Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Please, could you stay awhile to share my grief?

For it's such a lovely day

To have to always feel this way

And the time that I will suffer less

Is when I never have to wake

Portishead, Wandering Star

The best part of having a nightmare tends to be the moment of waking up. You look around, remember you're safe in your bedroom, and give yourself permission to take that deep breath you so desperately need. You realise it was all just a dream, a fear which you can just forget about. So far from reality it becomes almost comedic, a caricature. A phantasy.

But that, of course, depends on the situation.

When Sirius Black opens his eyes and finds himself surrounded by white walls, beeping machines and a flower bouquet, he realises he has woken up into a nightmare.

There was a famous quote about that, one that he saw on Pinterest, maybe; but he can't remember.

He closes his eyes again, tries to go back to the dream, whatever it might have been. Was it about his brother? Or himself? There was pain, he remembers that. There was blood, and tears, and there was darkness.

He tries to avoid the idea of it not having been a dream at all. It's safer to think it wasn't real.

It's a family thing, minimising problems, guessing they'll just go away with time. Cousin Andromeda's drinking, Reg's coming out of the closet, their father's company's up-and-downs... And, now, this.

He opens his eyes, this time for real. Narcissa is asleep, sitting on a chair next to his bed, her head leaning against the wall on her side. Her platinum hair is dripping down to her chest, unusually messy and looking like it's not been washed in a few days.

It's not hard to tell she needs that rest. And deserves it.

He looks around, more focused on the details now. A closed door, a TV, a window. He chooses to look out of this last one, and sees something, a white shape, flying. He couldn't say whether it is a bird or a plastic bag—the only thing that seems to matter is that it's soaring through the skies while he is lying there in a hospital bed, tied to a thousand cables and tubes. It just doesn't seem fair.

"God, I wish I was a fucking bag."

At this, his cousin jumps up, suddenly very awake.

"Sirius!" She looks frightened. Surprised, but not necessarily pleased. "Sirius! Oh, Sirius!"

Not for the first time, he wishes his parents had given him a less stupid name. Sirius. It's so pretentious, so snobby it almost sounds dumb. The only good thing that can be said about it is that it has a mildly cool meaning. But, still, this is not the 18th century. Who even cares about stars nowadays?

"I remember my name, thank you," he answers, trying not to sound too harsh, but at the same time wishing she'd just shut up. "Who are they from?"

He gestures at the flowers. He figures giving her an easy conversation topic might help, and the gift propped up in the table in front of them seems good enough.

"Oh, Sirius, Sirius..."

No, it definitely wasn't him who sent them. He doesn't remember ever doing so and, what's more, he's sure that if he had made the gift he would never have chosen peonies. Pink peonies. God, whose idea could that have been?

"The flowers," he insists, lifting both his eyebrows in a desperate attempt to get her out of the loop in which she's stuck. "Who are they from, Cissy?"

Narcissa needs a moment to process the question. Still sitting in the chair, she straightens her back and takes in a deep breath, as if assimilating the situation. Then, after swallowing his name not to say it again, she looks at him. She doesn't smile.

"Mom," she says. Mine, not yours, she could have added, but doesn't. It's obvious enough to both of them. "Are you okay?"

Sirius looks at his cousin straight in the eye, and tries very hard not to laugh. He always laughs when he's like this.

"Yeah," he nods. His voice sounds coarse, as if wanting to give him away. "I'm sorry."

The blonde girl—woman?—needs, once again, a couple of seconds to take the words in; to build up the strength to confront the situation.

"It's alright," she smiles, finally. Sirius, who until now wasn't even aware that he was holding his breath, offers a tiny smirk, too.

"Is Reg okay?" he asks. He tries to conceal the fact that he—his brother—is probably the only reason Sirius is still breathing.

"I haven't seen him yet," Narcissa admits. "Your mother says he won't leave his room."

Sirius nods. It makes sense, if you think about it. He could either be torn apart by pain or choleric with rage, but, either way, the most reasonable reaction would be to confine himself and refuse to see anyone.

Reasonable to him, of course. When they were kids, Sirius had to stand up for his brother, teach him how the world worked. He used to think Reg was a coward. And now, here they are; one of them sitting in a hospital bed, and the other one at home, old enough not to need anyone's guidance in life anymore.

Maybe he's the coward, after all.

"Shouldn't you call a nurse, or something?" he asks his cousin, repressing every single one of his inconvenient thoughts and shoving them back to the bottom of the iceberg. "I could use some fucking morphine right now."

She doesn't laugh, probably because she thinks he's being serious. He smiles. How can I not be Sirius?

"Does it hurt?"

He looks down at his arm, covered in soft white bandages, looking as fragile as a porcelain teacup in a box full of rocks. He's been avoiding to look at it—some part of him though it'd be just like it was the last time he'd seen it—, but he can't take his eyes off of it now. Contrast is always hypnotising; black and white, hot and cold, blood and cotton.

He looks away at last.

"Not really," he says. "Itches a bit."

She nods, as if what he said was some sort of metaphysical revelation, and gets up to approach the door. She calls a nurse, and less than five seconds later a man comes in.

"Well," he grins, as cheerful as any overworked human can be, "look who's up!"

He's got eyebags that make the ocean seem shallow, and is wearing one of those teal uniforms that'd have Sirius and Regulus arguing for hours; blue, green, blue, green...

"Hi," Sirius offers. The nurse beams.

"Hello!" He throws a glance at Narcissa, but turns back to Sirius no more than a second later, always grinning like a psychotic boy scout. "How are we feeling?"

Not bad. Not good, either—but that's not for him to know.

Sirius shrugs.

The fabric of his hospital gown slips, and leaves his shoulder exposed. He doesn't bother to cover it.

"I'm thirsty," he says. He doesn't really want him to do something about it, he just felt like announcing it.

"I'll fetch you a glass of water, then," the nurse smiles. "Fancy something to eat, too?"

Sirius wishes he'd have his contacts on, so he could read the name on his lapel, but he's also glad he can't see a thing—no abilities mean no responsibilities.

Although he does have some abilities, well-trained skills. Like making people sad. Or angry. Or just being sad and angry himself.

"Sirius?" Narcissa tries.

He looks at her, and blinks. Have I disassociated?

"Food?" he asks, if to the other two in the room or himself, he doesn't know. He shakes his head.

"Are you sure?"

He shakes his head once more. Something, something in his chest, or his brain, or his stomach is telling him that if he dares to eat, he is going to choke; that the first bite he takes is going to get stuck on his throat, unable to go down. Like a cotton ball in a ragdoll's mouth.

"Well, it's quite early," the nurse states. Sirius doesn't know what time it is, but he guesses he must be right. No one keeps track of time like a worker at the end of his shift, after all. "I'll make sure to get you a tray at lunchtime, though."

The man in the blue uniform gives him a wink, and he tries to smile. He doesn't achieve much, just a grimace. He thinks that, well, maybe a grimace is good enough. He hopes it is.

The nurse leaves, and Sirius wishes he'd forget about the glass of water he promised to bring. He knows it's unlikely.

Once more, his eyes are drawn to the window. There's no plastic bag now, but he can see the trees moving, bending to the wind. He likes watching them change. It reminds him he's not the only one being tortured by his environment.

"Is it cold outside?" he asks. He's fidgeting with his bedsheets. They're so white they make his eyes hurt. Everything in this room makes his eyes hurt.

"I don't know, darling. It seems so.”

Yes, it does. Things are moving outside. He wonders if there'll be any squirrels living on those treetops that are now making a bow to mother nature. He tries to imagine, but can't decide what they might do when their house is no longer habitable. By any chance, do you happen to know where they go, the ducks, when it gets all frozen over?

“What ducks?”

He said it aloud, he realises. Again, he tries to smile. He figures she must think he's going mad. He figures she must be right.

"The Catcher in the Rye," he clarifies. "Ducks."

Narcissa smiles. She probably thinks is the morphine talking, or the aspirins, although Sirius isn't completely sure he's taken anything at all.

He wonders if he'll have to take pills from now on, and if medication would make him stop quoting books and saying nonsense or if it'd make him even more impertinent, irrelevant, inconvenient. Is it possible to get worse than this? he asks himself. At least now they're trying to save him. He glances at the flowers, and the note resting amongst the leaves.

"You've not read the card to me," he remind his cousin. She presses her lips in what some would call a smile.

"No, you're right," she says. "I haven't."

They fall in silence for a moment. Sirius counts six seconds, then his mind drifts away and he starts thinking about ducks and squirrels again. God, he'd kill for a book right now. Or his phone. He imagines it's protocol, not letting him have access to the Internet, or whatever.

The worst things are usually protocol. That's why the world's falling apart.

"It's a nice thing to say, isn't it?" Narcissa smiles. The piece of paper is in her hands, and she seems to have just read it. Was he supposed to listen?

"Yes," he answers, though he has no idea what the card said. It might as well have been a war declaration—it'd definitely be more honest if it were. At least hate is a sincere emotion. Affection can always be faked, performed. He guesses that's why people tend to focus more on their enemies than on their loved ones. "Tell your mum tanks when you see her."

"I will."

Silence again.

He can hear footsteps outside, voices of doctors and families, the distant weeping of a heartbroken woman. He wonders whether that could've been heard in this room if he hadn't woken up. If there's anyone in his life that would've—

The door slams open.

A dark figure stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed. Sirius can practically see the smoke coming out of his ears as if he were a cartoon character.

"Explain," Regulus asks him.

"Hi," Sirius tries.

People don't greet eachother anymore, he realises. They just storm in and out of rooms, demand things and yell at eachother. It's quite sad.

"Tell me what the fuck went through your head that made you do something so terribly stupid."

He smiles. There he is, his baby brother. He used crawl onto his bed in stormy nights—now, he's saying words like fuck and stupid. Sirius even heard him say ubiquitous once. It made him feel so proud he almost cried.

"Is it stupid if the greatest minds have done it?"

"Explain!" Regulus insists, letting his arms fall onto his side. He looks like he could cry, but Sirius knows he won't. He hasn't cried in a long time, and he's not going to do it now.

"I'll wait outside," Narcissa mumbles as she gets up from her chair and leaves the room, her blonde hair blowing behind her like a comet's tail.

The boys ignore her.

"I'm sorry, Reg," he says. And he is.

"I can't even be mad at you," the younger boy sighs, still very visibly irritated. "You're such a selfish prat, and you're incredibly cruel, but I can't be angry at you."

"You know I won't mind." Sirius tells him. He feels naked all of a sudden, like he's not good enough for his brother's black coat, nowhere close to meeting his standards. By the way, that is one gorgeous coat he's wearing. He might steal it from Reg, if he lets him. He probably won't. "I deserve to be scolded, anyway."

He knows he does. He knew he'd have to cope with the consequences, one way or another. He was just hoping he'd do it in the afterlife, through some sort of heavenly HR office, or something. But he's going to do it, really. He has to. He just can't right now.

I mean, imagine waking up in the hospital and having to face the repercussion of your own reckless behaviour while still being half-asleep and probably flying on morphine. You can't imagine it? I'll help you out, then: It's not fun. I'm guessing it could be—but it's not.

So, for now, all that Sirius can do is smile, stay cheerful and act like everything's fine, great, perfect, fantastic, and this is just a totally regular marvelous, joyful, delightfully enjoyable sunny morning. What is it today, a Tuesday? Oh, what a wonderful Tuesday it is.

Yes, this is far much better than thinking about how he's going to fix his already fallen-apart family.

"Mom'll take care of that."

Of course she will. He looks out the window, trying to focus on how green and happy and bright the trees look, but inevitably noticing the greyish tone the October air imposes over the landscape, or the woman in the street opposite, sitting alone in a bench, covering her eyes with her hands as if she were crying. She's looking for something in her purse now, probably tissues. She seems to need them.

"You know what's shit?" Regulus asks. Sirius doesn't know whether he's addressing him or just talking to himself. He then remembers that normal people don't actually have an inner monologue like a bloody Shakespeare character, and that his brother, unlike him, appears to be of the human kind. A true genetic miracle, he is. "In the remote case I was the last thing that went through their minds, mum and dad would never have written the name you wrote."

