A/N: Almost near the end... I'm sorry if these seem a little repetitive. There's only so much I can do with a man slowly going mad in a tiny prison cell for murders he didn't commit while the whole world hates him and his lover loses all faith in him. I mean, come on. That's not interesting at all.
My way of saying SORRY THAT I CAN'T WRITE ANYTHING BUT SIRIUS BEING SAD AND MISSING HIS MOONY, OKAY? SORRY.
(Random sidenote: I totally have the last chapter finished. I think that one's my favourite. I'm such a tease.)
8. bone
Tonight, I begged another stage light
to become that back alley street lamp that we danced beneath
the night your warm mouth fell on my timid cheek
as I sang maybe I need you...
Off key,
but in tune...
He has not seen his own face in so long, and yet he knows that his features have become waxy and sunken. He knows that his skin shines with that sheen of a man long fallen into madness and that his face is sharper and narrower than before.
Sirius knows this because he can now count his ribs, jutting out like broken branches against the taut white expanse of his skin. He can see his own wrists grow thinner, narrower, so frail, and they look as if they would snap at any moment.
And, when he is Padfoot, he knows that he can almost make it, almost, just there, if he pushes.
But it will take a few more weeks before Sirius, Padfoot or no, can force himself through the bars.
He traces the rough iron of the bars lovingly, mockingly, and for the briefest second, he is not in Azkaban.
No.
He is holding his broom, pointed towards the sky, daring his Moony to fly through the clouds.
"Do it, Moony," his voice echoes, and there is Remus, standing straight and proper, his eyes agleam and his hair blowing in the wind. His arms are crossed stubbornly, his mouth in a frown that Sirius knows he doesn't mean.
"Sirius..." he warns, but Sirius is not listening.
He is staring.
He is looking right into Remus' amber eyes - no, no, your eyes are closed - and he is memorising the shine of his iris, the curve of his shoulder, the way his arms grasp each other in the cold. He laughs, goes to throw his broom towards Moony - ow, you berk, he thinks he hears, but he doesn't, not really - but the broom doesn't move, and the rough edges of it scrape his palm.
He opens his eyes.
The iron bars bear down on him, glaring at him, laughing cruelly like twisted metal teeth.
"Moony," he chokes, but he knows Moony is long gone.
Three weeks, he thinks.
Three weeks and fuck these bars.