Quo Animo:

The seventh and eighth bits.

Remus

I turn the water for the shower hot enough to scald before I strip and step in, conspicuously avoiding the mirror. I never much like what I see, and it will only get worse in the week leading up to the moon. My skin is so pale; ashen with dozens of scars ranging from white to purple, each thick like a night crawler inching across my body. I know that they'll be there forever, but still when I wash I scrape at the skin as if the scars will leave if I can only scrub hard enough. Use enough soap. Turn the water hot enough. They won't, I know, but it's nice to pretend, even if just for a moment.

I hate them more than I've ever hated anything in my life. I hate them more than I hate the moon, more than I hate the ministry for discriminating against me for something I can't control, more than I hate still being caught up in his memory after all these years. More than anything and more than nothing, I hate them and, suddenly, I'm angrier than I've ever been in my life. Angrier than I was when I saw my mum crying over my bed in St. Mungo's, angrier than I was after Severus found out about my lycanthropy, angrier than you've ever made me.

Angry enough to kill.

It's not fair. It just isn't fair! What did I do to deserve this? The dark scar on my hip where Fenrir bit me prickles tauntingly. The proof that his pointy, infectious teeth were inside my skin… His mark of ownership… And, suddenly I can't bear carrying it on my body anymore. I just can't live with it.

That scar needs to go, and if the only way to get rid of it is to slice it right off my body, then that's just what I'll have to do. My razor mysteriously disappeared around the time you found out about my cutting, so I step out of the scalding stream of water and get yours to use instead. I throw it against the ground so that the plastic and the blade separate and pick up the sliver of metal with careful fingers before I step back into the warmth and set about my task.

It hurts. It hurts more than anything has ever hurt me before. More than the cutting, more than your teeth, more than the transformation, more than broken bones, more than when the Wolf tears my skin apart. And I don't like it. It doesn't feel good. The pain is terrible and very nearly unbearable and I feel like I'm going to die when I don't get it all with one slice, but I need to do it. It needs to go.

I press down the blade and slide it right under my skin again, because it needs to be done. I move it up with a grimace and finish the job, because I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that it needs to be done. I don't lament the muscle that inadvertently got sliced away along with the scar tissue and the skin, because it needed to be done, and so it was. Done.

I'm not sure whether I start crying before or after the first slice, all I know is that the tears pouring down my face are gushing almost as profusely as the blood pouring out of my hip when you find me.

I'm curled into a fetal position, my head resting on the tacky, mildew-covered tiles, as I watch the blood run down my pelvis and legs to mix with the water in swirls before the two liquids settle on a runny pink fluid and twist down the drain. The water ran cold sometime before you showed up, but I don't notice the difference until I feel the unbearable warmth of your hand on my back.

I'm afraid to look at your face. Just feeling your presence beside me is enough to make my empty heart bleed. The water stops running. I can only assume it's your doing. The same is true when a towel is placed around my shoulders and I'm lifted off the ground, out of my position of safety and comfort. The tears come harder, the breath comes faster.

I clutch your body with no regard for modesty or cleanliness. You are my lifeline and I cling to you as such, but it's okay. You don't seem to mind. You know why I did what I did. You understand even before I mutter, "I hate it so much," with my face buried in your shoulder, my words muffled by the cloth of your robes.

You grasp at my back as if you're afraid I'll disappear, consequently pressing the warm fibers of the towel against my nearly hypothermic back and the squishy scabs over the bite marks you so thoughtfully gave me. Your lips press against my scalp whispering incoherent, comforting words that I can't make out as you stroke my back. For a moment, we're just friends again. We never had sex, we're only two people who have known each other for a significant portion of their lives and know very nearly everything about each other.

Even when the moment passes we remain, bound together by something significantly stronger than magic and significantly more real than love. Something invisible and tangible and invincible all at the same time.

It's changing again. Our relationship. How we relate. For the third time in less than a month we're different again. But this time it doesn't make things awkward and terrible, it just makes them conspicuously not the same.