He tries so hard not to smile, but, oh, man, it comes out anyways.

After a few really tough months of trying to prove to his brother that he was okay with him being trans, it turns out a suicide note was all that was needed for him to believe him and actually get that Sirius saw him as though he was. It is true, after all, that only the dead are heard. Or, well, the almost-dead.

He really should have tried this sooner.

"That doesn't mean they don't love you," he tells Regulus, whose name was the only thing that he wrote while bleeding out just two nights ago; a scratch of ink in the back of a notebook. He doesn't recall the cut, but he remembers that. He remembers that he needed Reg to know.

And now that he thinks about it, it sounds quite messed up. But his brother got the message, so that's all that matters.

"No," Regulus corrects him. He loves doing that. "It means they love who I used to be."

He also loves to torture himself, though that sort of runs in the family, he supposes.

"Don't say that," Sirius mumbles. He's now realising how long it's actually been since the two of them have had a real conversation. They see eachother daily, and still, they don't talk as much as they used to. He was scared this would happen when he left for uni, but he didn't expect to lose contact with his brother while still living in the same house as him.

It's strange, how discussing the weather at the dinner table feels like catching up. He's not sure when the last time he asked Reg how he felt was. Just a How are you feeling today? would've done. They used to ask eachother that sort of things almost daily, now he's just assumed he is alone in the universe. As if his hurt was the only one worth bleeding for.

"Why?" Reg asks, lifting one of his eyebrows. Sirius taught him that trick years ago. He's not sure he remembers how to do it now.

"Because you're going to end up like me," the older brother smiles. As his eyes come to focus, he realises Regulus has cut his hair, not very neatly.

"God forbid," he smiles back, far less enthusiastic, and comes to sit next to Sirius, on the chair that Narcissa was occupying earlier. Her purse is still hanging from the back of it.

"Yeah. God forbid."

Now that they're closer to eachother, he can actually see Reg's face, his expression. He usually looks better than Sirius—younger, softer, more innocent. Like a mirror with a beauty filter.

Now, however, he looks quite rough, his white skin stained with dark circles around his eyes, his lips pale, lacking colour... Although Sirius hasn't had a look at himself yet since he woke up, so his face might be even worse than his brother's.

He hopes not.

He smiles, painfully conscious of what he must look like, and draws his eyes towards the ceiling, the air coming out of his lungs in the shape of a sigh.

"So," he says, "when are you letting me out of here?"

And what seemed like a broken silence becomes a barrier stronger than the previos one. The older boy's chest grows heavy, and he knows he's about to regret waking up.

"Sirius," Regulus starts. Sirius looks at him; please, please, please... "Look, Cissy, Bella and I have been talking about this."

"I know, I know," he jumps, convinced that if he talks fast enough he might have a chance to change his brother's mind. "I need to stay here a couple of days, but I'm perfectly fine, I just need an aspirin and I'll be as good as—"

"We're putting you in rehab."

Silence.

Outside, a dog barks.

"Pardon?"

He can't process it. He tries to, he truly does, but he just can't.

He's fine. He— Okay, he might need some help. A therapist, maybe; that'd be cool. But, aside from that, he really is fine.

Another dog joins the barking contest. It sounds like they're having a conversation, and not a friendly one.

"It's not technically rehab," Regulus finally says. He's fidgeting, playing with a bracelet one of his friends made for him. It's made out of black and purple thread, braided together in a string. He loves that piece of garbage more than he loves his actual brother. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have put it like that. It's just—It's a private healthcare centre. You'll be there for as long as you need, and we—"

"I don't need to go there at all!"

The moment Sirius closes his mouth, he wishes he'd never opened it. On the one hand, it is true that him being practically insane is none of Reg's business nor his fault, and he probably should be nicer to him since, after all, he's just trying to help—which is already more than what anyone else has ever done for him. On the other hand—and this is probably the main reason he regrets yelling at his brother—it's taken away the little credibility he had left. He's certain that he doesn't need any sort of rehabilitation, but he's also certain that only a madman would've shouted it out like he did.

But he did. So, there is that.

"Yes, you do," the youngest sighs, exasperated. As if he weren't the one dramatising the situation. "They'll take care of you. You'll be better off there than at home, and you know it."

And then it hits him. Like a fucking truck. Like a brick in the head. A stab in the heart.

"You think I'm going to do it again," he says, very, very slowly. He wants it to be a lie so bad, he'd prefer hell to be real and burn eternally in it.

But,

"Of course I do."

And it'd be okay if it were anyone else. One of his cousins, a schoolmate, even his parents could think that about him and it'd be so okay with him it's almost sad. But Regulus? If he doesn't have Reg, he doesn't have anyone. He's alone.

"Well, I'm not," he tries. And he might even sound convincing, but, deep down, they both know he's lying.

"You know I can't believe that," the youngest boy says.

It hurts.

"But I promise—"

"You sliced your wrist open, Sirius. You've lost your right to make promises."

Regulus realises he has raised his voice more than he intended to, and Sirius closes his mouth to look once more out the window.

He can't look at Reg anymore. Not until he swallows that last bit, that lump in his throat that just. won't. go. down.

So he looks at the sky, and tries not to think too hard about it being the same colour as his brother's eyes. But he thinks about it anyway. Then he looks at the trees, and tries not to think of the nurse than came earlier, of wanting to ask Reg if he thought his uniform was blue or green. He would've said green. He always sees green when there isn't any. Sirius tends to see everything tinted with either blue or grey.

"So you're abandoning me?"

He almost jumps when he hears himself say that. He was thinking about it, he knew he had to say something like it, but he wasn't ready.

He comforts himself with the thought that he never would have been.

"Oh, can you just for a second stop putting yourself in the centre of attention?" Regulus snaps. That makes Sirius look at him. A tear trembles inside of one os his eyes, eager to fall, needing to come out, but it doesn't get to touch his cheek before a sleeve wipes it dry. "I'll be left alone at home with mum and dad. You know what that means? It means I get to deal with their imminent divorce while you play Uno in a waiting room with a bunch of medicated teens. And you're disappointed? I wish I could take a sip of clorox, to be honest, but I just can't, because I, unlike others, am a responsible son, brother and overall human being. So don't come to me with the You're abandoning me thing, okay?"

It is the things like this that remind Sirius he is no longer fourteen, or twelve, or six. And nor is his brother.

He often wishes they both were kids again. Everything was easier when they made puzzles and read all day. Mum made pie and dad let them watch the telly. That was okay.

"I said Okay?"

He blinks. He's older now. Seventeen. Too old to be alive.

"Okay."

"Right." Regulus gets up from the chair, ready to leave. Sirius realises he hasn't even taken off his coat since he came in. "I'm going to school now. I'll come for you later." He stops at the frame, turns back, looks Sirius straight in the eye. "Eat something."

He always knows. He hates him for that, but he's the only one that truly knows him.

"I love you, Reg," Sirius says.

"Yeah," Regulus answers. He crosses his arms, protecting himself from the attack. He wouldn't protect himself from a blade, but he builds walls for words and emotions and tears like the ones forming in his brother's eyes. "Take care of yourself, asshole," is the last thing he says before he leaves.

And then the door closes.

And Sirius feels empty.

Chapter Text

And when you want to live

How do you start?

Where do you go?

Who do you need to know?

Ooh, ooh

The Smiths, The Boy with the Thorn in His Side

"Okay," James says, raising his chin. He always does that when he's trying not to smile. He often does it while smiling, too. "I call your Oreos, Pete..." He adds his own pack of Mini-Oreos to the pile in the table, "and I raise a Mars bar."

Remus stares at the chocolate bar in the boy's hand, and takes a deep breath. Think with your brain, he reminds himself, not your stomach. Although, he must admit, it's quite hard not to fall for a trick so sweet.

An image flashes trough his mind: him, dropping his cards and running away with everything that's on the table. He smiles. He'd do it, if only he weren't so tired.

"I'm folding, guys," he tells the other two. A grin spreads in James's face, and Peter presses his lips and shrugs, as if to say Sucks to suck. "Enjoy your chocolate."

"Oh, I will," James assures him. Peter lifts an eyebrow, wordlessly questioning his overconfidence.

Remus, who is—quite ironically—in charge of flipping the community cards, reveals the last one, and watches as the magic unfolds. He wishes he'd have popcorn; tough, if he did, it'd probably be on the table, with everything else that he'd bet. God, that was a really stupid way of losing his liquorice stash.

Peter, showing no expression whatsoever, slides a bag of Sherbet Lemons onto the table. Oh, sweets so golden they might as well be coins, galleons. James pauses for a moment, hesitates; but looks in his bag anyway. He's gone too far, there's no turning back now.

The black-haired boy takes a whole caramel Dairy Milk bar from inside his backpack, and adds it to the pot without saying a single word. Which is impressive, taking how much James loves to talk.

"It's showdown," Remus declares, mildly uncomfortable, but enjoying the tension all the same.

With that, James's face turns back into an enormous grin, and, after he pushes his glasses up his nose, he drops his cards onto the table, proudly announcing:

"That's a full house, gentlemen!"

Remus nods, seriously impressed. It's a good hand, three kings and a pair of aces. Not bad at all.

"Pete?"

Peter shows his cards too, unbothered, and looks at James, a smirk forming on his lips as he does so.

"Hijo de puta," James whispers, eyes wide open as he registers his loss. A royal flush. "Son of a bitch!"

He looks at Peter, at his cards, and the pile of food. Everything he had is there.

"Shiiit." Remus laughs, and Peter holds out his hand for James to shake.

"Good game, mate," James smiles, though he looks like he's swimming on a pool full of sewing needles. "We're splitting the prize, right?"

Peter laughs, and nods in agreement. They always end up sharing and trading anyway. They'd be killing each other if they didn't.

"Well, in that case, I bags the Mars bar," Remus says as he gets up from his chair, which he puts away next to his bed. "I'm going to go outside for a bit. Coming?"

The other two boys both shake their heads, and begin taking down the playing area—hiding the sweets, putting the cards back into the box, et cetera.

After a week of living together, they've grown accustomed to Remus's routines. He wakes up extremely early to take his morning meds alone, takes a walk on their free time and reads on visiting hours. Except when his parents come to see him, naturally. On such occasions he reads afterwards.

The boys have learnt this routine is unbreakable, his way of keeping his life under control. And they respect it, obviously; just like they respect Peter's silence of James's Not Saying The S Word kind of rules.

They're not assholes.

So, when Remus asks them to come along, James and Peter know they're not really invited over to his stroll, even though he might be genuinely asking for their company. He's usually unaware that he's following a schedule, even if he's the one who put it together. He's also unaware of the fact that breaking that schedule tends to break him a bit, too.

"He's doing better now, I think," James says. "With the cut and all."

He looks at Peter, who nods in agreement. One usually has to look at Peter when having a conversation with him, otherwise it's sort of like talking to a brick wall. He's impressively good at non-verbal communication, though. Most of the time, James can know what he thinks just by looking at his face. He can even tell apart a disgusted Yikes from an annoyed What the hell?

Pete also hums sometimes, when he doesn't want to make people look at him. He does this when playing cards, usually.

He did talk a bit on his first day, mainly to clarify that the explanation his mother had given the doctors was utter bullshit. But, for the lost part, he prefers to stay silent.

Feelings. That's the sort of thing that you can't express without words, and that cannot be said in your behalf.

James sits on his bed—the one closest to the window—and sighs.

"He's got balls, Remus," he says. As if no one knew. He's a bit explosive, that's for sure, but, in James's mind, that's just a side effect of being extremely strong. Resilient, that's the word. He's very bloody resilient. "I mean, if my face was... God, I don't think I'd be able to look at anyone in the eye."

Peter nods again, though James is not looking at him anymore. He's staring at a picture on the wall opposite, of Peter and his sister on a football game, wearing the usual match-day-uniform; the signature red Manchester United shirts. They look ecstatic, both grinning at the camera, showing their teeth. He used to have it on his wall back at the boarding school he went to after leaving Saint George's.

