"I haven't seen any news about werewolves terrorizing the streets of Paris," drawls Snape as they climb the stairs to Remus's flat.
He ignores the bait. "I go to a shelter outside the city."
Refuge Pour Loups is a grim and unpleasant place; each werewolf is treated to a strip search before being locked overnight in a cinderblock room roughly the size of a bathroom stall. The past two full moons have been horrendous, but it's helped Remus discover another use for Liquid Lightning—if he shoots up an hour before moonrise, the initial transformation takes about half the time it normally does, though it's still equally painful.
"Here we are." Remus fiddles with his key and swings open the door.
Snape peers inside and scowls. "Have you neglected to purchase furniture?"
"I'm a minimalist."
That, and he's been prioritizing how he uses his disposable income.
"It's practically empty," says Snape.
"I have all the essentials, don't I?"
"A generous assessment."
Remus owns a bed, a telly, a table and chair, and a microwave. His clothes are folded in neat piles in a drawer under the sink.
Sirius steps over the threshold and grimaces. He's got a point, Moony. This is just…sad.
"You wouldn't be on such a high horse if I went over to your place and started critiquing your décor," says Remus, ignoring Sirius.
Snape's face remains impassive. "The day you darken my doorstep will be a cold day in hell."
Likewise, you berk. Sirius is turning transparent, the way he always does when the Helios Oil begins to wear off. He leans against the wall with his arms crossed and raises an eyebrow. Well?
Remus isn't sure which one of them moves first.
Snape's hands are in his hair and on his waist, and his mouth is on his neck, tongue scraping a searing trail from his Adam's apple to his chin. Remus throws his head back to allow the other man complete access. He shudders in Snape's grip, gasping and writhing like a fish thrown back into the water after nearly suffocating on land. How is he getting hard already?
Because you're insatiable, says Sirius. And needy. And desperate. And so, so eager to please.
Snape's hands are on Remus's shoulders, pushing him down until he thuds to his knees.
"Look at me," he says.
Remus looks. Snape towers over him, all dark eyes and limber, corded body.
"Why do you want this?" he asks.
Remus holds his gaze steadily.
"Because you hate me enough to hurt me the way I deserve to be hurt," he says simply. "You'll hurt me like you mean it. Because you do mean it."
Apparently, that was the right answer.
In seconds, Snape's heavy cock is down his throat, and his hand is yanking at Remus's hair, guiding him up and down. He's a little longer than Sirius, but not as wide. A garbled choking sound escapes him, and Snape smirks. He shoves his leg forward between Remus's thighs, and Remus's face is absolutely aflame at the implication. Hesitantly, he mounts the other man's leg. The friction is heavenly. He looks Snape directly in the eyes as he grinds against his leg, faster and faster, with the man's cock still shoved down his throat. The shame will hit him later, he's sure, but right now, in this gleaming bliss, he's performing like his life depends on it, and he'll show Snape just how much he needs this.
Sirius hovers over Snape's shoulder, looking gobsmacked.
Jesus Christ, he murmurs. You're actually mental.
"Enjoying yourself, wolf?" asks Snape.
Remus moans in assent.
"Pity."
He pulls out and jerks his leg back, and Remus gasps wildly for air. "Please," he says, not even knowing what he's asking for. "Please."
Snape watches him with something like dark amusement. "Please, what?"
"Please, please, sir, wanna make you feel good."
The honorific slips out without a thought, and Remus flushes when he realizes what he said. Snape's lip twitches, but he gives no other indication that he heard. "You will."
Sirius wolf-whistles as Snape spells off Remus's clothes, shoves him face-down on the bed, and climbs on top of him like a predator, moving with a slow, burning intensity that makes Remus feel like he's about to be devoured.
"Look at you," he sneers. "What would your little friends say if they could see you like this? They'd never believe their esteemed teacher's pet was spread out and desperate to be fucked by their favorite victim. Not so clever now, are you? Not so big and powerful?"
