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“We should end this, Sirius.”
Sirius’ gut twists, a bitter taste in his mouth.
Remus’ voice is clear and firm.
Sirius knows it will be hard to fight this.
“But Moony, we– ” He begins, and his voice sounds weak. Sirius shivers, uncomfortable. He gives up mid-sentence, unsure of what to use as an argument.
The setting for the conversation couldn’t be worse; the fraying wallpaper looking dusty and gloomy where it peels from the wall of Number 12, Grimmauld Place’s drawing room.
The house has seen better days, but Sirius wouldn’t say he’s seen better days in this house. It’s been all dark, polished wooden floors and drafty rooms since he offered it to the Order. The ceilings are high and Sirius feels small here, smaller than when he left, in ‘76.
It’s like his lungs never fill in all the way, this time.
“You said it yourself, that this was not a good idea.”
Remus’ voice pulls him from the memories of shrill voices and Dark hexes flying around in quick succession; the beams of sickly light burnt into Sirius’ retinas.
Yes, he thought it, at first. He pointed out that this was not what Remus needed, to be tied down to him and to the house, with yet another war raging around them.
Sirius knew what being stuck felt like, he knew what being confined to a place where all the bad memories not only crawled around but multiplied did. He knew this sort of cold one was never able to shake from one’s bones; how it learnt to sink its claws into a person’s soul, almost like a sentient being on itself.
He did not want to drag Remus inside that pit with him, he really didn’t. He didn’t want to feel again like they were sinking, as they had done once before. He didn’t want to be the anchor weighing Remus down, didn’t want to see his fingers on Remus’ hair slowly turn into Devil’s Snare vines, spreading, growing, choking the life out of him.
“I did, but– Moony, things have changed–” Sirius keeps on talking, hating the shaky quality of his voice even after it dies out around them.
He pushes the offending images of dark pits and empty wells and murderous vines off his head – all of them too vivid these days – and focuses on making himself sound more resolute, for fuck’s sake.
Remus’ expression is already closing off before him, though, and Sirius can’t take his eyes away from the man’s face. It shouldn’t take more than a second, really, for Remus’ eyebrows to knit closer together and for his lips to purse tighter, but yet it feels like Sirius is watching the scene unravel for a long time.
It makes his heart beat faster, to see Remus pull away so subtly, and yet so clearly.
“If anything, things have gotten worse,” Remus deadpans and oh, this is bad.
There’s no way to disagree with that, Sirius thinks for a panicked second, a rush of adrenaline spreading rapidly through his body, painful like being struck by a flash of lightning would be.
His throat feels tight, and it’s hard to think of something to say when his own brain seems to have checked out for the moment being, fried by chemical discharges he has no hope of controlling; never has.
The room feels colder than it did just a moment ago. Sirius wraps his arms around himself, still trying to think of a way to refute Remus’ claim without lying because he just knows the man will be able to tell– and then refute him on the spot.
“We’ve been through so much already, though. Why give up now?”
It’s a valid question, Sirius tells himself, it’s a good road to take their argument down, he repeats, and his eyes are glued to Remus before him; Remus who looks too still, his expression darker than it was a second ago, and Sirius shudders once more.
The adrenaline rush has made him sweaty, his palms clammy, and Sirius feels his fingers twitch around his own too-thin bicep. This is downright shameful, he thinks, feeling his own face heat up in embarrassment as his head promptly provides the perfect solution for the twitching and general discomfort: the bottle of muggle vodka Sirius has hidden on his nightstand.
“You’ve made it too hard.”
His fingers spasm again at the steely tone of Remus’ voice. No, definitely not from the need of a drink this time, then.
Sirius can’t summon the liquor bottle. He doesn’t remember where his wand is, doesn’t remember if he had it in his hand when the conversation started. He does feel the odd urge to cast a shielding spell, though, anything that will ward off the sting of Remus’ cold words.
“I was wondering when you’d call me out on it,” Sirius replies, finally, truthfully – with a mocking image of himself taking a nice long pull from the vodka flaring in his brain.
Remus looks disappointed, he thinks, except it doesn’t last, so not enough to be disappointed, then. Disapproving, maybe, because that’s less intimate, less caring. Displeased that’s the word he’s looking for. Dissatisfied. Discontented.
Detached.
Chin jutting forward in feeble defence, Sirius fights off another word; he pushes the word pathetic away from his mind, away from himself as a whole. He watches as Remus plants his feet more solidly against the worn floorboards, almost as if getting ready for battle. He probably has his wand on him, Sirius thinks, not sure of what that might mean or why he’s considering it.
