These are based on a tumblr post by p0cketf0x.
Tw for this chapter: anxiety, depression, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts and ideation, the vaguest references to past suicide attempt, generally appalling mental health, references to eating disorders, self-hate and negative comments about weight (it ain't a happy one, folks)
7. I dreamed about you last night
Remus wakes with his mouth stretched in a silent scream, limbs taut, stomach churning, to find –
Nothing.
Obviously, nothing; it was a dream, and that was all – or maybe, judging by his state of being, a nightmare – the details of which are fast slipping through his fingers. His heart thuds painfully in his chest, and it's an effort to untangle his fists from where they're clenched around his sheets. The flashing images are already losing their vividness – if only his lungs could get the memo that it wasn't fucking real, get over it. He forces in deeper breaths, counting them slowly out, and in, like he's been taught, and then chugs the glass of water on his bedside table, as soon as he thinks he can down it without choking. A little dribbles down his chin and neck, but the cool liquid settles like a weight in his stomach, grounding him a little more – enough to glance across at the clock and see 02:37am glowing back at him.
For fuck's sake – twice in one night? He drags a tired hand down his face, wondering just how much of this he's supposed to take. How much more can he take, before he gives in and tries something else, because this is frankly ridiculous. The doctor had warned him that upping his medications would affect his sleeping patterns, but he can't remember the last night of unbroken sleep.
(When does this end? When does he get to resign from this mental health shitstorm – when is he allowed to drop out?)
He does his best to halt that line of thought right there, knows that he's only thinking it because he's exhausted and running on the fumes of sleepless nights, knows where those thoughts lead.
(It's too late. The dark, empty ache in his chest is back, heavier than ever – how can such an empty feeling press down on him enough to make him feel like he's suffocating?)
The uneasiness that lingers from the nightmare sinks its claws in to Remus' brain, and he's spiralling; the black murkiness that drags him down so often these days clings to his vision, and out of it, crawls the all-too-familiar worthlessness despair hopelessness hate hate hate –
His lungs are tight again, only this time it's like something's sitting on his heart, restricting the air in his chest to frantic gasps, and he knows what he wants to do – what he needs to do. The urge to hurt himself is a fierce, burning, boiling need beneath his skin – to mark himself up in some way, so that there's some kind of visible proof that the turmoil in his head is real and happening and valid – something that will make people not just listen, but hear him when he reaches out for help, something that will stop the doctors from brushing him off as "distressed, but not a pressing concern" –
He digs his nails in to his palms, willing himself not to scream. Instead, tears prickle in his eyes, and he is stretched too thin emotionally to even attempt to stop them from falling.
(You need to call someone, his mind supplies, as his coping mechanisms finally kick in, and he bites back the panic that swells in his chest, fills his mouth, squeezes his tongue, at the thought of someone seeing him like this, because he is past that, damn it). He fumbles for his phone, drops it twice, because his hands are sweating and shaking. There's an awful moment where he does actually scream, because his fingers are trembling so much that he gets his passcode wrong three times in a row. The thirty seconds he's locked out tick by so slowly, that Remus convinces himself that time itself has stopped, but then finally – finally – he hits the right combination, and is scrolling through his contacts in desperate, sweeping motions.
He slams the call button, and shakily presses the screen to his forehead as he waits. The ringing lasts four lifetimes, and the panic of what-if-he-picks-up-what-if-he-doesn't-pick-up-I'm-awful-awful-awful rises so fast that it's almost vomit-inducing. But then –
"Hello?" croaks a familiar voice, and Remus sobs quietly before he can help himself, as a bizarre relief-but-still-panic washes over him. He wades through the self-loathing that he's woken a friend up at two in the fucking morning (selfish, selfish, selfish) –
"Prongs," he manages, and hears James' intake of breath.
Give me one second, Moony," he whispers, and there's movement at his end – a murmuring sound (presumably Lily) – and when he speaks again, his voice is still hushed, but Remus can tell from the acoustics that he's moved rooms. "I'm here, love, talk to me."
"It's – bad – " Remus gets out, digging ragged nails in to his forearms now, silently pleading for James to make it better.
"Breathe for me, love," James keeps his voice gentle, and Remus obediently inhales, the rush of air dizzying. "Did something happen?"
"Bad dream," Remus' voice cracks, and he hates himself, hates that he can't handle a stupid nightmare, hates how scared he is of what his life is becoming, but most of all, he hates how he's nauseous with embarrassment, because objectively, he knows that this isn't something to be ashamed of.