When my sobbing quietens, you step back to fuss over me. The damp towel (which used to be dry) is wrapped around my exhausted body and you wince as the rough fabric touches my wound though I hardly register the cloth's contact with the raw under-skin. You force a sympathetic smile onto your face and stroke some of the hair out of my eyes with shaking fingers. "What do you say we patch you up a bit, hm?"

I feel more like a child than I have since before I was bitten and it's wonderful. I answer with a nod before I let my head bob forward and rest on your chest. I'm exhausted. Your arms encircle me almost automatically; your chin rests gently on my head. Then you do the unexpected: You pick me up to carry me to the bench by the door and start rifling through the medicine cabinets above and below the sinks. I shiver from a mix between cold and shock. "I'm cold," I tell you, trying to curl further into myself just for some warmth. The blood has mostly clotted, but a heavy stream of it had already dried on my leg before it stopped flowing.

When you turn to regard me, you couldn't be described as anything other than alarmed. You replace the damp towel over my shoulders with a dry one as your Adam's Apple bobs in your throat and your searching becomes more frantic. "Just a minute, Moony. We're just going to put something over your, um…your bloody bits. Then we'll take you to see Madam Pomfrey. She'll make sure you're nice and warm," a moment more and your search turns up fruitful: A gauze pad and some bandages.

It might've been less awkward if I'd put it on, but I was having too much fun playing shivering invalid to offer and you were too busy playing nurse to even consider suggesting any such thing.

"I'm going to get you your robes. I'll be right back," you promise.

You're adorable when you worry. Your eyes, usually so mischievous, turn soft, your mannerisms start to speak of compassion instead of confidence, your eyebrows knit together making you seem more human than god-like. I like you like this.

"I like you like this, Sirius."

You're almost out the door. You give me a confused and worried look before you decide that getting me something to wear is more important than asking me what would prompt me to say such a thing.

Adjusting my uncooperative meat sack so that I can lean against the wall, I close my eyes and realize how exhausted I am. I very nearly fall asleep before you return, but am jolted firmly into consciousness by your anxious shaking of my body. "C'mon, Moony. Stay awake. You're in shock and I don't want you sleeping before we get to the Hospital Wing," my robes are tucked under your arm.

You help me into my clothing graciously, babying me somewhat more than I need or want, and then help me limp to the Hospital Wing.

Despite all of the terrible pain, despite the cold and the exhaustion and the general state of physical shock, I can't make myself regret it. The scar that changed my life is gone, now, and it feels like the weight has lifted.

Fenrir doesn't own me, anymore.


Sirius

I'm sitting here, just sitting. Watching you sleep. Watching you breathe. Do you know what I did last night? Well, let me just tell you straight out that I didn't sleep. Not a fucking wink. I was awake the entire night. At first I tried, but after a few hours of tossing and turning under the too-warm blankets I just kicked them off and watched the shadows on the ceiling, waiting until the Hospital Wing opened and I could go see you and indulging in that pastime that you seem to think is so great. No, not cutting. Thinking. About you. About your furry little problem, about your scarred skin, about your gangly limbs, your hands, your hair, your eyes... And, I realized a few things.

You have to go through a lot of shit. A lot of it. I always knew you had it bad, but I never realized quite how much you have to deal with. You've got the moon every month, you actually do your school work, you make sure that we Marauders don't get in too much trouble, and now you somehow manage to put up with the shit that I give you for needing to bleed. I have no excuse to be so fucking righteous. No excuse at all. You're the most upstanding person that I know and we're all entitled to our dirty little pleasures. Well, our secrets, anyway. I don't mean to imply that there's anything about you that's "dirty." I should just suck it up, but I can't. I might be able to get past it if I'd come to this realization after having only seen that one night. That first night. But I didn't. I found you on the floor in the showers, bleeding from this gigantic chunk that you cut out of your leg.

