn't remember that as being anything out of the ordinary. He says this, to calm Sirius. Sirius suddenly weeps and clings to him like he's drowning. He apologises for every exchange they've ever made. Remus remains limp in his arms. No apology for leaving me to fester and die for thirteen hellish years. Maybe it's because Sirius does not realise it's been thirteen years. Without Sirius, days are not days. Time can wrap around his mind. Perhaps it was all just yesterday and he's merely going mad.
I'm mistaken.
Remus doesn't say this. He lays limp in Sirius's desperate arms and hollowly accepts each apology. Sirius pulls Remus into his body space, so he's resting in his lap. Sirius runs his fingers through his hair urgently, and then kisses him, very gently, on the corner of the mouth.
I'm mistaken. So then Remus cries again, and Sirius rocks him for what seems like days. For handing you this heart worth breaking.
They get up and wordlessly, Remus beckons Sirius back down to the floor to shave him again. This time, I'm mistaken, for handing you this heart. worth breaking. It's not tough work but he's meticulous. They sit in the little bathroom and Remus cradles Sirius. In between shaving, he strokes the softness of Sirius's face, and presses their foreheads together. This is how you remind me, of what I really am.
This is how you remind me. Their limbs intertwine on Remus's poor little threadbare sofa. Sirius's rough, calloused hands carefully slip inside his shirt. Remus quivers; there's no other verb to describe it. The old, rough fingers skim along his skin. Sirius suddenly lets go and cups his chin, stroking the lines around his mouth with his gently clumsy thumb. Oh, Moony, you're so old and your hair is so grey. Moony, what the fuck have they done to you?
Sirius sheds his clothes awkwardly. His body is hollow, like a broken promise. His muscles have worn away and left ragged limbs at odd angles. He's not the jangle of energy he was. He's wrecked and trodden on. Remus pulls him close, and Sirius falls asleep in his arms, almost whimpering, and very, very thin and sore. This is like a creepy role-reversing nightmare. This is how you remind me.
He wakes up more nights than not, screaming. Remus is there beside him. He tucks Sirius's poor thin body close to his and runs his fingers through his hair until he sleeps.
This is how you remind me, of what I really am. He says so softly, after Sirius has fallen back into fitful sleep. Remus checks the time, and lays awake, on guard, watching over him.
The morning after the day after that they don't bother cleaning up or getting dressed. They lay sprawled in each others' limbs. Remus squirms and moans gently like why do I always and Sirius licks his neck and informs him that he is easy. Remus laughs, crackly and hollow. His laugh is a rusty gate; Sirius's is worse. They remind each other of the yesterday in which they lasted touched like this. Remus lays his long fingers on Sirius's forehead and he can sleep.
Their bodies echo each other. They're both older than their age, and while Remus has filled out, less gangly and awkward, Sirius has caved in, muscles wasted away. They almost look similar. And Remus is taller now, yet still Remus, which is both unnerving and slightly exciting. Sirius returns with toast. Remus touches Sirius's wrist with his fingertips, and Sirius calls him Moony. This is how you remind me, of what I really am.
This is how you remind me.