It's a bit awkward that they've re-met after so many years, in a mental hospital, of all places; but Peter is quite glad they did. He had always thought James was all facade—nice, but only when it benefited him, just like the others—and he didn't have much of a chance to get to know him back when they went to school together. So it's good to have a chance to make up for the time lost. Even if that chance involves group therapy and cafeteria food.

"I do hope he feels better," the black-haired boy says, half-smiling. Peter nods, thinking that he's is too kind with someone he met no more than a week ago. He didn't remember him being as honest and upright as a kid. Though, that was a long time ago. Five years, or so. Maybe six. He's probably changed a lot, and not just physically. "I think he needs some—"

"And this will be your dorm!" Poppy says, standing on the doorway next to a boy; one with a smile like the sun, the other with black holes for eyes. James and Peter immediately turn to look at them, mildly confused. "Oh, hello, boys! This is Sirius!"

Sirius. Odd name.

"Hiya!" James grins. Peter waves a hand.

The boy doesn't say anything.

His hair covers most of his face—it's long, wavy and black, like a funeral veil. He's wearing dark clothing as well; some ripped black jeans—the kind that look excessively big but still fit perfectly at the waist—and a vintage Coca-Cola tee. He basically looks like he listens to MCR, if that makes any sense.

Gay, Peter thinks.

Friend! James's brain screams.

Both.

"You can ask these two for anything you need, okay?" Poppy tells him, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You got the schedule? And the map?"

"Yeah," he says. James is mildly surprised that he can talk. He was half-expecting that the new boy—Sirius, his name is Sirius—would be like Pete; not very talkative. Not like that's a bad thing. He just looked like he would. "Thank you."

"Oh, dear, you are much welcome!" the nurse chuckles, as if thanking her for doing her job was a hilarious thing to do. "I have to go now. Will you be alright? I promise you they're good lads."

Sirius looks at both of them. Then at her again.

"Yes."

"Good! Take care of him, you two," she says, jokingly threatening them. "And where's Remus?"

Buried in fucking Rome, Sirius thinks. He then remembers his own name is ridiculously dumb, and presses his lips shut.

But, honestly, who calls his kid Remus?

It occurs to him that they might be talking about a dog or a pet, not a human. That makes more sense. Dogs are allowed weird names.

"He went out for a walk," James tells the doctor. At this point, Sirius is convinced that they have a dog. Then: "You know, his daily reading hour."

Okay, maybe a human with a pair of nerdy parents. Didn't Julius Caesar have an adoptive son, now that he thinks about it?

He tries not to be such a bitch and stop judging someone who he hasn't even met.

He looks to Poppy on his side, who smiles at them tenderly. Most of the medics and nurses on the centre are extremely kind, and she is not one of the exceptions. Even her name is bright; cheerful. You imagine her dressing in a bold colour, sunbathing on a hillside, always wearing that big grin on her face.

"He's an old soul, that boy," she smiles. "Well, I'll see you three tomorrow morning, then."

None of the boys knows whether that Three excludes Remus or Sirius. The newcomer guesses it's him who isn't needed, so he says nothing, and lets the other two to deal with it.

"Sirius, honey." She squeezes his shoulder—not much, just enough to pull him back into reality. He looks at her, eyes empty. "I'm sure they'll tell you everything, but we have a session tomorrow morning, okay? Just the two of us."

"Okay," he says. She smiles. At him, then at the other two. After that, she leaves.

Sirius' shoulder suddenly seems cold.

He doesn't move; he has nothing to do. Nowhere to go. He just stands still, eyes focused on the floor. Light grey wood.

He sobs, and realises his eyes are wet. Fuck.

James and Peter exchange a look. The blond gives the other one a nudge, and makes a small gesture for him to say something. So James does.

"Mate," he says. He's actually pretty good at calming people down. The trick, he thinks, is to remind them that they're human. And to treat them like so. God, he should've been a therapist. Or a doctor.

Sirius offers another sob, to show that he's listening.

"Hey," James tries. "Okay. Gimme that." He takes the papers from his new dormmate's hand—the basic orientation photocopies—, and leaves them on top of the table in which only minutes ago he lost all of his snacks to betting. He comes back next to Sirius and carefully puts an arm around him to make him move. Peter takes the bag that Poppy left on the door, not sure what else to do to help. "Look, this bed's free. You're probably exhausted. You lay down and we'll talk tomorrow morning, eh? We'll leave your stuff right here. D'you have your pajamas?"

The boy stays silent for a moment. He's sitting on the bed now; still crying.

"Yes," he mumbles.

The nostalgia hits James. He was also asked that question some time ago, sitting on a different bed, but feeling something probably very similar. Poor man.

"Do you want to get changed now?" He asks, though he already knows the answer to that.

"No."

"Okay," he smiles, softly, and watches as Sirius lays down on the bed, combat boots and all. "We'll wake you up when it's time. Just rest for a bit, now."

Black hair covering half of his face, he looks at James.

"Thank you."

The boy with the glasses smiles. For a moment, he reminds Sirius of a father—not his father, but the ones that appear on the movies, always taking care of their kids as if they meant the world to them. People who can make you feel like you're their world with one single smile are very special. The thing is, that sort of people tend to hide their faces, make the magic hard to discover. This boy looks like he can't bear spend a whole minute without grinning.

"It's nothing, mate," he says. "We've all been there."

James looks at Peter, who just shrugs his shoulders and gestures at the door. They take the cards, turn off the lights and leave.

"We've a what now?" Remus says, lit cigarette on his hand and mouth slightly parted in disbelief.

They're sitting in a specific spot on the garden, from which they can't really be seen. There's not much to do, since it's just plants and a bunch of statues here, but at least they can smoke in peace.

Well, Remus can smoke in peace. The other two just stare and, in the case of Peter, shuffle cards to keep their hands busy.

"A new dormmate," James repeats. "Edgy emo Welcome to the Black Parade kid with long hair. He's devastated, man. He spoke with only, like, monosyllables, cried a bit and then went straight to bed." Peter gives James a nudge, and this last one nods, correcting himself: "Sorry, not straight."

"So there's a boy," Remus says, very calmly, seeking confirmation. "In our room."

He's nervously tapping the cover of his book—a Palahniuk—while looking at the other two. He switches between frowning at James and furrowing his brows at Peter.

"Yeah, basically."

He stops the tapping and puts the book aside, next to him on the wooden bench.

"And he...? I mean, he's like us, right?"

James grins. His well-known I'm going to say something stupid grin.

"I already said he's queer, yeah."

Both Remus and Peter dedicate a groan to this.

"Ha, ha," Remus scoffs. He realises he's touching his bandage again. He brings his hands to his lap and tries to concentrate on the conversation. "I mean, is he here because of... Y'know."

The banned word. Doesn't prohibiting a thought make it way more difficult to get rid of? Don't think of a pink elephant. Oh, man, you thought of it? Shit, you lost the game.

Shit, I lost.

"No idea," James shrugs, his eyes tired behind his glasses. Remus sees him turn to look at the statue of a young girl, staring into the sky as if searching for something. A lost lover, maybe. "I guess so. He didn't say much, really. Just Yes and No and Thank you."

Wow, Remus thinks. Thank you is advanced vocabulary. When he arrived to Hogwarts, all that he was able to say was Fuck you, Fuck everyone, Let go of me, This is Hell and Ahh!!!!!

There was a lot of screaming involved.

Ah, what a beautiful memory.

Once again, his hand goes for the bandage, unconsciously tracing over the medical tape, always careful not to press too hard. The skin is still raw under the cotton.

When he gets anxious, he thinks of his freckles, the ones that happened to be there where the scar was made. How many can he have lost? Ten? Twenty? His bet in on twenty-two. Though there's no way of checking if he is right or not. That's probably why he likes to speculate on that, rather than to think of other things, more real. Like Is this Sirius boy going to cause us trouble? Or:

"Is he hot?"

Oh, okay. He didn't mean to ask that, but, now that he has, he's quite interested in knowing. He straightens his back, and goes back to tapping the book in order to leave the healing scar alone.

"I mean, he was crying," James explains. "And pale as fuck. He's probably still in shock."

Remus lifts an eyebrow.

"So he is."

"Yeah," the four-eyed boy smirks.

Peter lifts his gaze from the deck to see Remus's expression. He's got a perfect poker face; no emotions displayed whatsoever.

"Okay," he shrugs.

James and Peter exchange a knowing glance. Poker faces are good for playing, yes. But, if you try to look stoic while talking about a hot boy sleeping in the same room as you, you either sound like a sociopath or a really, really terrible liar.

"You wouldn't cheat on your secret boyfriend with him, though, would you?"

"Piss off," Remus laughs, "you know I'm off the shelf. Plus, I don't own a heart, or whatever."

"Yeah, yeah... I'll figure it out some day, y'know." He looks at Peter. "We'll figure it out. It's got to be someone on our floor."

"Oh, thank God you don't think I'm snogging someone from the terminal wing."

"You could be," James smirks.

"Yeah, I'm sure Marlene'd be really interested," he bites back. All three of them laugh. For the record, everyone in the hospital knows Marlene is a lesbian. Not just that—Remus suspects she hates men, too. Like, the idea of them. Which, to be fair, is understandable.

"Not her!" James chuckles, far from annoyed. "Oh, you know what I mean!"

He does. The truth is, he might even be right, but Remus would never admit that. Besides, he's not sure boyfriend is the correct term. Secret, definitely.

"Pete," Remus calls, rolling his eyes, "make him stop, or I'll have to find him someone to snog in order to calm him down."

Peter shrugs and gets back to his cards. He's awfully good at shuffling them. It reminds Remus of a book, though he doesn't know which, right now. One in which the main character's brother had taught him to shuffle and do magic tricks. He remembers he liked the story.

"Are you snogging Pete?" James asks when he sees them both, and something in Remus's head tells him he might have got trapped inside of a sitcom.

"Oh, for Christ's sake." He puts out his cigarette, gets up and grabs his book. "I'm going to sleep."

"Is that a no?"

"Yes, James; it is a no." he says. He tries no to laugh—he likes to sound mysterious and tough—but he can't help it. It's all too bloody ridiculous. "Peter and I are not snogging."

"You're not shagging either?" He insists. If Peter were having a glass of water now, he'd have spilt it. Instead, he pulls a face and fakes a gag, all without looking away from his cards.

"He's ace, man," Remus reminds his friend. James—who tends to forget about that sort of stuff—nods solemnly, like a businessman who has been given a crucial detail about a very, very serious operation.

Ha, Sirius.

"Oh," he answers, as he sees Remus follow the cobblestone pathway back to the building. It's getting dark; any minute now, someone'll come looking for them. "Well. Okay, then."

"None of your business, James!" He says as he leaves, walking backwards to see his two friends while doing so.

"Wrong—totally my business!" James shouts back, and Remus, holding back a giggle, turns around and keeps walking.

"Goodnight," he whispers to himself, and fixes his eyes on a patch of lavender.

When he comes inside, he greets Minnie on the way to the dormitory and, then, trying not to wake the mysterious boy, he gets changed, brushes his teeth and goes to bed.

Remus Lupin, whose personal therapist was about to diagnose him with insomnia, falls asleep in a matter of seconds.

"Mum?"

It's somewhere between 3 and 4 a.m., and Remus wants to die.

Okay, not really. Or—well, yes. It's just that death is a thought that works as white noise in his mind, and the volume is at a quite acceptable rate right now.

May God save whoever just woke him up, though. That fucker is about to come trough Heaven's gates.

"Sorry..."

He turns in his bed, not really sure where the sound came from.

"Peter?" he whispers. He realises there's also sobbing and whining involved. He doesn't get paid enough for this. "Pete, you okay?"

The sound stops. Remus knows it's not because the pain has gone anywhere but, after waiting in silence for a bit, decides to get back to sleep.

Sirius keeps crying in silence.

Chapter Text

I'm medicated, how are you?

Placebo, Follow the Cops Back Home

I am tired.

We're watching a movie from the 2000s. You used to love it as a kid. You still do.