I understand that it was for a different reason than just "I like it," but it really doesn't make a difference to me. I thought that you were dead. Truly. The image of your bluish body lying on the floor like a corpse, blood swirling down the drain as if it were somehow not completely absurd is an image that won't stop projecting onto the screen that is my mind. Just the thought that it could ever happen again fills my eyes up with very unmanly tears.

Hear that Moony? You drive me to tears.

Your body stirs in the hospital bed, but your mind isn't ready to move yet. You don't wake up and I'm not sure whether I am disappointed or relieved. On the one hand I want to make sure that you're still all there. I want to know that, even after it all, you're still the same kid I could always bribe to do my homework with a bar of chocolate. But I don't want to have to talk to you. I've decided how I'll deal with this whole thing, but I'm not sure how to say it. I'm probably going to say some things that will make you angry, but it won't be my intention. I don't ever mean to make you mad. I just can't help it. My thoughts are orderly and well-intentioned, my mouth just can't say what I mean. Something gets lost in the translation. But I still have to say my bit. Then it's all up to you.

I reach out and take one of your hands in both of mine, because that seems to be the thing to do in hospitals when you're looking over a sleeping person. I turn it over, studying your calluses, the knobs of your knuckles, your fingerprints. You have nice hands. You'd think that the amount of time I spend studying you I'd have noticed earlier. I scrutinize how the lines on your palms merge seamlessly with the lines on your wrists as if they were all just one continuation. For a long moment, I wish that I had paid more attention to divination just so that I might be able to tell how this is all going to turn out by trying to read them.

How is this going to end up, Remus? Everything has become more complicated. Almost absently, I start tracing the scars on your arms, but tracing turns to stroking, stroking moves from forearms to hands and becomes massaging, and eventually I'm molesting your fingers with mine, marveling at the length, the softness, and the warmth of your skin.

On an impulse I raise your hand to my lips, pressing a soft kiss to the top knuckle of each finger. I'm on your thumb when I realize that your amber eyes are open and watching me intently, scrutinizing me, trying to understand.

Embarrassed, I release you and carefully study the bedspread as heat rushes to my cheeks.

"You don't have to stop," you say gently, a wry smile twisting its way onto your thin, pale mouth. I can't help but smile in return.

"Sorry about that. I didn't mean to rape your hand in your sleep," I apologize somewhat sheepishly.

"I'm sure you couldn't help yourself," is your half-joking reply. Only half joking. The other half is serious, and we both know it, but we laugh regardless. A soft, somewhat forced laugh, but laughter nonetheless.

It seems to help.

I time the silence by counting my heartbeats. Fifteen. It is a quick fifteen heartbeats, to be sure, but that's still a long time in a situation as tense as this one seems. "Do you remember what you said? That first night?" It's my attempt at some sort of segeway into our next Serious Conversation, but it doesn't connect much with our light words fifteen heartbeats ago.

There is a preemptory quirk of your lips, but it's not because of amusement. "I said a lot of things that first night. You'll have to be a bit more specific," you're trying to keep it light, I can tell and I can appreciate it. I'm less likely to make a big mistake that way.

Unfortunately, I don't know how to keep this light.

The flush from earlier which had finally fled my face returns with a new vigor. "Um, that thing about, uh..." I always get like this in these conversations. The confidence that is usually so characteristic of me goes away whenever we get like this. "When you were talking about the, uh, the-the... go ahead and, uh... hurt you stuff?"

Your face with eyes of a beautiful, bright color befitting any owl or cat, takes on the hunted appearance of a rodent. It hurts me to watch so quick a change and know that I am the cause. "I remember having said something along those lines, yes."

"If I do whatever it is that you want done, you'll stop, right?" I start off hesitant, as if I'm pulling out my own teeth with a pair of mismatched salad spoons, but after the first two words the rest fall like boulders and I'm pleading. I'm pleading with you.

I'm begging.

