The nightmares follow him to Paris, and Remus chases them down with Dreamless Sleep.
The city is electric, teeming with life and history and ornate architecture that makes the whole place gleam with a sheen of elegance. The food is wonderful and the desserts divine. Remus visits the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Notre Dame. He explores off the beaten path, poking into antique bookstores and quaint cafes and hidden gardens. Sometimes, it almost feels like he's an entirely different person, inhabiting a body unmarred by his own mistakes.
Sometimes, it almost feels like he can breathe.
But nothing he sees loosens the terrible, aching knot in his chest, the one that tightens like a noose every time he thinks of Sirius. Or James. Or Pete. Or Lily. Or Harry. Or his mother. Or his father. Or himself. This is how it needs to be, he tells himself. I need to remember. It needs to hurt. If I don't remember, who will?
He's not so arrogant as to think he's the only person grieving his friends, but he knows without question that he carries a living record of memories only he was there to experience.
Nobody knows about the way James would talk in his sleep, mumbling nonsensical ramblings and the occasional knock-knock joke. Nobody knows about how Lily could tap dance, but would only show off her skills when tipsy, or the fact that she was the only recorded Hogwarts student who managed to high-five the Giant Squid. Nobody knows that Peter could do flawless impressions of any celebrity or Hogwarts staff member. Nobody knows Sirius, either.
Everyone will remember James and Lily and Pete, the fallen heroes, and Sirius the turncoat villain. Nobody will remember the humans.
After his visit with Mary, Remus understands why he didn't kill himself in the immediate aftermath of the war. He must have known, somewhere in his shell-shocked mind, that he'd be sentencing them all to a second, final death. He must have understood his new mission, the burden he inherited in their collective wills: Live.
Live, and we won't be fully gone.
Live, and make us your ghosts.
Sirius's pocket watch ended up being some sort of rare model, so Remus is able to afford a room at a decent hotel while he looks for work. He sticks to the Muggle side of the city, skittish of encountering reminders of the place he's just left. Plus, if his experience in the UK is anything to go by, he'd be hard-pressed to find gainful employment in Wizarding France.
Remus spends a few days milling through the streets, wandering through shops and restaurants and chatting with the managers to ask if they're hiring. He ends up with a gig as a sous chef at a small, touristy joint overlooking the Seine. He's not exactly qualified, but he's spent enough time cooking with his mother to understand the general ins and outs of food preparation. He's a fast learner, and he needs a job with enough flexibility that his full moon absences won't be a problem.
It's nice to finally test out his French skills. Like many sickly, solitary children, Remus grew up buried in books, and at some point, he developed a particular interest in world languages. He dreamed insatiably about wriggling out from his mother's overly protective grasp and embarking on a whirlwind of globetrotting adventures, like the characters in all his favorite stories.
So, within the pale blue walls of his childhood bedroom, Remus taught himself German, Italian, Spanish, and French. He'd studied Russian, too, though he had never quite gotten the hang of that one. Perhaps it was one of those languages he'd just have to learn through immersion.
On one of his first nights in Paris, Remus meets a sophisticated older man at a gay bar who introduces himself as Henri. He buys Remus a drink and starts chatting; his manner is friendly, but not overly so, and Remus finds himself leaning in closer and closer to catch his words more easily.
"Your accent is interesting," Henri says after a few minutes. "Is French not your native tongue?"
"I'm from Wales."
"Hm." Henri takes a sip from his cocktail, slipping Remus a wink over the rim of the glass. "Are all Wales boys as pretty as you?"
Remus laughs. "No," he says, feeling brazen. "Just me."
They end up in Remus's hotel room, all tangled limbs and breathless, open-mouthed kisses. Henri takes Remus in his mouth while pinning his hips down against the mattress. Unwilling to risk a repeat of Caleb's awkward, tender concern, Remus took the liberty of casting concealment charms over his scars, masking them under a clean, blank canvas of skin.
"Ride me?" Henri asks when he surfaces for air.
Remus hurries to straddle him. They find a good rhythm, pushing and rocking and continuing to kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Henri cups his hand around the back of Remus's neck to pull him closer, and Remus moans wantonly into his mouth. Encouraged, Henri tightens his grip.
"Oh, God," whispers Remus. "Fuck."
Henri sucks on Remus's bottom lip. A slick hand closes around his cock, tugging him towards the precipice.
"Don't come until I tell you to," says Henri.
Remus nods frantically. He won't come. He won't come until he's allowed.
Henri changes the pace, drilling into Remus from below with intensified vigor. It's so good, but it's so much, and Remus squirms, trying to regain control over the rhythm. In response, Henri lets go of his cock. Remus whines, a high, embarrassing sound that makes him feel absolutely debauched.
"You're not in charge, darling," says Henri. His pupils are wide and hungry. "Are you?"
Remus shakes his head, reeling.
"That's what I thought."
The hand returns to Remus's cock, and he feels like he could sob with relief.
"That's right," Henri murmurs. "That's it. Just take it, darling. Follow my lead."
When he finally tells Remus to come, he obeys instantly, the pressure in his core releasing with dizzying force.
"Who knew you were such a little sub?" smirks Henri after they clean off.
"A what?"
A little grin slides across Henri's face. "A sub. Submissive. You like your partners to dominate you, no?"
Remus feels himself flush. When it's stated so plainly, it feels…pitiful. Another thing for Remus to be ashamed of.
"I guess," he mumbles. He draws his knees up to his chin and glances pointedly at the clock on his bedside table. "It's getting late. I have work in the morning."