I was afraid that you'd stop liking the things that you liked, that I'd lose you. But you still giggle every time a character makes a joke, and you still fall asleep on my shoulder nearing the end. I know you'll be mad at me later for not waking you up in the kissing scene, but I like to have you here, like this, asleep. I like knowing you're still the same.

It's the things like this that remind me you've not changed at all, you've just made us understand who you are. Who you've been all this time.

I'm glad you still like me, just like you've always liked Mean Girls, Pretty Woman, Love Actually.

I look at you, smile.

"Reg, this is best part," I whisper.

You don't even hear me, so I watch the love confession.

I'm about to fall asleep, too. It feels good to be here.

"What is this?" someone yells. I already know who it is. I keep looking at the screen. You wake up. "What do you think you're doing?"

I close my eyes. I don't want to hear any of it.

"I'm—"

She cuts you off.

"Are you aware of what time it is?"

She's screaming.

She steps into the room, approaches the table, takes the remote. You flinch when her arm passes near us.

"Mum, Reg wasn't feeling okay and I—"

"It is two in the morning! You cannot watch the television at this ungodly hours! Do you not have school tomorrow?"

She's only talking to you, acting like I'm not here, again. Like I'm invisible. A ghost.

"Mum, listen, I'm the one who—"

She grabs you by the arm, drags you out of the room. I can feel her nails biting into your skin from where I am.

"Mum!" I get up, follow her; but she closes the door on me. "Mum, it's my fault, let me—"

I try to punch the door, but my hand passes right through the wood. I stare at it, at my arm halfway into my bedroom's door.

I step forward, cross the wall like it's a waterfall. I start running trough the hallway to follow her, I might be able to reach you, to help you.

I can grab her dress. I can take your hand. I can run even faster and block her.

I am behind you. I call your name, I call her, I scream until my throat goes sore, but none of you look.

I extend my arm, close my hand on her skirt, and I swear, I swear I can feel the fabric brushing my fingertips, but she doesn't stop, the dress doesn't stay.

Another door closes, and I stand in the hall. It's dark, I can't see anything now that the two of you are gone. I don't know where the light switch is, so I just close my eyes, thinking: I could have done more.

Sirius wakes up. The room is dark, but not as much as his dream. Maybe complete darkness can only be achieved in one's mind.

He looks around.

He can't see much, but he hears someone's breathing.

"Pete... You okay?"

He holds his breath. Whoever spoke doesn't do it again, so he cries himself to sleep. He dreams about his brother again.

It's 7 a.m., and Remus doesn't feel like a person.

He's slept more than usual, but mornings are always tough, he assumes. Without even bothering to get dressed, he puts on his slippers and goes to the ground floor.

He loves the feeling of being the only one awake. Going to sleep at crazy hours and waking up before street lamps have turned off yet. He's alone, only stumbling upon nurses and staff. He greets Kettleburn, who's about to tidy one of the empty rooms, and keeps walking.

"Morning!" Sprout—the nurse—greets him, same as every day, and begins typing something on her computer. "Lupin, Lupin... There!"

She puts a cocktail of tablets on a paper cup and slides it across the counter, like a barman handing out a drink.

"Thanks," he says. He'd smile, but he really doesn't have the energy. Don't talk to me until I've had my Orphidal.

"How come you're always the first to come, love?"

He shrugs as she offers him a cup of water; takes it and has a sip. There go the pills.

"I like to be alone."

She smiles. She's heard that a million times, he realises. He's not special. Actually, he's a walking stereotype.

Suddenly, he feels exposed, ashamed. He wishes that he didn't have a huge ass bandage on his face, or that he wasn't wearing that Nirvana T-shirt he bought at fucking Primark, or that he had a bit—jus the minimum, please?—of a personality.

Sprout smiles.

"Darling, you don't need to be afraid of others seeing you," she tells him. Remus knows she's referring to the meds, taking them in front of others; but to him it sounds kind of deep, almost philosophical. Poetic?

He's always hid who he was—if not from his friends, from his family, or, on occasions, himself.

"I know," he says, and tosses the cup into the recycling bin. Someone has put a plastic wrapper in the paper container. Shit, that sort of thing drives him wild. "I just— It's hard, I guess."

You don't really need to have a master in ecology to know the blue one is for paper, do you? God, some people are just so stupid.

"I understand, dear."

No, not stupid; evil. One has to be truly diabolical, an aspiring villain, to do that. You eat a bag of Maltessers and you think Oh, you know what? Imma throw this into the paper bin, just for fun. 'Cause I'm quirky like that. Well, fuck you. You'll burn in Hell, boiling in a pot stirred by a group of activist boy scouts.

God, God, God—he hates everything in that little action. Everything. It's so wrong, so—

"...love?"

"No," he answers. Then, turns to look at Sprout. "Sorry, what?"

She's not smiling anymore. He realises he's touching his bandage, so he stops.

"Are you okay?"

The fuck no.

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?" Her hand moves slightly, as if preparing to get the phone. People here are so bloody exaggerated. "If you're not feeling good, I can—"

"I'm fine," he insists. Again, he tries to smile, but he guesses the drugs have not made their effect yet. "I'm going to go outside for a bit. Fresh air."

"Okay," she nods, more relaxed now. "See you later, eh?"

"Yeah, bye."

In the fucking paper bin, Remus thinks as he walks out of the building.

"Oi, Sirius, it's about to be breakfast."

A groan emerges from the depths of his soul, and Sirius Black rolls on his new bed, leaving his face—previously pressed against the pillow—exposed. The sheets have left a pattern on his skin, delicate waves that deceive his friends into thinking he had a pleasant sleep.

"Fuuuck..." he grunts, and the doubts appear.

"Well, okay," James smiles, characteristically sympathetic; "don't get so hyped up about it."

Sirius, now half-awake, looks at him with eyes that have seen the world burn. Then, with the sweetest of voices, he asks:

"Can't I stay here?"

Peter tries not to laugh. Yay, manipulation.

"Well, I... No?" The boy with the glasses—which he is not wearing right now—looks at his friend, seeking support. Pete just shrugs, so James turns to Sirius again. "You're supposed to go see Poppy. You know, therapy session."

A pair of brows team up on the black haired boy's face to form an ugly frown.

"Tell her I'm ill," he says, and presses his head against the pillow again. As if that'd make time stop and lights go off.

It doesn't. For the record.

James laughs, takes a better look at the boy, realises it wasn't a joke, and stops.

"Sorry, I—" He presses his lips, not really knowing how to cheer him up. "No, you really have to go. But it's okay, it's just talking. Pete and I can go with you, if you want."

Sirius takes a deep breath. He sits on his bed, contemplates his own existence for a moment, and then he gets up.

"I'm sorry." He looks at James, just like he'd look at his mother after he had received an order from her. Tired. "I'll go."

James would like to be mute. Peter is glad that he is.

"Good," the apparently most sociable one grins. Although he feels horrible inside right now, he must admit he's a pretty good actor. One has to be, to convince his parents that things are going great while his brain is slowly decaying and he's falling apart. For years. He shakes the memories off, keeps smiling. "Oh, and could you look for Remus on your way out? We're gonna play poker before morning activities, he'll probably want to join."

Sirius is putting his shoes on, still wearing his pajamas.

"Okay," he mutters, tying his Doc Martens' laces. He doesn't remember taking them off last night.

"You can play too, by the way!" James says, walking up to his—hopefully—new friend, carefully, like one approaches a deer in the forest.

"No, I'm good," the boy says. He gets up, takes a jumper from the bag he should've already unpacked. Black, Metallica logo. Pretentious, just how he likes it. He puts it on. "How's Remus?"

"Oh," James smiles. He's decided that he probably should do something too, so he's looking for his glasses. They're not in the bedside table; which would be odd, had it happened to anyone else. James and his ADHD have an especial talent to lose stuff. "He's good."

Not on the desk, not on the windowsill.

"No, I—Physically. How is he? I don't know him."

The case inside his bag? No, not there either.

"Oh! Well, he's good too." He laughs, zipping his bag closed. "Nah, but he's quite tall and he's got, like, a huge bandage on his face."

As he stops talking, James feels a vague nudge on his arm, and turns to see Peter handing him his glasses. They were on the floor. He beams, taking them and putting them on without even wiping the lenses.

"Oh," Sirius says. He wasn't expecting the bandage thing. He looks at his nails to seem busy thinking. He needs to get his hands on some polish, fast. And caffeine. "Okay."

"He's not dangerous, or anything— Just been through stuff. I mean, like all of us. Right?"

The long haired boy lifts his gaze, feeling quite awake all of a sudden.

"Right," he says. He stares for a second. Then, he turns and walks through the door.

Outside, Remus sits on his usual bench, the one surrounded by statues. He doesn't know the name, author or meaning of any of them, but he likes to give them little stories, so he doesn't feel alone while he waits for time to pass.

A girl with a handful of flowers—Ophelia, he has named her—grins, as if the cold stone of which her skin was shaped could somehow radiate warmth. Her face is lit up by the sun, flowy hair moved by inexistent wind.

He brings his feet up to the bench, curls up into a ball. He looks at Eurydice, extending her arm desperately, half-sitting in a pedestal, one leg swinging in the air, but still somehow completely static, frozen in time. She's got a pair of wings in her back, which make the reaching out gesture seem pointless, but still meaningful. He guesses that, no matter how many means and tools one has, they're of no use if they're made out of stone.

He wishes kissing statues would make them come back to life. He also wishes he could feel true love while kissing Eurydice, Ophelia, Cassandra, or any of the others surrounded by lavender and forget-me-nots.

The statue refuses to look at him, stone-faced, accepting her fate of staying there forever, unmoved, unloved, unnoticed. Or, if she is ever noticed; unaware.

He wonders if she can see the stars. And if the stars can see her.

"'Ey there."

Remus turns to face the stone path, and the boy walking along it.

"Hi," he says. He shoots one last glance at Eurydice, then smiles at the boy. "Hello."

He's wearing a pair of jeans Remus is sure to have never seen before, and a pretty cool jumper. Black, with a neon green skeleton-like pattern to show that, just like everyone else in this place, he's dead inside.

Although, to be fair, anything beats Remus' brown checkered pajama bottoms. He's not really good at curating outfits, let's just say that.

"You look good," Barty smiles, lip piercing glinting beneath the morning sun. "Slept anything?"

Remus wants that piece of metal in his mouth. Now. If his parents won't let him have his ears perforated, he'll get the piercing elsewhere. It's that simple.

"A bit," he says, fixing his posture on the bench. "Though Pete had a nightmare and woke me up."

He didn't even bring a book. As proof of how much he enjoys these moments.

"Shit," Barty says, sitting next to him. They usually keep it natural the first couple of minutes, in case someone comes and sees them. "He okay?"

That is, of course, if they can act natural. Neither is particularly good at holding back.

"Yeah," Remus' hand moves slightly, brushes the fabric of Barty's jeans. An I've noticed they're new gesture. "I mean, I guess. He was still in bed when I left."

Barty gets the message. He usually does.

"Hm." He smiles. "And you?"

Remus takes his hand back. Instant turnout.

"What?" he asks.

"You're doing the thing," Barty tells him, and he stops touching his bandage. "Remus, are you okay?"

Why, why, WHY is everyone asking me that today?

He shifts, slightly moving away from the other boy. He crosses his arms, too, though that's just to leave his scar alone.

"Don't wanna talk," he says, because he knows it will work. It always does. "Just—Don't ask, okay?"

Ophelia judges him, petrified flowers still intact in her hands.

"Okay." Barty smiles, like an elementary school teacher would smile at the troubled kid.

As a child, Remus had always thought he was the teacher's pet. Last year he realised that just nobody wanted to be be with him for group assignments, not even the adults. They just had to do their job, and the other kids rolled with it, assumed he'd always be left alone with the teacher of the moment.

Which is fair. He's always ruined that sort of things. He's always ruined people. Especially those who approach him.

"Thanks," he says, eyes still fixed on the statue. He wishes he could go back inside now. Read a book. Chat with James. Cry.

It's been so long since he cried.

"I heard you have a new mate," Barty says, directing his eyes at Ophelia too, trying to find what Remus sees in her. To him, it's just a big rock. A pretty one.

