Before he leaves, Severus gives Remus a balm for the angry welts on his legs and arse.
Remus puts it on the bedside table, unused, and tries to fall asleep; they rented the room for the whole night, and Remus is in no hurry to return to his flat. He feels exposed and cold and sensitive, shaky and rattled as he comes down from the rush. Sirius always knew how to handle it. Usually, he'd run a bath and lay Remus flush against his chest in the tub, rubbing patterns onto his back with a soapy washcloth.
"You're okay, Moons," he'd murmur. "I've got you."
When the water got cold, he'd wrap Remus in a towel and help him into his pajamas. They'd order takeaway or put on the telly or just lay in bed and talk. Sometimes, another round would follow, one that was gentler and slower and equally dirty. With Sirius, it was always good.
Guiltily, Remus conjures an imaginary Sirius beside him. He presses his weight onto Remus's stomach, working a hand down his body as he pours a litany of filth into Remus's ear.
You just laid there and took it. He traces the tip of his tongue over Remus's collarbone. Every single hit. You let him put you right in your place. But it's never enough for you, is it? My Moony always wants more.
Remus wakes up screaming.
He hadn't witnessed Peter get blown up, but the knowledge of what Sirius did to him wormed itself deep into Remus's mind and wreaked havoc on his subconscious—in his dream, the explosion had replayed over and over, and Remus was always too late to stop it. Fleshy debris littered the street; the blood of twelve bystanders ran thick into the sewers. One of Peter's eyes rolled over to where Remus stood and blinked slowly up at him.
You're my friend, aren't you, Remus?
He retches into the toilet for twenty minutes and has three panic attacks before it's even noon. On the walk back to the flat, he contemplates jumping in front of a speeding bus. He also considers Snape's idea of diving off London Bridge. Thinking about it later, Remus can't figure out why he didn't go through with it.
What are you waiting for?
Lyall comes to see him that evening. He walks in on Remus lying in fetal position on the kitchen floor, left arm bleeding from a fresh cut. The wound is shallow and easily healed, but Lyall is beside himself.
"I don't understand why you do this," he says angrily. "I don't understand you."
"Sorry, Dad." Remus's voice is dull and vacant, even to his own ears. He doesn't really remember cutting himself. All he knows is that the pain in his backside had dulled enough that it no longer distracted him from the numbness freezing in his chest, and that it probably wasn't even a conscious decision to reach for the knife.
"You need to be supervised," says Lyall. "You're clearly a danger to yourself."
Remus shakes his head weakly. "Please, Dad—I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
Lyall sits Remus down at the table and pours them both a glass of whiskey. He seems to consider his next words carefully, but Remus isn't optimistic—comfort had always been his mother's territory. Even on her deathbed, barely coherent from the aggressive cancer drugs, Hope had tried to console sixteen-year-old Remus about her own impending passing.
My brave, brave boy. You don't need me here, my angel—you're strong enough to make it alone. You don't need anyone else.
"You've been through a terrible ordeal, son," says Lyall. "Good people always get lost in wars. But that doesn't make it any easier when it happens to people you care about."
Remus has not cried in front of his father since the night he was bitten. He will not break his streak now. He takes a long sip of whiskey and wills his eyes to stay dry.
"It was Sirius, Dad."
"I heard."
"Guess you were right, then."
Lyall blinks. "About what?"
"Sirius. You always hated him."
"I didn't hate him. You know that I don't understand…all this. Your lifestyle. It was never about Sirius."
Remus's bones ache with fatigue. He can't have this conversation again. "Okay, Dad. I'm going to bed."
Lyall shakes his head. "I'm taking you to the hospital. They'll give you something to settle you down, and then you'll come home with me where I can look after you."
Remus startles in his chair, and the sudden movement sends his glass toppling over. "I am settled! And I already took my meds today—there's nothing else they can do for me."
"What's the plan then, Remus?" snaps Lyall. "Because I'm not leaving you here to slice yourself up until you hit an artery and bleed to death like an idiot."
Remus buries his head in his hands. He is not going to cry in front of his father. He is not going to cry in front of his father.
"It's my fault, Dad," he whispers. "I can't live with it."
Lyall is silent for a full minute before he quietly says, "You need to forgive yourself, son."
Against his better judgment, Remus laughs. "What, like you did?"
His father's face darkens. "What I did to you was—"
"A mistake! You didn't know Greyback would go after me when you insulted him."
"I knew what he was capable of," says Lyall gravely. "I knew he wasn't above targeting children. But I lost my temper, and you paid the price. I made you into a monster."
Remus holds in a wince. "Well, do you think it's made my life better, the fact that you've wallowed in guilt ever since? Working nonstop so you'd never have to be home with me? Getting piss drunk every full moon? Screaming at me when all the fake cures you bought didn't work?"