James doesn't say 'it's okay, it wasn't real, it's over now, there's nothing to be afraid of,' doesn't say any of the well-intentioned things that people tend to blurt. He doesn't laugh, doesn't make light of any of it, because James, of all people, knows that sometimes nothing is more real – nothing is scarier – than the inside of your head.
Instead, he says, "hey, did I tell you about what Lionel did at school last week?" When Remus pauses, he launches in to an embellished tale about a brilliant, but mischievous, pupil who had managed to put the school's science block up for sale. Remus doesn't pay full attention as to the details of how Lionel had pulled it off, but he allows the rise and fall of James' expressive narration to wash over him, dragging him back to the shore and anchoring him there. When James finally finishes his story, he pauses for a few seconds, and says gently, "how are we doing?"
Remus inhales, relishing in how easy it is now, and leans back against the headboard. "Better."
"Good."
James lets the silence stretch out for another few minutes, and Remus closes his eyes, tipping his head until it connects with the wall with a thunk. His whole body is aching with exhaustion, but it's not the kind that will allow him to rest, because whilst the panic attack is gone, the anxiety lingers in his chest and mind.
"What's going on, love?" James says, and Remus curls his fingers in to his palms.
"I… I haven't been doing well," he says finally, and in spite of the blatancy of that statement, James doesn't scoff. He makes a soft humming sound, a kind of 'go on' encouragement. "I can't sleep. I can't – everything hurts all the time. I – I – I –" His chest is constricting once more, and this time he's too fatigued and drained to even fight it. He makes a choked sort of gagging sound. "I don't know what's changed," his voice cracks, and James takes a breath.
"Okay. Okay, love, keep breathing. Do you want me to come over?" His voice is carefully measured, and Remus knows that James would be here in a heartbeat if he asked. There's a large part of him that is longing for James' understanding silences, his warm hugs, and his gentle questions. But he can't do that to him. Not when James has to be up in – he glances at the clock – two hours for work. Guilt slithers in to his chest to join the anxiety, and he truly does not understand what he did to deserve a friend like James.
Despite everything in his heart demanding the opposite, he says, "no. No, it's okay."
"Are you sure? I can be at yours in ten minutes. It's not a problem."
Remus squeezes his eyes tightly shut. "No. Honestly, it's fine."
James makes a humming sound, "okay. Fine. But I'm coming over tomorrow after school, and we're gonna talk." He says it with the same kind firmness that makes him such a popular teacher, and Remus – despite all the darkness inside him whispering that he's not worth it – mumbles an agreement.
"Thank you."
Remus can't speak – if he does, he thinks he'll start crying those huge, uncontrollable, wet sobs, and then there will be no stopping James.
"I love you, Moony. See you tomorrow." James hesitates. "Please take care. I'll have my phone on all day."
Remus swallows hard, and the lump in the back of his mouth temporarily retreats to his throat. His voice is more than a little wobbly as he says, "I love you too. Thank you," but he hangs up before James can say anything more.
He drops his phone on the mattress next to him without locking it. For thirty seconds, the room is semi-lit with a pale glow that casts horrendously elongated shadows against the walls, before everything goes dark. Remus' chest feels simultaneously hollow and heavy, his head is swirling with anxiety and misery and self-hatred, his limbs are aching and leaden. He forces his palms flat against the mattress, ignoring the blood oozing from them that smears across the sheets. The thought of tomorrow's – or rather today's – arduous conversation further drains his energy.
And yet sleep is tantalisingly out of reach.
Sunlight is peeking through the blinds and shooting shafts of light across the room before he drags himself of the dark depths of his depression. It's stale and stifling in here, but it's far enough to the window that he can't help but cringe at the thought of leaving the bed to open it. Throughout the night, he's slid a little down the wall, and the awkwardness of the position has transformed the ache in his shoulders and back in to a full-blown burning pain. It takes an excruciating amount of time to summon the energy to move, but finally, he unsticks his palms from where they're gummed to the mattress with blood, and shuffles in to a horizontal position. His phone is dead, but thankfully the charging cord is within arm's reach, and he uses the last of his strength to plug the phone in.