Whatever it is that’s about to happen, though, Sirius feels like he’s already lost.
“You knew I’d get tired of it sometime.”
Something acidic creeps its way up Sirius’ oesophagus, and it burns him.
He knew Remus would get tired of his nightmares and his tremors and his sunken cheeks and limp, lifeless hair. Remus was always tired, moon after moon, and Sirius always wanted to be there for him, always tried to be the one he could count on to give him some rest.
Or at least he tried to be. Tried to his best abilities, yes, but that didn’t mean he never failed. That one time with the prank, and then during the first war when he suspected Remus to be the spy, maybe, but– they’d been over this. Those times were over, weren't they?
That’s not what Remus’ stare says.
He should leave, Sirius tells himself, leave and maybe reassess this in the morning– or after he’s had another drink, or ten, or the whole bottle of Dreamless Sleep Moody gave him the last time the Order had a meeting, with careful instructions on recommended dosage and the dangers of not following them.
“I told you that myself,” Sirius mutters, his voice strangled by an equal mix of stomach acid and defeat.
And Remus nods.
Remus’ eyes are dark and mean, and Sirius still wants to kiss them, kiss his eyelids, kiss his face, kiss his body and his scars. Sirius wants to kiss the shadows away from his under his eyes, as he’s been trying to do since they’ve gotten back together. He wants to reach out and pull that man against his chest and hold on to him and maybe beg him to stay.
Sirius doesn’t think he’d be above begging now. He’s begged before, back in the Shrieking Shack, and he’s begged in the cave in Hogsmeade, and in bed too– but that was a different kind of begging, he thinks a little maniacally, the begging for release.
Still, this is a similar sensation of being coiled up too tight, though. His whole body feels wrung tight tight tight, and Sirius realises he still has his arms around himself, and wonders when did his muscles get numb.
The room is cold, and Remus’ eyes are cold, and Sirius doesn’t want him to leave.
“I’m done.”
They are simple words, really.
And Sirius has never been stabbed before, not with a real knife, but he’s read enough about people being stabbed, in muggle novels and whatnot. He has been on the mean end of a Sectumsempra, though, fucking Snivellus and his made-up Dark spells– so Sirius knows what it feels like to be slashed open and to actually bleed out, and that seems to be a good way to explain what Remus’ words do to him.
Remus has cut him open, and Sirius has whatever good was left in him ebbing– no, gushing out.
To the point that, when he looks down, Sirius half expects to see a dark, crimson puddle there and thick, dark liquid seeping into the cracks in the ancient wooden floors.
The room is fucking cold and Number 12, Grimmauld Place has never felt this much like Azkaban before.
Sirius still hasn’t said anything.
Speaking is hard, what with the metaphorical bleeding he’s busy with. Or the way he has to actually, physically hold back what would be a most undignified sob– which has been keeping him from breathing for what feels like several minutes.
Maybe he’ll run out of air.
He wants to turn into Padfoot and maybe walk outside, maybe lie down on the middle of the street so he can wait, wait for a muggle truck to run him over. That would be a fine way to end this, Sirius thinks, a grimace taking over his features as he stares ahead, feet numb and magic drained from his bones.
It’s a ridiculous idea, to die as a dog, and not even a magical one anymore. But Sirius feels dead already. Dead and bloodless and ordinary.
Sirius’ bones are cold and so is Remus’ expression, once Sirius’ gaze finds him again. Remus’ eyes are dark, but not the warm, dark-brown Sirius had grown to love and then fought tirelessly not to let the Dementors suck from his memories. They’re empty-dark now, Remus’ eyes, and Sirius feels he wouldn’t be able to kiss them now, even if he was allowed.
Remus’ stare is hollow, like a hole in a roof looking into a starless sky on October thirty-first.
The cold crosses over the limit to borderline unbearable; darkness seems to surround Sirius, and maybe that’s not a bad way for this to end, either.
Sirius’s knees give in. He expected them to make noise when they hit the ground, but there’s no noise to be heard. His vision goes blurry, too, pupils not responding to stimulus anymore.
Lights are out. His heart has finally slowed down.
There’s movement behind him, though.
The full moon shines through.
“Ridikkulus!”
There’s a warm hand on Sirius’ shoulder. Warm breath against his cheek.
“RIDIKKULUS!”
More light, warm light.
Chocolate-brown eyes and a lungful of air.