Lyall says nothing.
"I needed you, Dad," whispers Remus. "I needed you, and I forgave you before I even knew what you'd done. But every time you look at me, even now, all you see is—is something you regret."
His father leans forward and grips Remus's forearms tightly.
"I never regretted having you for a son," he says fiercely. "Not for a moment. All I regret is what I did to you."
Remus wrenches himself free. "What's the difference?"
Lyall has no answer. Neither does he.
"If you're so adamant that I forgive myself," says Lyall after a long pause, "why can't you do the same?"
Remus closes his eyes and swallows hard. "Twelve Muggles were killed. My friends are dead. A baby is orphaned. I was in love with the man who did it. I really don't think you can compare our situations. Do you?"
His father sighs.
"Just come with me to the hospital, son," he says softly. "We'll get you some help."
Remus makes a plan.
"Alright, Dad," he says, feigning resignation. "I'll go. Can I just phone my boss and tell him I can't make my shift tonight?"
Lyall nods, visibly relieved. "Go ahead."
He looks surprised to hear that Remus has a job. It's not quite a lie—Remus bartends and serves at about five different Muggle joints, but he hasn't been on the schedule for weeks.
Remus strides into the living room where they keep the landline and promptly Disapparates, leaving Lyall, who's none the wiser, to finish off his whiskey alone.
When it came to recreational drugs, Helios Oil and Liquid Lightning had been Sirius's tried-and-true favorites. They were both Wizarding drugs—the former was a tube of gold solution that one squeezed into their eyes for a few hours of cheerful hallucinations, and the latter was a silvery substance that was injected into the veins of one's wrist, producing a powerful rush of adrenaline that made the user think about ten times faster than they could move.
Remus usually sticks to alcohol and cigarettes, but tonight, he shoves the last of his cash at a dealer by the pier and gets loaded on a bench in the park. It's well after sunset, and the place is deserted, but just to be safe, he casts a quick Notice-Me-Not charm.
The Helios Oil doesn't sting Remus's eyes, but it warms them slightly, the sensation slippery and odd. He didn't have enough money for the Liquid Lightning, but he'll take what he can get.
You just want to see me again. Sirius's voice is smooth and deep, lilted in that posh accent he's been trying to shake for years. Even if I'm not real.
"Is that so bad?"
No worse than the fact that you still love me. Even though you know what I am.
Remus struggles to keep his breathing even. "I hate you."
Is that so?
Remus looks up. Sirius is standing above him, the dark curtain of his hair casting a shadow across his angular face.
"I—I don't—" Remus inhales sharply. "I can't—how could you do that? To Lily and Jamie and—and Pete? They would have died for you, Sirius, every single one of them! They were our family! We were all we had!"
Sirius frowns, as if confused. His amber eyes gleam through the darkness, steady and calculating.
Remus's head feels strange and woozy. A dull ache throbs at his temple. Sirius is the only thing in his line of sight that's clear—the background is blurry, as if someone's hand has smeared across a palette of wet paint.
"Are you cold?" asks Remus. "You're not wearing a jacket."
He shrugs off his sweater and hands it to Sirius, who laughs. It's not quite right, the sound of it—three degrees skewed of what his laugh would normally sound like. Such a gentleman, Moony. Giving me your sweater, even though you hate me.
"Hate you? No, I—I love you. Always."
Remus stares at him, soaking in every beautiful detail. His body is outlined in a glowing white halo—an angel, Remus thinks, or a beacon. His hands start to shake. The hazy warmth that filled him is rapidly being replaced by a biting cold.
"S-Sirius," whispers Remus. His teeth are chattering. "Can't you come closer?"
He flashes his crooked smile and shakes his head. You belong on your own, Moony. You're strong enough, aren't you?
Remus crashes down from the high in the bathroom of a pub.
He's perched on the bathroom sink countertop, his legs wrapped around the torso of a husky stranger. The man has his tongue down Remus's throat, and his calloused hands rove up and down Remus's back, under his shirt.
Remus makes a muffled noise into the man's mouth and pulls away. "Sorry," he pants. "I—who are you?"
The man frowns and steps back. "Caleb. You've been calling me 'Padfoot' all night, though, even though I told you I'm not interested in foot stuff."
Gratingly loud music blares on the other side of the bathroom door, and the noise of the bar patrons drowns out Remus's disjointed thoughts. He figures that's probably for the best.
"Take me home?" he asks the man—Caleb, he reminds himself.
Caleb gives Remus a shy smile. "Your place or mine?"
"Yours," says Remus, a bit too quickly. "Yours, please. I don't really—I'm sort of between places right now."