When sleep does come, it's the restless kind – the kind where you toss and turn with uneasiness, where you wake up feeling even more groggy and spent than before, where panic and fear jerk you awake every few minutes. It's a throbbing pain in his lower stomach that finally wakes him for good, and it's severe enough that he has to bully himself in to leaving his bed. Winky winds around his legs as he staggers to the bathroom. Doubled over, he retches over the toilet, but there's nothing to bring up, and he dumps half a box of food in to Winky's bowl before he crawls back in to bed with a hot water bottle, tears stinging at his eyes, because he hates this. He can't keep doing this – he cannot.
Later that day, when he's curled up in bed with a now-lukewarm hot water bottle clutched against his stomach, and surrounded by copious amounts of lemon and ginger tea, his alarm goes off to remind him to take his medication. It's only as he's popping the little blue tablets and swallowing them dry that he actually checks his screen, and he feels his tummy swoop pleasantly when he reads 'Pads 3 (5 messages)'.
Pads 3 (11:13): hey, prongs told me things were rough last night [sad face emoji] i'm here for you [sparkling heart emoji]
Pads 3 (12:15): do you want company? or snacks? cuddles? anything tbh
Pads 3 (14:56): moonbeam. i dreamed about you last night. and i don't remember what it was about. i just know that you were there, and i woke up feeling so warm and safe and cared for. this is the way i feel about you all the time. you make me warm and safe and cared for
Pads 3 (14:57): you make so many people feel so much better, especially me. please don't deny yourself the same love you show everybody else. we are here. we want to help.
Pads 3 (16:34): i'm sorry to do this bc you shouldn't reply unless you want to, but if you could just let me know you're ok/not alone it would rly help my gremlin brain i'm sorry
Remus feels the guilt curling around his gut as he realises that his silence is making Sirius anxious – the feeling contrasts sharply against the soft, tug-of-heartstrings that Sirius' messages give him. Thankfully, his last message is less than an hour old, and he quickly taps out a reply:
You (17:19): hey, sorry to worry you. I'm okay, I've been sleeping a lot, sorry for the late reply
The reply comes almost immediately, and Remus feels another squirm of guilt at the thought of Sirius obsessively checking his phone for a response.
Pads 3 (17:21): moony! no no don't apologise. how are you feeling? is there anything i can do?
You (17:24): no it's okay. Mostly just fibro pain, it's fine [smiling face emoji]
Pads 3 (17:25): i mean. that's not fine.
Pads 3 (17:26): prongs said he's coming to yours tonight… would it be okay if i tagged along? it's completely okay if not, i understand [sparkling heart emoji]
Remus hesitates, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Whilst Sirius has seen him at some of his lowest points, both physically and mentally, James had been the one he'd called for a reason. There are some things that only James knows, that only James gets – James is one of the only people he can tell when he wants to be dead, when he wants to hurt himself, when everything is just Too Much. Remus likes to convince himself that it's because Sirius already has so much on his plate, but that's doing both he and James a disservice, because Sirius is stronger than anyone gives him credit for, and because James has a multitude of his own issues. Remus owes it to Sirius to try, he knows that – after how open and brave Sirius has been with him lately, it's time for Remus to pluck up the courage to do the same.
But not tonight.
His heart is heavy with self-reproach as he taps out a response, and even though he knows Sirius will understand, it doesn't stop the shame from mounting.
You (17:35): I'm really sorry but I kind of need it to just be me and Prongs tonight? I'm so sorry
Padfoot 3 (17:36): no no no! no need to be sorry, i understand. i love you and i'm here if there's anything i can do [sparkling heart emoji] xoxo
The weight in his chest doesn't shift, but Remus stares at the 'i love you' for the longest time; no matter how loudly his mind screams that he doesn't deserve anything good, the words don't change. Eventually, he dumps the phone back on the mattress, and then takes stock of his bedroom wearily. The blinds are still closed, it smells vile, and there are dirty clothes and empty crisp packets littering the floor, twisted around clumps of cat hair. The rest of the flat isn't much better, he knows, because he just doesn't have the energy for washing up or cleaning or even cooking any more. He is well aware that it's not doing his mental health, nor his waistline, any favours, but if he cared about that enough, then he wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place.
James is due in fifteen minutes, which regrettably isn't long enough to turn his dank hellhole in to a socially acceptable abode, but James won't care. James will understand. But that doesn't mean he can't make it even a little bit more pleasant, and so he drags himself from his bed, drapes himself in a blanket, and cranks the windows open in the apartment.