"Haven't talked to him." Remus has always seen beyond the surface. In Ophelia, he sees the innocence of a boy who realised way too late that he was in the wrong place. "Heard you've two new friends."

In Barty, he sees someone else. Someone he shouldn't have left.

Sometimes he wonders if he even likes him that much. He wants to, but knows that, if he hasn't felt pain in days, he's probably incapable of feeling love, too.

"Oh, they're psychotic," the pretty boy laughs. "Evan and Pandora, man. Evil horror movie twins, I tell ya."

He wishes he were a statue. He wouldn't have to care about feeling; he'd just have to look up at the stars every night, make wishes and ask Mercury to send him someone who cares, someone he won't mess everything up with. He wishes, for once, someone would just come and love him, without expecting him to do it back.

He would try, he really would. His whole life has been about trying. He just knows he wouldn't make it; and wonders why there's noone who could understand that, noone who could say It's okay, I know you're trying, I see it. I see you. I feel you. And I love you anyway.

He would. He knows, if it happened to him, he'd do it. He'd love. He'd understand.

Why is it that fucked up people can only be with fucked up people?

"Hm," Remus nods. He'd be worried about crying, if he could do it. He feels like a broken robot. An AI in fixing. His intelligence has always seemed pretty artificial to him. Everything looks worse from the inside. Silly. "Is Evan hot?"

"Very," Barty laughs. "Is your new mate?"

Remus shrugs.

"I've heard so."

He feels a bit better now. Not great, but better. He sort of needs to feel something. Humans always need to feel. It's exhausting.

He looks at Barty, eyes tired and lips pressed together. The black haired boy smiles, getting closer to him, pressing his knee against Remus' leg. Their faces come close, so close, too close. They hear each other's breathing, and he knows Barty is hearing his too, and he remembers why they do this, why it makes him feel so alive. It makes him feel seen, even if it's not in the way he'd like. It makes—

"You thinking of him now?"

He pulls back, just enough to see his face, more than just his lips. And he smirks.

"You thinking of the twins?"

"Touché," Barty whispers, french accent impressively good, and slides a hand where hands shouldn't be. Or should they? Remus needs to think about that later. He's busy now, though. Busy getting his lips close enough to the other boy's so that he can feel the warmth, the blood boiling under his skin, the—

A cough.

They break off immediately, look at the boy.

"Is any of you Remus?"

Long hair, wavy. Metallica jumper, pretentious. Mismatched socks, Tim Burton merchandising.

Barty has one of the best laughs since he got to Hogwarts. Remus tries to smoothen out his shirt.

"Hey, man, he asked you something," Barty smiles, still halfway through a fit of laughter.

"Piss off," Remus says, stoic, then looks at the boy. "What?"

"James and Peter said they're going to play poker." Sirius shifts his weight from one foot to the other, nervously. It feels odd to talk about his roommates like he knows them. He doesn't, really. He just tells them apart because one of them doesn't talk. "Do I tell them you're... busy?"

"No—No, I'll go." He gets up. Barty's smile drops slightly, turning into an expression of interest, examination. Remus doesn't look at him; he's fixed on the new boy. His new dormmate, he guesses. "I just—give me a fucking minute, okay?"

"'Kay," Sirius says, and turns around, walks away. Disappears. Like a ghost.

Remus turns, sits on the bench and, very gently, politely, expresses:

"Shit."

Barty laughs again, putting an arm around Remus' shoulders.

Remus doesn't react. He just keeps dropping interjections.

"Fuck," for example. And: "SHIT!"

"Hey, it's—"

"No!" He pulls away, gets up again, starts walking in circles. The statues' eyes seem to follow him where he goes. "No, you don't get it! He saw us! He saw us and now he's going to go to the dorm and he's going to tell—Fuck!" He looks at the boy he was about to kiss just a minute ago, one hand clutching the fabric of his shirt while the other one unconsciously goes for the bandage, the wound. He looks at the walk back to the building, then at Barty. "Wait here, okay?" he asks him. "I'll be back. I promise."

He's done too many promises.

"You don't have—"

"Wait, alright?" he insists.

He starts running without even expecting a response.

"Hey!" he calls the other boy, whose hair is the only thing that he can see. "Hey, hey!"

Sirius turns his head, still walking.

"What?" he asks. Remus thinks he'd be a good lawyer. A tediously good one. "Poker?"

He also thinks about throwing a punch at him. He holds himself back. He doesn't need more medication. Nor the special room.

"No?" Remus frowns, all but worried about sounding harsh. He has better things to think about than what an edgy suicidal teen might think about him. He already deals with his own opinions about himself, isn't that enough? "I—Can we talk?"

"I was going to sleep," Sirius responds, unbothered.

"Fuck sleep. Can we talk?"

Is that a smile? He decides to ignore it.

"Okay," the long haired boy nods. His black curls follow his movement, like the sea flowing along with a tsunami.

"Not here." Remus looks around, grabs Sirius's arm and drags him inside of the main building, into one of the bathrooms. He whispers, pressing his back against the stall door in case someone comes in because, of course, there's no fucking lock. "Look, what you saw was not—"

"You want me not to tell the other two?"

Silence.

"Yeah," Remus says. He doesn't know what else to add.

"'Kay. That all?"

Shit, okay; he's not stupid. That's going to be a problem.

And his eyes might be another one.

"Yes, I..." Much to his horror, Remus remembers he'll have to share a life with the boy in front of him. He tries to appear somewhat agreeable. "Well, nice to meet you. Um, I'm Remus."

"Yeah, I know," Sirius says. He is, very evidently, not trying to be friendly.

"Right."

Remus tries to make a mental list of all the things about him that will present a problem both to his already quite damaged mental health, and his recent—but very valued—friendships.

Lists have never saved him, but they keep him entertained while he falls into the void. Like a black hole crossword.

A Black hole.

"So..."

Sirius eyes him up and down, takes as much of as a step back as he can in the reduced space and crosses his arms. He's a total bitch, Remus thinks. Add to list.

"Yeah, sorry." He gets out of Sirius's way and opens the door for the both of them to come out of the bathroom stall.

"It's not illegal, or anything, right?" the new boy asks, taking a look at himself in the mirror. He looks awful. Remus would disagree. "Going out with another patient."

"I dont— We're not going out. We're not anything. Just..."

Sirius turns, looking at Remus now. He's curious about the bandage. He'd like to see his face on the whole—with or without a scar, he doesn't mind; but his face.

"Just need it sometimes?" he asks him. "To feel noticed?"

"Noticed," Remus nods. "Yeah."

Sirius hums in agreement. They stay like that for a bit. They both wish someone would come in and cut the conversation, but none of them do anything to escape. They just keep looking at each other. Then:

"Are you okay?"

Something twists inside Remus's stomach. He doesn't move. He can't.

"Why is everyone asking me that?" he whispers. He wants Sirius to hear, he just can't bring himself to say it louder. He feels muted, sedated, asleep.

"Aren't we in a psychiatric?" Sirius asks, and it makes him smile. Just a bit.

"Mental hospital, yeah," he nods, and they go back to silence, staring.

Then, they both break laughing, one after the other. The whole situation is so stupid there doesn't seem to be anything else to do.

"Are you okay, then?" Sirius insists, still trying to control a grin. He's not smiled like that since he got here.

"Oh; Hell, no," Remus laughs. "You?"

"I'm K.O., does that count?"

The laugh becomes almost a roar, and Remus has to lean into the wall in order not to fall.

"As long as you're still breathing," he says after a failed attempt at recovering control. "I don't think there's a difference."

"Let's hope I don't run out of air, then," Sirius smirks, and something shines in his eye, a momentaneous sparkle. A shooting star.

Make a wish.

"Yeah, let's hope."

Chapter Text

And when you're done, you can discard me like the others always do

And I will nurse my wounds until another artist stains me new

Halsey, Lonely is the Muse

Tuesday, October 14th, 2025

Hi, it's me. Update: I'm in the hospital.  I wasn't 

I fucked up. But it's ok. I'm ok. Shit happens.

I met some nice guys. I don't really know them, but they seem cool. James is constantly trying to make me feel good, which is fine, but it makes me feel stupid. I think he does it with everyone, tho, so he might just be like that. Peter doesn't talk. I don't really know much of him. And the other one is Remus. He probably hates me because I caught him snogging another patient. I guess he's a patient, I don't know. It'd be weird if he was snogging a doctor. Maybe a nurse. He looked like he was my age, though.

Well: Remus. Not the friendliest of people. But god he's so so so  hot   cool  stupid???? He's a bitch.

They're playing cards now, the three of them. I wish I had my phone. If anyone from my family comes to see me I'm gonna ask them to bring me my IPod I swear to god.

 I also had therapy with 

I'm tired. I'm going to sleep because I don't know what else to do. Bye I guess.

Sirius closes his notebook and looks at the boys, busy verbally attacking each other.

They've started with poker but, after James and Remus have lost all their stuff—weirdly enough, they bet with food—, they have switched to another game.

He heard James explain it; a card game played in Spain. You drop a card, facing downwards, and say what number it is. If the next guy believes you, he drops a card of the same number and the game goes on. If he doesn't believe you, though, he has to say Bullshit! and you flip it in order to see who gets the cards. The goal, obviously, is to get rid of all.

It looks fun.

Sirius looks at them, wishing they'd see him staring and ask him to join. He will not approach them first.

That's how he usually makes friends. It is probably the reason he has so little, too.

He just hopes it will work this time, with them. They seem different.

They may not be all that special, though; not overly observant, at least. In their defence, it is fair to say that the three boys are too caught up in the game to pay attention to anything other than the cards, and their mates' expressions.

Reemus sees him, anyway.

He shoots Sirius a glance. Goes back to the game. Drops a card, calls Peter's bluff. Looks at him again. Laughs at James' joke.

On one of these occasions, James catches him staring, smirks and keeps playing. Some people are only nice when it benefits them.

Sirius opens his sketchbook once again, looks at what's written, and ponders the idea of erasing everything, crossing it out, scratching over it with his black marker.

He doesn't.

He flips the page and begins to draw. He's too tired to break or ruin things now. Maybe later. Maybe next month. Next year?

The boys keep playing, and the ink seems to flow by itself, hand no longer connected to his brain. No thoughts, just lines.

His eyes go out of focus for a bit, and he needs to stop, take a look at the paper, wait. He sees the image, and realises he's drawing a girl; one of the statues in the garden he saw over an hour ago. Where he saw Remus. And the other one, of course.

"Hey, that's so cool!" James grins, creeping up behind Sirius, who closes his sketchbook with a scared flop. How long has been drawing for? He zoned out completely. "That's the same one as outside!"

The boy points enthusiastically at the window, and Sirius frowns. That's not the direction in which the garden is. The window literally leads to a one-way alley.

"Yes," he answers, and notices that Peter and Remus have appeared at both his sides, presumably to see what James was referring to.

"What is it?" Remus asks. He looks at James, not Sirius. The artists thinks it's quite rude of him, seen as he owes him a favour.

"Show them," James smiles, eyes crinkling behind his glasses. "It's really good!"

With a sigh that could take a house down, Sirius opens his sketchbook once again, and shows the boys his drawing. Peter nods, as if he were a judge approving of the submitted piece.

Remus doesn't say anything, he doesn't move. Behind the bandage—which Sirius notices has been changed since this morning—he is static, frozen, as if he too were one of the statues. As if he were watching his sister drawn on paper; not an object, but an equal. A part of his life, his soul.

He's just sleepy, Sirius guesses and—although he doesn't know this—he closes the book the second before Remus can react to the piece. Thank God for that, because he was going to raise a hand to it and trace over the sketch, like an art history nerd would do with a Turner original. He is a nerd, though; both in what regards to history and interesting people. And this Sirius seems to have a whole lot of stories to tell.

"Cassandra," the boy whispers. The other three stare as if he were stupid. Or crazy. Not that there's anything wrong with that—they're all stupid and crazy. They just seem to have realised that Remus, who seemed relatively normal, is too.

"Do you know her?" James asks.

