6. "Get Out."

He could no longer see clearly, the room disappearing into blocks and swatches of swirling colour before his eyes, but he knew Sirius stood at the foot of his bed, the fiercest source of light in his world even now, his audacious brilliance burning tears into Remus' eyes – tears that would not fall, the laws of gravity that would have no sway in the face of his consuming rage.

"Get out," he repeated, his words now beginning to slur, whirlpooling the solemn sterility of the hospital ward into them, whirlpooling their last five years into them, hulls of trust splintered into nothingness in the insanity of this blood moon night.

"Moony –" Of course Sirius was stubborn and unheeding, as he had always been. Teeth biting down on lips so hard they drew blood, not the first on his tongue tonight, but comforting now in their angry heaviness, the tear of flesh distracting him from the pain at hand. He knew Sirius was speaking, but everything was a dull roar now, just as the world was a riot of mad colours, unreasonable hues blending into each other, until Sirius glowed in an impossible halo of crimson and silvers, ephemeral in his beauty. He said the words then, to this beautiful man who made him hurt and made him want to hurt. He chewed the words off with a feral energy that reverberated through the hospital ward, leaving in its wake a pocket of quiet so complete he could hear the sound of Sirius' words die away, the whisper of his eyelashes as they widened, inky petals to bruised irises that bloomed to the moonlight and to unkind words, only to quickly wither as sudden tears forced Sirius to close them. He watched as Sirius turned to leave, and it was only as the door swung lazily shut that he allowed his head to fall back onto the pillows, surrendering to the darkness that took him immediately, his words muted murmurs that continued to echo in the memory of the room, suspended in empty space and unpassing time.

I never want to see you again. I would never love you again.

Within a week, The Prank, as a desperately lost Peter took to calling it, was resolved. Remus recovered from his physical injuries sustained that night, and beyond looks of deepest loathing, heard nothing from Snape of the secret of his lycanthropy. Sirius received half a year worth of detentions after hours in Dumbledore's office, but Dumbledore, in his own punishing kindness, did not inform the Blacks of the incident. Instead, James' parents came into school, and much was said between the Potters and this son they already considered their own, that James returned to the Gryffindor tower that night subdued and solemn, leaning instinctively into his adopted brother, his body a protective bracket between Sirius and the world. Remus did not see any of this, but rather, he heard half of it from a stammering Peter, who took the werewolf's silence as an invitation to speak of his ex-lover, and the other half from James, who looked him squarely in the eye but made no excuses for Sirius.

In that first week, he saw nothing of Sirius.

I never want to see you again.

One week passed into two months, and autumn's threat of death and endings materialized when winter swept in, icy fingers and life-stealing breaths. The Christmas break then loomed near, marking the first half of a fifth year spent in silence, the successful animagi transformations gone to waste as Padfoot stayed away on subsequent full moon nights, leaving only Prongs and Wormtail to fulfill a promise they have been waiting five years for. On those nights, the wolf reacted angrily to Padfoot's absence, acting on Remus' refusal, and failure, in missing Sirius, and it was all Prongs could do to hold Moony down, as the grey wolf snarled for the feel of the familiar black coat, furious with the human who is keeping the canine away.

Every morning after those full moon nights, Remus woke up alone in the hospital ward, staring out the window at clouds that would immediately take fragmented forms of the one he could hardly bear to think about – clouds that rolled like tumbleweeds, like wheels to the bike Sirius had long coveted; vapor shaped like silken dog ears raised in curiosity; aimless wisps that twisted like Sirius' blindingly scarlet and gold scarf, that which he had defiantly hand-knitted over a holiday back at Grimmauld Place, and have never been separated from since, and that which Remus loved – clumsy stitches, loose ends, and frayed patches included.

I would never love you again.

It was this scarf that occupied most of Remus' waking thoughts, blood-stained gold that remained sharp even in his frequent painkiller induced hazes, the memory of shared warmth and of breaths rising like fog and mist luminous even in the darkness behind his shut eyes. The scarf was the only thing he had seen of Sirius in the last two months, as his angry words became reality, as Sirius read the truth to his silences and left him to his right to be cruel, taking it upon himself to avoid Remus as he knew the werewolf wanted. Their shared dormitory immediately became home only to three boys, as Sirius returned to his bed only in the deep of night and left before morning could break, like a lover who took his fleeting pleasures and gave nothing back. Sirius' unmade bed, his sheets that Remus imagined still bore his ghostly imprints – an arm thrown out to block the white starlight, the curve of a neck as it pressed deeper into the pillow – were the only evidence that he had even come back to the room the night before. During lessons in increasingly dark rooms as storms rumbled and lurked overhead, Remus watched, out of the corner of his eye, as the red and gold scarf caught the thin light, its ends lifting in the winter gale, weighed down only by curling strands of dark hair. Sirius was quiet during lessons, and the class, as though reacting to this unnatural and uncomfortable peace, was equally muted, listening instead to the shrill cries of the wind as it whistled through the room. As soon as the bells went, Sirius vanished, so much so that no matter how quickly Remus turned to look, in those later days, all he could see was the tail of the scarlet gold scarf as it disappeared out the door, carried by the wind and by hurting love.