Winky comes running at the sound of movement, and he lets the guilt consume him for a moment at how shit of a cat-dad he is being right now. But the kitten is more forgiving than he deserves, purring as she rubs against his feet, and he reaches down to scratch at her ears. He half-heartedly picks up a few takeout boxes and empty cans from the floor, and changes Winky's litter tray, before there's a knock at the door.
Anxiety, which has been dormant for a few hours in the place of an awful apathetic depression, surges over him at the thought of the conversation he has to have now. His chest is painfully tight as he moves towards the door, and his heart picks up pace with his breathing.
James looks tired as he opens the door, but he perks up the second he sees Remus, flinging his arms wide. "Moony!"
Remus steps in to his embrace, leaning his head against James' shoulder with a sigh. James smells like jelly babies and birthday cake and fresh-cut grass, and it's overwhelmingly familiar and comforting. It eases the frantic speed of his heart and loosens the bands around his body a little. James sighs too, resting a cheek against Remus' head, and says, "fuck, I've missed you." Remus suddenly realises that he hasn't showered in five days (disgusting, useless, lazy fuck), and steps back quickly, drawing James in to his apartment and closing the door.
"It's been literally a week," Remus points out, though he adds quietly "I've missed you too."
James stoops down to pet Winky, even though it means he'll be sneezing all night, and smiles up at Remus. "Exactly. A week without my moonshine." He stands again, rubs his already-reddening eyes, and puts his hands on his hips as he surveys the room. Remus starts to apologise, because now that another person is here, he can see just how bad it looks, but James shakes his head. "Nuh-uh. No apologies necessary. You know I've been worse. Let's clean up a bit though, yeah? It'll help in the long run."
Remus nods, ducking his head in embarrassment, and James presses a hand against Remus' cheek, "stop spiralling. This is not your fault. D'you want to talk as we tidy, or d'you want to wait?"
Remus' chest tightens in anxious anticipation. "Tell me about your day?" he says quietly, and James immediately obliges – of course he does, because this is James Potter, aka the best person he is blessed to know.
(He can't help but feel awful at the fact that James has come from a long day at school, is obviously worn-out from a lack of sleep, and yet is now having to deal with his dysfunctional best friend. But he also knows that James would tackle him to the floor with a hug if he expressed any of that, and refuse to let him up until he relented).
(He knows this from experience).
Whipping a binbag from the cupboard under the sink, James begins to zip around the room, scooping up rubbish, with Remus trailing behind like a useless dead weight. Between the two of them (mostly James), they clear the room of trash, and James moves towards Remus' bedroom to tackle that danger zone. Despite his best efforts, Remus' movements are awkward and slow, because every time he twists, it sends shooting pains through his stiff limbs.
James catches him wincing as he exits the room with a grin, and his smile fades immediately. "Sit down," he says sharply, and within seconds, Remus is cocooned in a blanket on the sofa with a heat pad pressed against his stomach. Winky bounds on to his lap moments later, preventing him from getting up again, and James looks irritatingly smug. Remus tries to protest as James goes back to cleaning, because he is truly Too Good for Remus, and James tells him to fuck off fondly.
When James finally declares his satisfaction, the flat is almost unrecognisable, and not just because the floor is visible. He flops down next to Remus, and tucks himself in to Remus' side. (It's different to how it is when Sirius does it; with Sirius, Remus thinks his heart might implode with bittersweet adoration, with James, it's something equally warm, but without the unrequited romantic feelings).
Right on cue, there's a tapping at the door, and Winky raises her head curiously as James hops up with far too much energy for a man who has just worked a ten-hour day. He returns with two pizza boxes, dropping one to the other side of Remus with an "it's my treat." Remus pops the lid to see a thick layer of cheese bubbling over golden mushrooms and roasted peppers, and his heart threatens to turn to the same consistency as the cheese.
"It's kosher, don't worry," James says, already munching on his first slice.
"It's not – you didn't have to do this, Prongs." His voice has gone embarrassingly croaky, and James fixes him with a stern look, only slightly ruined by the string of cheese dangling from the corner of his mouth.
(Remus swallows, and shoves down the voice that hisses that the last thing he should be eating is more takeout, that he's already done enough damage with his depression binges, and that he doesn't fucking deserve any of this. It's easier to ignore with James pressed against his side than it was when he was alone and empty in his bed).