"It's a statue," Sirius points out. "Unless you are all schizophrenic, it is impossible to know a piece of concrete."

"Well, he called her Cassandra!" James argues.

"Maybe it's the title of the art piece?"

"Who names a statue—"

"You drew Cassandra?" Remus asks in a soft whisper, eyes still focused on the point where the sketchbook used to be.

"Who the fuck is Cassandra?" Asks Picasso.

"Beautiful," answers the soon-to-be muse. Sirius can already see it: the shape of his eyes, his hair, his lips on the paper.

Why is he thinking of his lips? You're staring.

"I did it from memory," he says. "The proportions are probably off, and the folds in the dress are all—"

"I love her."

A look, a stare. A small glimpse of what Remus might be thinking. And, by small, I mean Sirius imagines he's impressed at his skills, and especially likes the drawing because of some sort of obsession with classical lit—please, look at him—and statues; or art, in general.

That's quite accurate, if we're talking about normal Remus. Right now, however, his mind looks something like: What what what what how did he read my mind he read my mind I swear to God that boy read my mind he is a magician he is the Devil he is so good so hot so cool why does he have to have such a cool shirt fucking fuck Hell shit I can't—

"Her, or the drawing?" Sirius smirks.

You're here, Remus reminds himself. And you're being obsessive again. Stop.

"I love how you see her," he says. The sound of his voice feels weird in his throat but, to Sirius, he looks soft, softer than ever. Peter sees his brows relax, his jaw unclench for the first time in what seemed like ages. "You made her beautiful."

James and Peter exchange a look. Neither Remus nor Sirius notice.

Da Vinci shrugs, as if he didn't understand perfectly what's going on. He does. He has always understood. It is his curse, the cross he has to bear.

"She's always been," he states.

"I guess so," Remus agrees.

Silence. The four of them keep quiet, not knowing what to say. Peter would like to throw himself into his bed, or out the window—though the hospital architects for sure made that last bit impossible.

People are just so dumb sometimes. Just kiss, if you want to. Punch each other in the face, if you like. Or both, who cares. But staring? Looking at another person like that, saying nothing, looking stupid as fuck? Oh, please; how old are they? Six? Ninety-eight? Tell me about the war or go make a sudoku, granny, but stop staring into space while you think of a love affair you had back in the 50s.

Anyway, after wishing someone would say something or, at least, move; it's James who clears his throat, fixes his hair and, with a sigh that he somehow manages to make sound cheerful, goes back to seat at the table.

"Lads," he calls them, "want another round, or do I put them away?"

With this, Remus escapes the staring contest, checking his wristwatch. Who even has a wristwatch in 2025?

"It's almost nine," he announces. Sirius wants to move, he really does—but he can't. His hands hold onto the sketchbook on his lap, fingers pressing against the leather cover.

Fuuuuuck.

Why does everything have to be so cliché? He shouldn't even be here, he should be in a plastic bag inside of a giant refrigerator, or burnt to ashes in a ceramic pot, or six-foot deep in the ground next to some family member he never got to meet, or...

"You're right," James says, putting the Spanish deck back into its box. "We should all head downstairs."

Peter—who has pursued his dream of laying in bed—yawns, quite loudly. Sirius thinks it's a bit rude, but none of his presumably morally superior roommates correct him, so he guesses it's just normal Pete behaviour.

He'd love to say that he's getting used to their personalities, but, in reality, he's just flowing along, trying not to fuck everything up. Again.

For now, he wants to kiss/talk to/draw like a french girl a boy he knows close to nothing about. So, that's going great.

"Shall we, then?" James asks, gesturing at the door, which Remus opens and holds for him.

"Oh," he jokes," ladies first, please."

James offers him a delicate bow, and gets out of the room.

"C'mon, Pete!" He calls from the corridor. "Wake up!"

This boy responds with a groan. So he does have a voice, Sirius thinks, and gets up, still feeling only half-present.

He approaches the door, waits for Peter to get out, and looks at Remus.

"So, Ladies first, huh?"

He does remember how to lift an eyebrow, after all. Some things don't change.

"Shit, you're right—we'll have to go at the same time."

Sirius laughs at that and, as accorded, the two boys—pardon; ladies—cross the door at the same time, giggling with stupid teenage hormone glee.

For the hundredth time today, Peter and James exchange a look. It turns out Peter can play with his eyebrows, too.

Chapter Text

And if the cloud bursts thunder in your ear

You shout and no one seems to hear

And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes

I'll see you on the dark side of the moon

Pink Floyd, Brain Damage

"So," Sirius says, and Remus is thankful for the excuse to look at him. "Where are we going, again?"

He sighs. The boy might be pretty—that hair, those eyes—, and he might be a highly talented painter; but he is definitely not the smartest man on the planet.

"Didn't you receive a schedule?" Remus questions. He knows he did. He just wants to make sure that Sirius knows he's being stupid. He missed that good old feeling of superiority—he can't treat James or Peter that way; they're too nice. But Sirius? Nothing's stopping him from being rude to the boy. Hopefully, he'll fight back and make things interesting.

"Yeah, yeah, Group therapy, okay." The long haired boy says, waving a hand to show just how much he cares about the schedule. He probably hasn't even had a look at the map, Remus thinks, and presses his lips together. "I just—How does that work? Is it... do we have to talk? To each other?"

"No," he answers, sarcasm pouring out of his mouth like poison, "we just sit in silence together for an hour and a half."

"I'm not sure what's worse."

Remus lets out another sigh, and decides to focus on walking. There's enough stupid people in his life right now, he doesn't need another one stuck to him like glue. He seems to attract lost causes.

"Well; like it or not, therapy is supposed to help you."

It might be because he's a lost cause himself. Maybe all those idiots think the same of him—that he's a prick, a pain in the ass. That he's clinging onto foreign arms and depending on people who just don't need him in their ever so perfect lives.

But who the fuck cares. Whatever others may think of Remus, Sirius is worse. Much, much worse.

"Will it help me hate it less?"

Verbi gratia.

"It might, yes."

"Man, I really, really don't like this place," Sirius whispers to himself.

"What are you, six years old?" Remus responds, tone maybe a bit too harsh, a bit too high. James and Peter, who were walking ahead of them, stop and turn to look.

"Sorry," Sirius says, straightening his back at once. "I just—"

"Shut up!"

He does. Sharp breath in, he shuts his mouth closed and lowers his head, hair closing before it like a black curtain of shame. He thought this'd be different from home. He thought wrong.

"'kay," he says, eyes stinging.

It is not okay to Remus.

"You think you've some sort of immunity for being here?" he yells, the scar on his nose burning with every word he speaks. "That you're a fucking victim? Look 'round, man, we're all stupid and sad and dead inside. You're no protagonist. You're no star. Didn't get your coming-of-age glow up? None of us did. And if you think you're better than—"

A hand falls onto his shoulder, and Remus takes the opportunity to breathe. And cry.

"Rem, that's enough," James whispers, and shoots Sirius a look.

"I can't James, I swear to God, I—"

"Come," says the boy with the glasses, and they walk away, searching for a private place to talk. A place without Sirius in it.

"I can't..." comes the echo os Remus's voice, and Sirius closes his eyes. Counts to ten. It has never worked before, nor does it now, but he counts anyway. Getting angry at how useless the calming-down trick is often does the job, too.

When he opens his eyes again, Peter is leaning into the wall, looking at the floor tiles. They're hideous.

"I swear I did nothing," the long haired boy says, after he's finished brushing his black curls behind his ears.

Peter looks at him, expression neutral like a default Mii's, and nods. So it has happened before.

"Isn't he medicated?" he asks. He knows it's cruel, and probably insensible of him to talk about another person like that, but he's too tired, too fucked up inside to even care about that right now.

Peter nods in agreement. Fucking blob of beige. No feelings, no words, no nothing.

"I guess he hates me more than the pills calm him down," Sirius concludes, and keeps walking down the hallway, as if they had never stopped at all. Peter follows along, wordless, as usual. "You know where we're heading, right?"

The shorter boy doesn't even care to nod this time, he simply passes Sirius and begins to lead the way. Maybe no words is better than ugly words.

They arrive at a small room, and each sit on one of the many chairs propped in the centre of it, making a half-circle. It all looks so fake, so passive-agressively friendly.

Hell is a pastel blue room with a lot of windows. And silence. And that sinking feeling you can't ignore, the notion that you are such a mess you somehow manage to ruin entire lives in the span of a day. Already messed up lives, too. That's got to be double the achievement.

"Oh, hello!" A doctor comes in, smiling as if she weren't absolutely wishing for her shift to end once and for all. "You came early! Do you know where the other boys are?"

Sirius doesn't get why everyone in this hell of a place is constantly smiling. If they're sad, they should be fucking showing it. It's clearly not honest, and it's not healthy either—fucked up people should be allowed to feel bad. If everyone seems to be doing great, doesn't that make them feel worse somehow?

Both Peter and the doctor are looking at him now, waiting for a response. Of course Peter isn't going to talk.

"Remus went crazy and James is calming him down. They'll be here as soon as the fucker stops being a dramatic twat."

The doctor, middle-aged woman as she is, stares in shock as her wrinkled lips open to resemble a perfect O.

"Pardon?" she asks, fixing her tiny spectacles and setting them maybe a bit too high on the bridge of her nose.

"Well, he threw a tantrum like a bloody baby and—"

"Hi!" James half-shouts, crossing the door. Remus comes in second, eyes red and cheeks shining, wet with tears.

They might've not heard, Sirius thinks.

They did.

"Hello, boys," the nurse says. She doesn't smile now. It'd be a funny game, trying to guess wether she dropped her good humour because of what Sirius said or to respect Remus's miserable look.

"Hi," Remus offers, and sits next to Peter. This boy notices his bandage has gotten soggy. He'll probably change it as soon as they are done with the session.

"Hello, Minnie!" smiles James, aware of the weight the air between every one of them holds.

"Hello, love." After some hesitation, she sits down too, right in the centre of the half-moon. They're usually more but, as every time a new patient enters the hospital, today the session is reduced only to their little shared dorm group. "Alright, before we start: do we have anything to share? I see we are not doing very well today."

Silence. Peter takes a half-finished friendship bracelet out of his pocket, and begins twisting the remaining threads into a red and blue braid. Sirius watches him and thinks of the rings they made him take off. He hopes the staff hasn't lost them—they were pure silver.

"Remus?" The doctor looks at the boy, appearing as small as ever, feet up on the seat of his chair to convert himself into a ball, as usual.

He lifts his head, lets it rest on top of his knees. His eyes are red, glassy.

"Well, we ain't doing very well ever, are we?"

Sirius tries not to laugh. The woman nods, as if the answer actually meant something to her. It does not.

Minerva—Minnie for almost everyone she knows—offers a half-content hum, folding her arms. She doesn't have a notebook, which Sirius thinks is odd. The idea of a therapist he had was an awkwardly familiar young individual who is constantly taking notes on a little agenda. She, however, doesn't really fit with any of those attributes. He doesn't know is that's a good or a bad thing. "And how is that?"

Remus, so cold he once again reminds Sirius of a marble statue, huffs and, deadpan, drops: "I mean, I don't think none of us tried suicide 'cause we were having a rough day, huh?" He shoots Sirius a quick, sharp look. "Not most of us, anyway."

"The S word, Rem..." James whispers, eyes fixed on the tips of his Converse. If Remus hears, he does not care.

"Oi," Sirius says, trying not to raise his voice too much. He doesn't want to stoop down to his level. "You know nothing about me."

"I know enough," Remus answers.

"I know enough about you, too." He narrows his eyes, nose scrunched up in an expression of disgust as he tries to make Remus remember The Garden Incident. He's not really disgusted; shocked, and a bit confused, maybe, but he totally gets why Remus would have chosen to snog the boy. He'd probably do it too.

"Yeah?" Remus asks, somehow both angry and unimpressed. The fucker is probably a great manipulator. He's not fooling Sirius, though. Nuh-uh.

"Yeah," Sirius answers. He's got to admit, he doesn't sound nor feel as cool as the other boy is.