Henri backtracks. "I mean no offense. I didn't intend to make you think it was negative—quite the opposite."
Remus blinks. "Oh. Alright."
Henri slides a little closer, lowering his head to meet Remus's eyes. "I'm guessing you haven't had much experience, then?"
Remus frowns. "I've had plenty of experience bottoming."
Henri shakes his head thoughtfully. "Being a sub isn't synonymous with being a bottom, though that seems to be your preference. I've been with a fair number of men who enjoy…subbing from the top, if you will."
"Oh. Well, I just didn't know there was a word for it, is all. For someone who likes—what I like."
Henri laughs. "There's a word for everything, darling. If you let me teach you, I'll introduce you to all sorts of words."
It's a strange thing to think about. What Sirius and Remus had done together always felt so organic, so personal, so deeply intimate that Remus had never really considered the notion that other people might share similar appetites. Of course, now it seems obvious.
"Okay," he says. "Show me more."
It occurs to Remus, after about a week, that he left his medication back at the flat.
He hasn't felt much of a difference, probably because he's finally been able to acquire Liquid Lightning—or, as they call it here, Drogue de la Tempête. When the grief compounds with the regular bad stuff—what his old psychiatrist referred to as "acute depressive symptoms"—and he can barely move with the weight of it, the Liquid Lightning snaps him into a focused clarity and fills him with so much energy that his bones feel like they're vibrating.
When he takes it at work, he dices vegetables with the speed and precision of a supercharged machine. When he takes it before seeing Henri, that sweet, thrilling high—subspace, Henri calls it—is intensified by a thousand. When he takes it alongside the semi-legal Dreamless Sleep, his nightmares are replaced by bright memories of his friends, so vivid and real that he can hardly tell the difference between sleeping and waking.
If only he could feel like this sober, he thinks.
The Helios Oil has been harder to come by, but he finally manages to secure some one evening after work, when the Wizarding dealer he usually goes to tells him he has a new supplier.
Remus takes it in the bathroom of his newly rented flat—a one-bedroom on the second floor of a laundromat—and watches his eyes brighten with that golden haze. Before it fully kicks in, he injects a dose of Liquid Lightning into his arm for good measure. The effect is glorious. Sirius materializes behind him in the bathroom mirror reflection, far less blurry around the edges than he was last time, and when he reaches out to touch Remus, his hand is solid.
Remus gasps. Sirius chuckles.
What? You scared, Moony?
Remus shakes his head. "No. Not of you. Not ever."
Sirius wraps both arms around Remus's torso and rests his head on Remus's shoulder. His nose rubs against the nape of his neck.
You have no idea what you're doing, do you?
"No," whispers Remus.
You hightail it out of the country and you don't even know what it is you're running from.
Remus releases a strangled breath. "I'm running from—from what happened. I'm running from you."
Sirius presses a cold kiss to the back of Remus's neck. Is that so?
He nods shakily.
Hm. You know that I think?
"What?"
Sirius cups a hand around Remus's ear and whispers into it. I think you're a liar.
Remus stumbles backwards, but Sirius holds him steady.
"What am I lying about?"
Sirius laughs. The sound reverberates wildly off the walls and floor and ceiling. For a moment, Remus wonders if there's an earthquake.
If you're running from me, then why are you chasing me?
When the drugs wear off, Remus is catatonic for hours. He's familiar with the emptiness of the comedown, but this time, he feels completely hollow. Like a metal shell. Like a human-shaped trapdoor.
When Henri calls, Remus lets the phone ring.
He runs into Snape after about two months. The Helios Oil is part of his daily routine now, though he's more careful with the Liquid Lightning—he wants to keep his job, and he's found that he can't work as efficiently if he's running on a combined dose. He's walking home from the restaurant one evening, admiring the Seine in the pinkish sunset and sharing a cigarette with Drug-Sirius. It's mid-January, and Remus is shivering beneath his threadbare coat.
He and Severus stroll past each other without processing it, and then they both do a double-take.
"Lupin?"
"Snape."
Snivellus, says Sirius, Long time, no see.
Luckily, Snape doesn't seem to hear. He's dressed all in black, of course, and he fixes Remus with a suspicious glare.
"What brings you to Paris?" asks Remus.
Snape bristles. "I am attending a conference of global Potions Masters to present research on an enhanced version of the Blood Replenishing Potion."
Sirius snickers. What a tosser.
Remus takes a long drag from his cigarette and passes it to Sirius, who declines.
"Very impressive," he says. "Congratulations—that's quite the achievement."
Snape's haughty glare becomes more pronounced. "I hardly need the approval of a vagrant junkie."
Remus is mildly offended.
"I've got a flat," he says. "And a job."
Snape scoffs. "As what? A male prostitute?"
Sirius unleashes a hailstorm of profanity. Remus ignores him.
"A chef, actually, but I appreciate your faith in my abilities."
Snape looks away, scowling, and Remus is gratified to see that his cheeks are flushed.
"Would you like to see my new place?" he asks. "It's no Versailles, but I've got a telly with all the good channels."
Snape turns back to him, studying his face closely. What he sees makes his eyebrows draw together sharply.
"You're high," he spits, and turns on his heel. Remus snags him by the arm.
"I'm really not," he insists, while Sirius snickers (Is that so, Moony?). "It wore off hours ago—my eyes just stay like that for a while after."
Snape folds his arms over his chest. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and Remus knows he has him.
You're off your rocker, murmurs Sirius.
"I know."