James keeps up a steady stream of chatter, chuckling at his own jokes as usual, and Remus soaks in his laughter, allowing it to sink in to his bones and gnaw away at his emptiness. Winky burrows further in to his lap, nosing the now-cold heat pad out of the way and replacing it with her own body heat. Her thrumming purrs as she naps go some way in settling his nerves. Eventually, their appetites sated, James turns to Remus with a more serious expression, and Remus' heart sinks, even as his anxiety skyrockets.
"How do you want to do this?" James says gently, and Remus clenches his fists involuntarily. James' eyes track the movement, and he says, "okay, maybe let's start there?"
Remus forces himself to nod minutely, and the action is like a huge fuck you to the voices in his head – he physically feels, rather than hears, their clamouring and abuse falter for a moment, and it's an oddly triumphant surge of satisfaction for such a small motion.
"Can I see your hands?" James says carefully. He waits for Remus' assent, before gently turning Remus' hands palm-upwards. Both of his hands cup one of Remus', and the tenderness with which he's being handled is enough to tug at his heart, because he is not worth such kindness. James' expression remains carefully neutral as he takes in the harsh red marks, though Remus knows him well enough to catch the slight tightening of his mouth. Eventually, he places them back in to Remus' lap, and folds the blanket over them, and says neutrally, "it's been a while since you last did that."
Remus nods, rubbing a hand over his face. "I – I didn't mean to. I didn't even register it until it was too late."
"What made you do it?"
Remus blows out a long breath, and adjusts Winky's position. "I was just – I was just so low and angry at myself. I just – I – I –"
"Breathe, Moony," James says, tapping at Remus' chest, and he nods distractedly.
"- I just wanted to hurt," blurts Remus. "I wanted some kind of proof – that – that all this-" he waves a hand around his head, "was real."
"It is real," James says immediately. "This shit is the realest thing you can feel."
Remus unfurls his fingers, and stares down at the angry red marks. "I – I do – I know that. It just – I haven't felt like this in a while. And it scared me."
James is silent for a moment, and then says, "what else is going on in that brilliant brain of yours?"
"I've not been sleeping well," Remus says finally, not meeting James' unjudgmental gaze, because the compassion there will be too much. "My fibro's been… fucking awful lately. Pain all the fucking time. I can't get out of bed and everything is just so much and I'm gaining weight like crazy and I feel like fucking shit all the fucking time."
"That was a lot of 'fucking's" says James lightly. "Keep going."
Remus takes a shallow breath. "I'm just – unhappy –" he gets out, and even those words leave a bitter taste in his mouth. Because what does he have to be unhappy about, really? He has the best, most supportive friends imaginable, and sure, he's in love with a man who is the actual definition of 'deserves the world,' but at least he gets to spend time with such a kind, funny and brilliant person. He has two jobs that aren't completely awful and bosses who are understanding when he needs time off, and sure, both are dead-end jobs that leach the soul out of him the longer he stays there, but it's an income.
(He knows – he does know this – that this isn't how depression works, that mental illness doesn't just take a holiday when life is treating you well, but it doesn't make it any easier to deal with when it does happen).
"I don't understand why this is happening. Nothing's changed. I'm not doing anything differently. It's not supposed to be – I'm so tired." His voice shakes and then cracks, and he swipes furiously at his eyes because he has no reason to cry about this, he's not even sad, he's just at the end of his fucking tether and he wants out.
James makes a slightly pained noise, and Remus realises with a jolt that his mouth is running a commentary of every self-deprecating and self-loathing thought in his mind. James' arms have tightened around him, and Remus' cheeks are wet, and it's too much, it's all – too much, he can't, he can't he can't hecan't –
The panic attack hits hard and fast – the only warning is the slight prickling in his fingertips, and then it's like someone has sucked the very air from his lungs – he wants it to stop, he wants it all to stop. He's vaguely aware of someone touching his shoulder, calling his name, holding his face, and he screams, wasting the last mouthful of precious air,because why won't it stop. His head spins from the lack of oxygen and he can't breathe, but he welcomes the black dots in his vision, because perhaps that will make everything stop.
(Please G-d, let everything stop).
It takes James a full hour to calm him down, he's told later. As it is, Remus finds himself facing a tense-looking James, whose usually tousled hair is in a state of utter disarray. It's hard to focus on any single detail – it all feels like too much; even the feeling of James' fingers on his bare skin sends prickles of anxiety down his spine, and he shakes the contact off roughly.
James retracts a little further from Remus, too slow to hide the hurt in his eyes, and Remus could not feel guiltier if he tried. "Sorry," he manages, the words are too big and too clumsy but it's all he can cope with right now – even that small effort feels Herculean.