"Well, you can forget about it."

"You fucking wish," Sirius snorts, and folds his arms, leaning back on his chair.

"What I wish is—"

"Boys," Minnie intervenes, "remember: this is not an argument or a debate, it is an open conversation that includes all of us. There doesn't need to be conflict, we only share our feelings in a safe space. Alright?"

"Alright," Sirius agrees, eyes avoiding the boy's sight now, focusing on the ceiling, the windows, the artworks on the wall.

"Safe space," Remus echoes in a mumble, sarcastic as they come.

Peter, still working on his bracelet, gives him a small nudge, and he shuts up.

Minnie clears her throat, wishing she had a notebook with her. Or two, to throw one at each.

"Sirius," she smiles, "would you like to share something with us? Something about how or why you got here?"

He takes a breath. Deep.

"Well, I thought it was pretty obvious," he says, ever so casually, as if he were talking about his favourite book. "I tried to kill myself."

James flinches at that last expression, a sting of pain piercing through his chest. Minnie, of course, notices.

"Sirius, the boys have a set of rules to make living together easier," she informs him. "Have they told you about them?"

"No."

"Well," the doctor nods, and looks at the other three. "Does any of you want to fill him in on the details?"

Fill him in. Remus snorts. Hes not that hot.

James looks at him, both confused and nervous. The bespectacled boy gestures at his cheek, and so he stops touching his bandage.

"We've two main rules," Remus starts: "The S Word Rule and the Bathroom Rule."

James nods, solemnly. Peter raises his eyebrows, still braiding threads.

"We basically don't use the S word 'cause of James, though I suppose it doesn't do good to any of us," he says. He doesn't look particularly convinced. Sirius thinks fearing a word is utter bullshit. If you can't say 'suicide' out loud, are you even in rehab? "And the bathrooms have no locks, but we never come in without asking first. Privacy, y'know?"

"Ah," Sirius answers. He thought that was basic shared dorm knowledge, even if he's never actually shared a room before. He's seen Friends, though, which is, like, basically the same thing. "Okay."

Minnie smiles, pleased with herself for getting the boys to make peace. Sirius guesses Remus is going to punch him later, probably in the garden.

He won't. But just because he doesn't want to give Sirius more reasons to bring Barty up again. He has no right to destroy the two most important friendships that he's ever forged.

Okay, he might have exaggerated a bit. But he does appreciate James and Peter, a lot, and he doesn't want a wannabe emo boy to ruin what they have. It's not worth it. He likes Barty, he really does, but it's not worth that.

"Also," James adds, inpatient, "we don't lie to each other. We talk and we tell each other stuff and we—Well, we've just met, but we're like best friends for that, okay? There's confidence, really, we won't judge or anything."

Sirius looks at Remus. Remus stares back.

No secrets. Suuure.

"Okay," he repeats, eyes still fixed on Remus. James goes back to looking at his shoes.

Awkward silence. Everyone's distracted, on one way or another. Sirius begins to chip his nail polish away. He'd repaint his nails later, if he had brought a bottle with him but—well, apparently, his cousins didn't think a basic makeup kit was an adequate addition to his emergency bag when they were packing it up. It's not their fault, really; they just don't know him.

He heard the other three mention a group of girls on their same wing. It is highly unlikely that he will befriend any of them, but the information is there, and it is useful.

By the way, Minnie is still sitting in the centre of them. In silence. Not knowing what the hell to do with these kids.

Conversation usually flows easily with this group but, today, luck is not on their side. Or motivation. Or overall happiness if you want to put it like that. It might be because the girls are not here—they are definitely very lively additions to the group—, but the doctors thought it best to integrate the boy properly into his closest circle first, especially since his case revolves in such a way around flawed interpersonal relationships.

She looks at them all, her little lot of misery-struck boys. They're too young, too good to feel like they do. They always are.

"Okay, does any of you want to add something?" she asks, trying to seem thrilled to listen to whatever complaint they might have about today's breakfast down in the cafeteria. "As James well said, we are surrounded by people we trust, and we will listen to what everyone has to say."

Awful silence, again. Remus chokes on his own saliva and coughs. Sirius almost perforates a lung holding back his laughter.

"Peter?" the doctor says, suddenly. The boy raises his head, eyes open with fear. "Do you feel comfortable enough to share a bit of how you feel?"

Threads tied around two of his fingers and half a bracelet hanging from them, the boy lowers his hand slowly, as if he didn't want his public to notice. Right now, to him, they are like sharks, bears, caimans; wild beasts. They smell fear, they are drawn by blood and, most importantly, they only attack at the sight of movement.

If he were to answer, he knows exactly what he'd say. It's not difficult to express his current situation: I'm tired, hungry, bored and also really invested in the imminent yaoi tragedy between what looks like a teenage Brian Molko and Andrew Garfield after filming a fighting a scene in Spider-Man. This bracelet is cutting the circulation in my fingers, too.

But, naturally, he doesn't say any of that. Instead, he looks directly at Minnie and, with a small twitch of his mouth, shrugs.

She is not paid enough for this.

"Well, I suppose we could wrap this session up early, if none of you feel like speaking..."

James tries not to cheer.

Remus and Sirius share a look, then promptly look away at the same time.

"I will see you tomorrow morning, then," Minnie says, not really sure what to do with them. He can't retain them in the room for half an hour in silence and, even if she were to do it, she would definitely not survive the experience. "What are you doing this afternoon, again?"

Surely they will answer an easy question like that, she tells herself, not fully convinced. Have they even had enough sleep tonight?

"Um," Remus tries. "I think it's, like, art?"

"Oh, yes" she smiles. "With Sprout, right. Well, have fun, boys."

"Thanks!" James grins, being the first to exit the room. Peter follows, distracted with a mistake in his little DIY project, and then Remus leaves too. Sirius needs a moment to get up, stuck both by awkward shyness for being watched by Minnie, and by a sudden sting of pain on his forearm when he uses it to left himself up from his chair.

He forgot about that. He was too distracted trying to survive that he forgot that he had already done it before.

And, oh, God, he's been judging Remus and assuming all sorts of things about him because of his bandage, but he'd missed that he might look the same to others.

Is he the same?

He gets up, leaves the room. James starts walking on his side, somewhere between optimistic and disassociative.

Remus and Peter walk behind.

"I'm crazy hungry!" The four-eyed boy is saying. He's doing his two favourite things in the world: grinning and complaining. "You hungry?"

Sirius thinks about it for a moment. He feels like being sick.

"I don't know," he lies.

"Whaddya mean you don't know? Listen to your body!"

Now, that's just stupid. If he were to listen to his body—however that might work—, he wouldn't receive an answer regarding food, of all things. Also, whatever his organism has to tell him must be a nightmare to listen to.

"What does it say, eh?" the boy insists. Sirius wants to trip him up and watch him kiss the floor. A touching romance, a truly Shakespearean love story.

"It tells me you were a difficult kid," he answers, and he forces his peace. As he heads down to the cafeteria, Sirius hears the golden boy laugh behind him.

Chapter Text

Situation gets rough, and I start to panic

It's not enough, it's just a habit

Hey, kid, you're sick!

Well, darling, this is it

You can all just kiss off into the air

Behind my back I can see them stare

They'll hurt me bad, but I won't mind

They'll hurt me bad, they do it all the time

Yeah, yeah

They do it all the time

Violent Femmes, Kiss Off

Cafeteria lunch sucks.

Or, at least, so has Sirius been told. James, Remus and even Peter seem to agree on the hospital having the worst food repertoire in the entire world, and he doesn't have any reason not to believe them.

It is true, however, that the boys have compared the menu to their mothers' lasagna, outdoors barbeques and, in James's case, his grandmother's spanish paella. Sirius, being used to frozen pizza and cup noodles, buns wrapped in kilos of plastic and corner-store muffins, isn't sure if anything could be worse than his current diet.

His parents have never really been great at taking care of him—not alimentwise, at least. They do bring food home but, as his father's work has him spend whole days and weeks away, most of their fridge is filled with precookeds, which Sirius wholeheartedly hates. They all taste the same, and he despises every single one of them.

He developed a financial strategy a couple of years ago, actually, which consisted on selling his History notes throughout his whole school year, and using up the money to buy his own groceries at the start of every month. If it weren't for Pearl Harbour, he would've had to feed off of microwave special rice rations, the kind only shit parents and divorced middle-aged alcoholics buy—or both things.

Anyway, as I said, he bought food for himself, and all, but his diet is still shit, like any teenager's would be if they had the chance to choose their own meals. The usual were those donuts I mentioned before, and, on times of scarcity, packets of mint-flavoured gum he bought to have something to chew on and confuse his metabolism. He started doing the gum thing more often with time, even if he had a bit of spare money. He'd get a new set of ink markers and buy minty liquorice so as to trick his body into thinking it was being fed properly.

Bodies are so stupid.

Anyway, at least now he can have real food without having to go to his cousins'. It might taste hellishly—he hasn't discovered yet—but he can't argue it's something.

He hopes Reg can manage on his own, though. He can't stop thinking about him. He never once complained about the frozen meals Sirius made for him. He never complained about anything, really. Sometimes, Sirius has to remind himself that his little baby brother is sixteen now, not the kid that used to obediently munch on cold plasticky bolognese. He's probably old enough to turn on the microwave by himself.

He enters the cafeteria, his three new friends walking behind him. He wishes he'd be left alone for a minute; it's hard to breathe while being surrounded by people, suffocated under noise and curiosity and life.

The moment he crosses the double metal doors, he hears a girl scream, and realises he will never find peace. Not in this lifetime.

"PEAS AGAIN?" the girl complains, her voice filling the already crowded space. She's a blonde, hair like a rockstar's, and is looking at her lunch tray as if it had grown a mouth and said something scandalous to her. It, very obviously, did not.

A redhead laughs and consoles her, although Sirius can't hear what she's saying. She looks smart, smart enough not to care about a plate of peas. Her long, straight hair cascades down her shoulders like a fiery waterfall, making Sirius wonder how she could be able to tuck it behind her ears without fearing it will burn her skin.

He wonders why they're here, the both of them, if there's anything under the sleeve of the ginger's knit jumper that matches the red on her hair. A part of him—the most wretched, evil part of his soul—hopes there is.

"She's beautiful, eh?" James smiles, now on his side. Sirius realises he has stopped walking, letting the others catch his pace.

"What?" he asks, black brows furrowed together, and stops looking at the girl at once. "No."

James laughs, hand on his shoulder, and Sirius instinctively flinches at the touch.

"It's okay, mate, I'm not gonna punch you or anything," the four-eyed boy laughs. With what's clearly a sportsman's hand tapping his bony shoulder, Sirius cant help but doubt. "Wanna go meet them? They're nice, I promise."

He does not.

"What's for lunch today?" Remus asks, gaze travelling through the dining hall. He sees the redhead, and waves. She doesn't notice.

"Dunno," James yawns, and adjusts his glasses over the bridge of his nose. "Where's Pete?"

"Bathroom." The bandage boy pulls a face, fixing his eyes on a door now, probably leading to the kitchen, waiting for it to open and let him get a clue. Sirius wouldn't see shit even if he squinted. He really needs to get his hands on some contacts. "Doesn't smell so good."

He can't ask any of the staff members, though; he knows they'd tell him to just wear a pair of glasses and call it a day. He needs Cissy or Bella to come visit—if that is even a thing here—and ask them. Reg probably won't come until the first month is over.

"Hm," James nods, as if he had just noticed the odor. Why is it that all lunch halls smell the same? It reminds him of school. He shivers, then shakes the thought away with a grin. "Maybe it's soup, or some shit."

He'll have to tell Poppy about this tomorrow. About how it's getting worse. They might increase his dose. A second shiver travels his spine, touching every vertebra as if his back were a fucking xylophone from Hell. He fixes his glasses again.

"Peas," Sirius mumbles, looking at his fingernails. Man, he really needs to paint them.

"Eh?"

"It's peas," he says, louder, lifting his head. "A girl shouted it. One of your friends, I reckon."

He'd love a nice burgundy, or a dark midnight blue with a bit of shine; starry and space-y glitter.