Remus gets a few slaps on each arse check, and then he's getting hided by the belt again, each strike slashing through the air like a precisely-placed curse. Snape is making him count them out loud this time, and Remus fights desperately to keep his voice even.
"Ten," he pants. "Eleven—ah—twelve."
He makes it to fourteen before the tears start. He's not sure why he's crying during the spanking this time when he was perfectly quiet last time. Maybe it has something to do with the Helios Oil, whose strength has ebbed to the point that Sirius is completely invisible again. All that's left is his voice, whispering dirty nothings into Remus's ear.
You filthy little masochist, he says. Snape should've made you really beg for it. That's what I'd have done. Would've made you crawl on all fours and carry the belt to me in your mouth, give me little puppy dog eyes until I finally told you to bend over for me.
Snape throws the belt aside when he reaches twenty, and it clatters against the floor. Remus groans when Snape's lubed fingers brush against his hole, stretching and probing. He didn't bother to do it manually like this last time, and the intimacy of it makes Remus squirm. Snape is breathing hard, and Remus feels the firm press of his cock against his lower back, big and aching.
"Do you want me inside you?" he asks.
Remus nods so forcefully that he feels like his head will bobble off. "Please. Need it. Need you."
Another smack of a palm on his arse. "Please, what?"
Remus is confused for a moment, and then remembers what he's waiting for.
"Please…sir," he whispers.
Snape doesn't waste any more time. He takes Remus on his hands and knees, pulling out just in time to come over the fresh display of welts on his backside. It only takes a few tugs before Remus is toppling after him.
Good boy, Moony, says Sirius. My good boy.
Afterward, Remus offers Snape a cup of tea, and he doesn't outright refuse, so he makes a quick pot of chamomile and pours them both a mug. Remus feels calmer than he did after their last coupling—something about the man's presence beside him, silent and stoic, helps to settle his wildly oscillating endorphins. His arse burns like hell in the best way. They sit on the edge of the bed together, facing the window. It's snowing out.
"I'm sorry," whispers Remus. "About what we—James and Sirius and Pete and I—did to you. The pranks, the teasing. It wasn't a rivalry. It was four against one. We were bullies, plain and simple."
"You were despicable." Snape is looking straight ahead, studying a water-stained patch on the wallpaper.
"We were. And I'm sorry. You don't have to—please don't feel like you have to forgive me."
"I won't," he says plainly. "I don't forgive anyone."
With his free hand, he touches the old scars on the inside of Remus's wrists. "The rumors were true. You did try to off yourself in fifth year."
Remus tugs down his sleeves. "You sure know how to make a guy feel sexy."
Snape watches him with an infuriatingly blank expression. "I was surprised to see you alive today. I was certain you weren't long for this world."
Remus averts his gaze and shrugs. "Changed my mind, I guess. I realized that as long as I'm alive, a part of them will be, too."
Snape is unimpressed.
"That's not enough," he says bluntly. "It's not enough to have a reason not to die. You need a reason to live."
"Well, I'm open to suggestions," says Remus, feeling stung. "Why are you still alive?"
Snape stays quiet for so long that Remus is sure he won't answer at all.
"You're a fool," he says eventually, "if you think the Dark Lord is not going to return."
Hearing Voldemort mentioned startles Remus like a shock of cold water. Amidst everything else on his mind these past few months, he hardly spared the man behind it all a second thought.
"You really think he will?" asks Remus quietly. "Have you—heard things? Are the Death Eaters planning something?"
Snape shakes his head.
"At this point, the ones who managed to evade capture are being too closely scrutinized to rally together. I only know what Dumbledore knows, which is that the Dark Lord is not truly dead." He glances at Remus sidelong. "Perhaps you would also be privy to Dumbledore's speculations if you quit your self-pity campaign and made yourself useful."
Remus knows he should be angered by Snape's words, but he doesn't feel anything at all.
"I'm useless," he says. "I don't have anything to offer."
"I'd be inclined to agree," says Snape, "but if you hadn't noticed, the Order is rather short-staffed at the moment. Dumbledore needs anyone who's willing to help him. Even those of…lesser talent."