"It's okay," James says immediately, "how are you feeling?"
"Tired," Remus mumbles, his eyes sliding shut.
There's a pause, and then James sighs, and it's an exhausted, sad sound that makes Remus' heart pang, because defeat is not a word in the James Potter handbook, but that noise sounded a hell of a lot like it. "Can I ask some difficult and kind of shitty questions?" James says softly, and even though Remus knows what's coming – despite everything in him shouting the opposite – he nods.
James blows out a long breath. "Okay. Are you depressed?"
It's easier to be honest with his eyes closed, because at least then he doesn't have to meet James' concerned and caring eyes. He shuts off the reminders that he has nothing to be depressed about, and nods again.
"Do you want to hurt yourself?"
Another nod.
Another pause.
"Do you want to die?"
And isn't that the question? Because Remus knows what it's like to actively want to die – to feel ready to make that happen – to make that happen. He also knows what it's like to want to not exist – because the two aren't the same thing at all. There's a difference between the passivity of not caring what happens to you when you step in to the road, and stepping out in to busy traffic deliberately. Using past experiences as a measure of 'wellness' isn't perhaps the best option, given his track record, but he thinks he's more the former of the two. Things aren't all bad all the time; there are pockets of happiness, when he can laugh and smile without feeling like he's just used up all his energy to do so. Messages from his friends still make his heart warm, and spending time with them – provided he's not in the mood where all he does is leech the good from the room – is a sure-fire way to make him feel loved. But at the same time –
He thinks back to the nights where he's been to empty to even cry about how utterly shit he feels. The mornings where he can't get out of bed for wanting to just not exist. The afternoons where he should be cleaning and working and living, but instead is just praying to G-d that He will make it stop. He doesn't pray often, he isn't even sure if he believes in G-d, but he does know that the interludes of contentment are not enough to outweigh the awful sinking feeling in his chest that everything would be better if he were just – dead.
(And doesn't that feel like the most selfish admission in the world?)
As much as James does understand what it's like to be so low that ending everything feels like the only way out, James is the one who came to them, trembling with nerves and wringing his hands. James is the bravest person he knows – often to the point of reckless gallantry, but that means he does not – cannot – understand what it's like to be too afraid to admit what's happening to you.
He's been silent for too long – a mentally well person doesn't have to stop and think about that answer at all, which says everything that he's not able to.
"Can I hug you?" asks James, in a too-fragile, too-sad voice, and Remus aches to not be the one who caused it. Instead, all he can do his nod again, and a pair of arms wrap around him gently, tugging him against a warm, solid chest. James' lips press against his unwashed curls, and Remus feels his chest hitch at the tenderness in the motion. "It's going to be okay," James says just as gently. "You're not doing this alone. I've got you."
Remus remembers saying the same words when their roles were reversed, and a sob rises in his throat at the memories of nights with James curled over a toilet seat and tears dripping in to the bowl, the unexplained absences after mealtimes and the permanent stench of cleaning product that hovered in the bathroom, the stockpiling of Jammy Dodgers that would disappear overnight every couple of weeks. James was never – could never be – a burden to them, but something in him won't let him apply that same logic to himself, because the last thing he ever wants to be to his friends, is a burden.
Just as Remus had let James cry for as long as he had needed all those years ago, so too does James, and it's only when Remus is all-cried-out (tears drying blotchily on his flushed cheeks, snot smeared under his nose and glistening on his arms) that James speaks again, his tone resolute.
"You and I are going to the doctor's tomorrow morning first thing. This can't go on."
Whilst these are the words Remus has half been longing to hear, half been afraid of, he is nothing if not self-sabotaging, which makes him protest: "No – you have work, I have work-"
"This is a thousand times more important than work, Moony. I would choose you over any commitment every fucking time. When are you going to understand that?" He doesn't give Remus time to answer, probably because he knows that Remus will give him some bullshit response about not deserving that kind of friendship, and instead ploughs on, "I can't make you go. I just – I want you to care about yourself as much as you care about everyone else-"
"I'll go, I think – I want to go," Remus says, surprising even himself. James gapes at him for a second, and then swallows down the rest of his arguments.
"I – you – seriously?"
"I don't think I can do this by myself," Remus says, and the honesty hurts like pulling teeth with a string and a door knob, but it's the truth.
"You're not going to be by yourself. I'll be with you the whole way, if you'll let me."