I never want to see you again.

Soon, Remus began to learn to see Sirius, to see the ghost of him, in the moments that they eluded each other – a recently vacated seat at the breakfast table, treacle tart unfinished, a perfect half circle in its heart, glistening where Sirius had bit in; the bathroom tiles newly wet, the scent of mint and dog fur thick in the air, smudges on the mirror where impatient fingers have left their mark. In those moments, during which he always felt he could reach out and touch Sirius, return Sirius to his here and now if only he could just step back in time, Remus comprehended what he stood to lose - what he was already losing as Sirius slowly disappeared from view right before his eyes. In those moments of staring blindly before him, at places where he imagined Sirius' fingers to have rested minutes before, Remus stopped being angry.

And it was not long before he stopped knowing how to feel altogether, as he fought desperately to replace the comfortable anger with another emotion, and against logic, he wished at times to return to that state of unthinking fury, of missing Sirius even as they sat in the same classroom, unspeaking and unsmiling. This unreasonable desire to run confused Remus, and it was possibly the reason why he did not resist when trouble came looking once again, trouble in the form of another raging Marauder.

"How long is this going to go on?"

A loud thud as James threw his broom on the floor, crossing his arms as he glowered at Remus, his hair messy from his Quidditch practice and his jaw tight with frustration. All around them, Gryffindors paused in their work and play and turned to gawk, the rift between the marauders an unmistakable source of interested gossip within the school. Remus closed his Ancient Runes book slowly, looking up into James' upset face as he struggled to figure out how to react in that moment. He knew this confrontation was long coming – James was dependable that way – for he overheard the Potter arguing with Sirius two nights ago, angry words that were more helpless and pleading than they were livid. Remus knew he should have told James he was no longer angry, but he could not bring himself to the act, because saying the words would make them true, and then he would have to act, when a quiet part of him feared that Sirius was lost to him forever, that he could no longer undo those careless promises he made that night. Now he swallowed, and confessed, each word as true as they were confusing.

"I don't know. I don't know. The only thing I know now is what I want."

James held his mulish glare only a second longer, before he sighed and dropped into the chair next to Remus, allowing his head to find the table with a painful thwack as he murmured, "And what do you want, Moony?"

I would never love you again.

Four hours later, Remus laid awake in his bed, keenly aware of the quiet wakefulness in the room, in James' even breathing as they both contemplated Sirius' empty bed. Outside, snow was beginning to fall, the first snow of winter, whiter than they would be for the rest of the season, except on the last day, on which it always fell thick and fast, regretful goodbyes as spring beckoned towards the waiting earth. But Remus was not thinking of whiteness this night – he was thinking of scarlet like blood, gold like scattered stardust, lonely blackness held up by that scarf, face upturned to the skies as snowflakes caught in careless dark hair and wet lashes, melting into pools behind grey eyes. And then, as though he had meant to do this all along, Remus jumped out of bed, and reached for James' glittering cloak, whispering, "I am borrowing this, Prongs." He was already halfway out the door when he heard James reply, a lone blessing on this dark night.

"Go find what you want, Moony."

He was out of bed at two in the morning, on a night so cold it would deter any wanderers but the unwavering Filch, whom he ended up having to outrun towards the roof, where the Marauders' Map promised he would find Sirius. It was a night too overcast for stars, a night perfect for the disappearing Black, a night that clearly knew only magic and not reason. He burst onto the roof only minutes before the surprisingly astute Filch, and as he knelt over to catch his own gasping breaths under the cloak, Remus heard the first of echoing footsteps as Filch ascended the stairs. Sirius turned towards the sound almost as soon as the first footfall echoed on the creaky step, and then he laughed, wry but truly amused, entertained by the prospect of oncoming trouble in the careless manner that only he could. Against his will, Remus smiled, reassured by the familiar rightness of the moment – the rightness of the exasperation and fondness that Sirius inspired in him, the rightness of his pulse quickening as Sirius turned, unknowingly, towards him, his dark hair dusted powdery white by the snow, the ridge of his nose pink with cold.

As Filch's footsteps pounded yet nearer to the landing, Remus reached out and pulled Sirius under the cloak with him, his throat tightening as he came face to face with his lover for the first time in two months, Sirius' hand heavy in his own as they both disappeared from the world. And then Filch was on the roof with them, muttering under his breath as he searched hopelessly for what he could not see, and the two marauders were saved from speaking, staring desperately at each other instead, making up for all this time lost. Sirius looked away first, and sagged against Remus, his breaths warm on the werewolf's neck, and speechlessly, Remus reached around him, arms locking around Sirius' waist. He felt a quiet dampness against his cheek, and he knew Sirius was crying, and all he could do was whisper the words he had long known were true, before his own voice failed him.

"I lied. I lied. I could never not love you."

Filch would always remember that night as the night he very nearly caught that no-good Black, who he suspected had been breaking curfew for at least a month. He would always recall that night with vague bitterness, blaming those first snows of winter for his failure – blinding white snow that fell from the heavens and hid ghosts from view, that kept their whispered secrets, that protected the two lovers as their eyes readjusted to the reflected light, as they learnt to see again.