"So why hasn't he asked me to do anything?"
Snape rolls his eyes. "He seems to be under the impression that you need 'space to process and heal from the trauma of loss and betrayal.' And you were all too eager to accept the Dark Lord's disappearance at face value. Perhaps he feels you're too fragile to handle the truth."
"You don't think that, though," says Remus, "because you just told me."
"I believe I know better than anyone just how much pain you're capable of handling."
Remus feels his cheeks heat up. "Almost anyone," he says.
The strangely comfortable mood turns tense again.
"Of course," says Snape. Remus doesn't have to look at him to know he's sneering. "I'm sure you let Black beat you bloody, too. Because you're too much of a pain slut for normal sex."
Remus's defenses rise.
"You liked doing it," he says. "You liked hurting me. What do you think that says about you?"
To his absolute astonishment, Snape laughs. Actually laughs—just a single, sharp bark, but still, a laugh. "I know exactly what that says about me."
After Snape leaves, Remus fills the bathtub with cold water and sits on the rim, lighting matches and tossing them in to be snuffed out. The flames make a soft little hiss when they hit the surface of the water—the smallest flicker of struggle before they submerge.
As the Parisian winter drags on, Remus's tolerance for his steady diet of substances grows. Sirius visits for shorter and shorter increments of time, and Remus increases his dose of Helios Oil, desperate to keep seeing him, to keep talking to him. Sometimes, Remus just sits on the floor and stares at him, drinking in every minute detail of that face.
See something you like?
"No."
It's funny that you keep trying to lie. I've told you that you're hopeless.
"I'm not hopeless."
No. Just useless—your words, not mine.
Eventually, the only thing that will lure Sirius back at all is when the Helios Oil is paired with a double dose of Liquid Lightning.
You really think this is better than being alone?
"I never said that."
Did you have to?
By March, Remus loses his job.
He's not sure exactly what happened—either he missed his shift, or he was late, or he kept dropping the frying pan on the executive chef's foot. All he knows is that the night after he turns in his apron and punch-in ticket, he winds up drunk as a hurricane, hammering away at the keys on a grand piano at a swanky Muggle club.
"You're alright!" says a sandy-haired German man when he steps away to take more shots.
"Thanks." The guy is cute, and Remus puts all his effort into not slurring. "You're not so bad, either."
He laughs, even though Remus didn't say anything funny. "Who taught you to play like that?"
"My mother."
He smiles. "I bet she was very talented."
Remus fidgets with his shirt collar and waits for the man to stop talking about his mother. He always misses her more when he's had a few too many, and he doesn't trust himself to say anything more about her without embarrassing himself.
"You know," the guy is saying, "my band needs a new pianist. Our last guy ditched us to go elope with some Norwegian girl."
"Oh," says Remus. The room is swaying slightly. He lights a cigarette and takes a careful puff. "Sorry to hear that."
The man laughs again. "We're pretty good, you know. We do, like, folk-chamber-rock. We're called Lila Tage."
"Purple days?" Remus translates.
"Ah! You know German?"
Remus hiccups. "Ja, ein bissen."
"Wonderful! We all speak English—there's four others in the band—but it helps to have a second language in common, too."
Something clicks together in Remus's blurry head. "Are you—are you asking me to join? Join the band, I mean?"
The man looks confused. "Well, yes. Didn't I say that?"
Remus shrugs. The corners of his vision are starting to go dark. "I dunno. I like your face. And I like piano. I'll be in Lila Tage with you."
He beams. "Excellent! The rest of the group will be thrilled. My name is Werner, by the way—Werner Schulz."
He extends his hand, and Remus gives it a firm shake. "John," he invents, for no reason at all. "John, uh, Howell."
It's not even a lie, he realizes belatedly—John is his middle name, and Howell is his mother's maiden name. Werner, of course, doesn't bat an eye.
"Welcome, John! We're in town for the next few days, but we're headed to Milan on Tuesday to play at a festival. Will that work for you?"
Remus grins. "I'll clear my schedule."