Remus swallows, and blinks back fresh tears, before nodding. James makes a pleased humming sound that Remus feels in James' chest as he pulls him in for another hug. "I'm so, so proud of you, Moonbeam," he whispers seriously.
(There's nothing to be proud of yet, he wants to say. I haven't done the hard part yet, don't be proud of me for finally admitting I need help, again) –
"The hardest part was telling someone," James continues, and Remus almost flinches at how well James knows him. "And you told me. You reached out for help – you would never have done that five years ago, and you know it. Cut yourself some slack, there is no shame in this."
Remus nods – objectively, he knows this, it's something he's told his friends repeatedly after all, but in his current state it's not something he can process. "What now?" he asks instead.
James takes the change of subject in his stride. "I vote that first you shower, because I love you, but you smell, and then we order more food and watch some happy shit until one or both of us falls asleep."
Remus smiles in spite of himself. There are no words strong enough to describe how grateful he is to have a friend like James: unfathomably kind and strong, passionately protective of his loved ones, but also bluntly straightforward.
"Do you want me to invite the others over?" James suggests tentatively, once Remus emerges from the shower, feeling marginally less shit and a whole lot cleaner, and wearing something that isn't pyjamas for the first time in several days.
Remus shrugs, "maybe just Padfoot and Wormtail? If you think they'll want to."
"On it," says James, already tapping out a message to them both. "Don't be stupid, of course they'll want to." Before Remus has time to argue, James grins up at him. "What am I ordering?"
"Oh. I shouldn't," Remus says automatically, shoving a threadbare cushion in front of his stomach, as if he's only just become aware of it.
"Bull. Shit."
"Prongs-"
"Is this your fucking doctor again?"
Remus looks down awkwardly, hating the view that this gives him. "Don't you think it's better to listen to the 'fucking doctor' who actually knows what he's talking about?"
"Not if he's trying to fat-shame you, then no."
"He's not – it's not like that."
James looks both indignant and frustrated, but he lets it go (for now), apparently deciding that he should pick his battles tonight. "Well, I'm ordering Chinese, and there will be enough for four, should you change your mind."
Sirius and Peter arrive together minutes before the food. Peter is gentle as usual, pecking his cheek and folding him in to a warm hug, before pulling back and signing I love you without breaking eye contact. Remus responds in kind, and Peter beams the sunniest of smiles, before stepping aside to allow Sirius entry. Sirius holds his shoulders briefly and scans him in concern – Remus deliberately doesn't curl his hands to hide the mess he's made of his palms, and he sees the moment when Sirius catches it, but Sirius says nothing about it. Instead he hugs him fiercely, and murmurs, "I love you so much, Moony. You're so fucking important to me."
Remus nods, the emotion in his throat too much to use actual words, and allows himself to be pulled in to a cuddle pile on the sofa, tucked in to Sirius' chest, his feet on James' lap, and Peter massaging his aching muscles one at a time. There's a brief but heated discussion about the movie choice, because some movies are frankly, shit, when you're Hard of Hearing, Peter tells them, and James vetoes anything Disney, because he is already inundated with it at school, but eventually they settle on Matilda. They're barely a third of the way through before the day's emotional rollercoaster catches up to Remus, and he feels his eyelids drooping shut. Sirius leans down and whispers, "sleep. We're here, I've got you," and it's like it was the permission he needed.
(He is still depressed, and self-loathing, and passively suicidal. But he has a support system that he could never have dreamed of years ago. He has the best friends in the world, who would bend over backwards to make him smile, he is warm and safe and fed, tomorrow he will start afresh with recovery, and most importantly: he doesn't have to do it alone).
A/N:
- Let's play a game called how many times can I make these chapters end in a cuddle pile, junk food and a movie?
- Let's play a second game called how much can Rachel project her issues on to her fave characters before it becomes a therapy session?
- Sirius isn't really in this one, though I'm not sorry because platonic and supportive friendships are just as important as romantic ones.
- James is in recovery from bulimia, because men suffering from eating disorders doesn't get talked about nearly enough, and for men of colour it's even worse.
If y'all have any questions, or requests or if you just wanna chat, pls hit me up on tumblr (little-old-rachel) or twitter (littleoldrachel) to get in touch!
You are all deserving of love and support, no matter how much worse you think it could be, or how well you think you're coping. You're a fighter, but that doesn't mean you have to do it alone.
Love always & take care xoxo