Sirius Black is begging. A Black, the eldest son of the Most Noble House of Black to be exact, is begging something of a werewolf. I would laugh at the thought of my mother's reaction if my throat hadn't closed up with emotion. Begging is not beneath me. Not when it comes to you.

"Sirius," your voice is a mere exhalation of air. A word sighed. "That wasn't the same thing. It--"

"I know," for once, I'm the one cutting you off. "I know that it's different, but I just can't..." it takes me a full three seconds to come up with the words to match my thoughts."It kills me to think of what might happen if something went wrong and I wasn't there to find your body."

The hunted look is completely gone, but in its place is one that speaks of exhaustion both emotional and physical. "Are you sure you want to do this? You probably know already but, Sirius, this is a checkpoint. There's no turning back from here," you warn, and I'm not sure if I've ever seen you look quite so serious in my life.

"I'd never be able to forgive myself if I turned back, now," my honest answer.

Your sigh is heavy. "I'm going to have you make me bleed," you say bluntly. The words send a sick wave of anticipation through me, but it doesn't last long before I become disgusted with myself for wanting to do it on any level much less with the amount of enthusiasm that I consciously know I have.

"You make it sound like a chore, Moony," I joke weakly. Neither one of us even pretends to think it is mildly amusing. A few heartbeats pass before I realize that you're still waiting for my answer.

I move from my seat beside you and sit on the edge of your bed, taking the hand that I molested earlier and looking gingerly at your warm eyes with my own cold ones. "I realize that I'm going to have to make you bleed. It's something that I'm willing to do to make sure that you're safe."

An ironic look flits across your face and I almost have to laugh at the ridiculous opposing nature of the things that I'm saying, the ridiculous situation that the two of us somehow ended up in, but I can't bring myself to do it. For the first time in forever we're sitting in a comfortable silence, and there is no way in the world that I would ever trade that for cheap conversation.

But it is interrupted, anyway, when James and Peter come bursting through the door with no regard for the sharp look that Madame Pomfrey shoots their way.

I let go of your hand, but make no move to leave my perch by your side. The intruders take no notice of anything extraordinary.

They sweep in like a pair of brooms and start up all at once with their uninformed whining.

"Mooooooony!"

"What happened?"

"Where does it hurt, Moonykins?"

"Show papa! He shall kiss and make it better."

You smile at them in that secretive way you have, successfully hiding the discomfort from our earlier conversation before you look to me. Your face stays with the same easy mask you donned earlier, but the message you send is clear: It's up to you to tell them, Sirius. Do what you will with it.

It's almost in me to resent that you're making this my problem, but the words come with surprising ease. "Idiot was trying to save time by shaving in the shower. Dropped the soap, sliced off part of his leg while he was trying to catch his balance. Pomfrey said it's lucky he didn't cut any deeper or the muscles would be so buggered that he'd have a pimp limp for the rest of his lonely life."

Relief screams from behind your silent smile as you fend off our friends, and right now, I'm more certain about this than I've been about anything that I can remember.

Your secret is safe with me, Moony. As for the rest of you, the part of you that is here and real and substantial and physical, I can't make any promises.


A/N:

As always, if there are any typos please point them out. I don't really like the first part of Remus' bit, so any suggestions on something to change there or silly little things would be appreciated. Or something like the lovely wonderful amazing larkagurl2/Rinata-chan pointed out, where the term "emo" didn't exist in the seventies. So I changed that right away and THANK YOU SOOOO MUCH! A thank you also to Anonymous for pointing out that "It" should have been "I."

I've got the first bit of the next chapter done and the second bit started, but don't expect it out anytime soon. Hopefully not three months (again), but not likely within two weeks.

This time, thank yous go out to Rome J Wolf, Ignea, PharoahDeli, Miss Heather, Renai-Chan, Klippie, moonfoot13 and the aforementioned larkagurl2 and Anonymous. You all rock my world, as do my readers. But, alas. I cannot mention you all by name because I do not know who you are.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it and thanks for reading,

Misprocuous