"Ah, that's not so bad," James smiles, shoulders relaxing a bit.

He knows exactly what colour he'd use if he were home but, seeing as though his only chance is befriending a girl and having her lend him a bottle... He might have to stick with what he can get. Probably black. Or just a transparent top coat to avoid breaking a nail. Given the circumstances, that'd probably do.

"We had peas last week," Remus points out, visibly annoyed. "Are they running out of ideas, or what? 'Cause we could use some bloody pizza, from time to time."

"Rather than vegetables?" Sirius tries. He's leaning into the wall now, trying to look cool but miserably failing. If he had his boots, his beloved black Docs, it'd be a whole different thing. But, no, shoelaces had to be prohibited in this place, of course.

"First of all, peas are seeds—not vegetables," Remus responds, matter-of-factly. Sirius could not care less. To be honest, he's still thinking about his boots. "And, yeah, I'd have pizza over literally anything, any day."

Why would they ban shoelaces, of all things? Razors and earrings and lighters—that's fair, that's understandable. But how does one use a damn cord to...

Okay, nevermind. He forgot necks existed.

"Gross."

That seems to upset Remus. Not like he's hard to upset, anyway. It's just that, after years and years of being told food was something he should be grateful for, and after seeing his parents work their asses off to feed the three of them, it pisses him the fuck off to hear someone call a dish Gross. Saying he doesn't like it? Great. Saying it could be better; okay. But nothing is gross. Maybe, I don't know, escargots. That's understandable, that can gross some people out. Fair. But pizza. Is. Not. Pizza is pizza. Pizza is a luxury that only the first-worlders can get their hands on, and it is not, nor will it ever be, gross.

So, yeah, he gets upset. And he jumps. Because that is what Upset Remus does: jump. It has always been this way.

"What are you, Gordon fucking Ramsay, or what?" He fires, and he knows he shouldn't, but his tone controls him more than he can care to control it. He is sure that, one day, he will become a mess of uncontrollable screams. Probably soon. At least then he won't have to think anymore. "Pizza is the best," he continues, "better than anything you'll eat here, apart from contraband sweets, if you ever get to win a poker game—or even play; 'cause I ain't seen you strike up a convo in what we've been here, mate."

That is probably the reason he took up writing. He pours his heart and brain and his whole soul into the paper in hopes that, if he ever stops being himself, that part of him will still be preserved somewhere, somehow. He fights now so that, when the madness turns him into a monster, he will be remembered as a warrior, not a beast. He bleeds so that, when he is tearing innocent victims out with his teeth, there will be a stain of his own pain in the floor, proof that he hadn't always been like that, that he wasn't born that way—that he was once destroyed, too.

He knows he will one day be blinded by rage, so he internalises every single detail of the world around him now that he can see. He says and thinks and does good things in hopes that they will outdo the horror that awaits. He knows the scale will always tilt towards his darkest side, but he really, really means to make it as even as possible, as good as an already, inherently evil soul could ever make it.

Hope can be real a bitch sometimes.

"You know what?" The pea defender fights back. Right, they're still there. Fighting. "I think you—"

"CAN WE NOT FIGHT OVER PIZZA, PLEASE?" James yells, and Sirius's lips close at once. Remus can feel a handful of eyes observing them, which makes his cheeks burn. Being perceived is a fucking nightmare. And he's still wearing his pajama bottoms. "This is, like, the dumbest conversation ever," James continues, on a lower tone now. Same voice as a pissed father's. "And you guys are not dumb, are you?"

"I mean..." Remus counters, the sassy bastard.

"Oh, I hope you get food poisoning," Sirius scoffs.

"Hope you choke on your caviar," he smiles back, very politely.

Fuck insecurities and anger issues and whatnot, being a bitch is loads of fun. Especially when you do it to other bitches.

"Fuck you!" Sirius screams, voice high as a whistle, and Remus has to hold back a laugh in order to answer:

"Busy right now, try again later."

Oh, the face Sirius makes is priceless. Truly fantastic. He once attended a live representation of his favourite play—that would be Macbeth, if you must know—and it wasn't half as good as seeing this posh boy's face absolutely contract with Remus's contestation.

Pure gold.

"You're disgusting," he says, vowels clear and consonants crisp, as if he were afraid he'd say the wrong thing. Even if he doesn't say it, Remus knows he is charmed. The revulsion on his face is a clear sign of it.

"You think pizza is disgusting too," Remus points out, more proud of himself with every word he pronounces, "so... Thanks."

The boy with the long hair huffs, like an angry dog. Adorably stupid.

"And I'm here to not kill myself?" He asks the ceiling, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Sadly for all of us, ye—"

But a voice cuts him off before he can finish the sentence, and something clicks inside of his brain; a tiny, high-pitched siren wails inside his mind. James screaming is not a good sign.

"CAN YOU TWO STOP ALREADY?" He yells, and his glasses slide down his nose as he does so. He fixes them with a shaky hand and keeps shouting: "Look, I don't know what YOUR problem is, but I'm trying to get good here, and I was doing okay until you came," he shoots Sirius a look, then turns to Remus "and you started acting like a fucking toddler. And my knees hurt! So, please, can we get our food and sit next to the girls and eat? And, like, not fight about it? Can we? Can we not fight for five bloody minutes? Huh?"

At this point, every single person in the cafeteria—besides some irremediable exceptions—is looking at them. Especially at Sirius. You know, novelty always attracts attention, and all that. And lunatics have no feelings. Whatever.

"Sorry, James," Remus mumbles, fidgeting with the sleeve of his jumper. He doesn't look up, mainly because he knows his face must resemble a bandaged tomato right now, and he's not really a fan of looking stupid, even though he's got a considerable amount of talent on him.

"Yeah," Sirius agrees. You can sense it in his voice that he doesn't even care. Or he doesn't understand, at least. It's all the same. "Sorry."

James nods. He doesn't care about their apologies either. Which is fair. They're bullshit, and the three of them know it.

"And, by the way," he says, clearly not satisfied with the scolding he's given them so far, "mentioning 'killing yourself' is the same as saying the S word. It's not—It's not the actual word I've got a problem with, it's the concept." He passes a hand through his hair, short black curls straightening for a second and then dutifully bouncing back to their original form. "So, yeah. That. Don't say it."

"Right," Sirius nods, trying to ignore how much those curls remind him of Reg, pushing aside any plausible metaphor or comparison regarding his hurting other people, people who share a trait so simple and so clear as a mat of black hair. "I'm sorry."

"Okay. Now let's go eat."

So they do.

I mean, they wait for Peter first, but that only takes, what, five seconds? Seven, maybe.

When the boy returns, they realise the tension must be palpable, since his face is very clearly implying What the fuck happened here?

None of them says a word, anyway, and so they silently walk their way to get their trays, food and plastic utensils.

When they sit at the table—same one as the ginger, the rockstar and a girl whose outfit looks stolen from an early 2000's Disney Channel show—, they are greeted with a friendly:

"Man, what the actual fuck happened there?"

It's the rockstar who said it, clearly. I mean, you just have to look at her eyeliner to know she does not give half a damn what anyone has to say about her or her words, her looks, her general existence.

Cool as fuck, Sirius declares in his mind. She probably plays guitar or some hot shit like that.

As a matter of fact, she does not. She plays bass, though.

"Nothing," James says, and takes a sip of water from his reusable plastic cup. He always needs to be doing something with his hands, Sirius realises. Either fix his glasses or fix his hair or crack his knuckles or just brace himself. Weird. It's not like Peter's bracelet making, not a way to distract himself and fight boredom—it's something else. God knows what happens inside other people's minds.

"Okay, well, I heard something alright," the girl says. "Not to be nosey or anything, but, I mean, you were, like... yelling?"

James doesn't say anything, and Remus just huffs, which is, to say something, not a great contribution. Peter and Sirius stare silently.

"Marlene, come on," says the ginger, and Sirius notes the name. He also notes that, impressively enough, out of the three, the fire-headed one seems to be the sweetest. The most sensible one, at least. "How are you, boys?"

Four sets of eyes fix on her. Only one mouth answers.

"Fine," Remus mumbles. Sirius sees him take his piece of bread, part it in half, leave one of the bits back where it was. Then, tear that half again, by the middle, and leave one of the parts back on the metallic tray. He then gets that quarter of a bread rid of its centre—which should be considered a war crime, since that's the absolute best part of bread, the main point of it—and eats it. As if he didn't just spend his valuable time dissecting it to eat it, make it disappear. "This is Sirius, by the way."

As if he were damn mute.

Sirius turns his face to the bread disarmer, and makes a face so, so ugly and pissy and expressive Remus could never not notice it.

"I could have introduced myself just fine, thank you."

Unless he didn't look at Sirius, that is. But, if he did, he would've noticed. Totally. He just, apparently, doesn't give a holographic fuck what Sirius's face looks like.

"Dunno, thought you'd fallen asleep there," he shrugs, taking the centre off of yet another minuscule piece of bread.

"Well, I did not." He shifts in his seat, brushing a long curl behind his right ear. He then addresses the girls, a thin, forced smile on his lips. "Hello. I'm Sirius."

Marlene laughs, spilling the water she was drinking over her plate.

And that would be a good example of Gross, Remus's brain concludes, cracking a laugh himself, too.

Chapter Text

One day I am gonna grow wings

A chemical reaction

Hysterical and useless

Hysterical and—

Let down and hanging around

Crushed like a bug in the ground

Radiohead, Let Down

Sirius misses microwaved chicken.

Remus was right, he'd prefer to have anything, even pineapple pizza, over this.

He needs a phone. He has to call Cissy and ask her to bring him mint gum. And the nail polish, of course. And his contacts. And an MP3 with its corresponding charger and headphones. Better shoes—velcro; no laces, of course—, a warmer sweater, his Rolling's tee, and some books. The books are not all that important, since the map he got showed there was a library. He should check that out first.

Overall, he needs a lot of things. He'll have to make a list.

"Sirius, are you feeling alright?" The ginger asks. Her name is Lily, by the way. Her friend called her that, at least. "You have barely touched your plate."

"Yeah," Remus agrees, his own tray almost empty already, except for what has been left of his bread, "thought you liked 'em peas.

Such a prick. Having disagreements is alright, but treating people like that, with that feeling of superiority he has is just—Oh, wait. He does that too.

Whatever, it pisses him off.

"And I thought you despised them," he answers, crossing his arms over his chest. His fingers brush the bandage, and a shiver travels his spine. He doesn't get why Remus won't stop picking at the one on his face. The feeling is horrible.

"Well, I've no alternative, have I?"

Sirius decides not to keep the argument going, and so Remus goes back to talking to the redhead. She's telling him all about this book she's reading. He seems to have recommended it to her. It is about this group of kids who try to find the meaning of life by, like, throwing their stuff into a pile. It sounds lame as fuck. Life is not about finding cool shit and putting it together so that you can look at it and go Oh, this is what I live for!

He's not sure what life is actually about, but he knows it's not that. Maybe it's got something to do with people.

He's curious what everyone's reasons to stay are. He knows his.

Regulus.

He figures everyone in that Hell of a place must have theirs present everyday. You know, because, if they don't, they might... Yeah, you get it. You're smart.

"What are your pronouns?" A girl asks. The rockstar-looking one. Marlene, was it?

"What?"

"Pronouns," she repeats. She's anxious, but not annoyed. She just seems like an overall nervous person. "Or is the hair long in a cishet way? No, it can't be."

It's kind of a funny interaction.

"I... He/Him, I guess?" Sirius answers. It's probably the first time he has ever been asked such a question. I mean, it's sort of obvious, even with the hair. "I—I'm a bloke."

She nods in agreement.

"A very homosexual bloke, then."

He laughs, looking down at the table. If he looks at anyone in the face right now, he's done.

"What gave it away?" he jokes. "Was it the shirt?"

The rockstar offers a laugh as well, fixing her hair.

"Nah;" she sighs, like a tormented scientist, sick of explaining her theories for everyone, "it's the way you yell at Remus like he's your husband and it's your golden anniversary. Though the shirt sort of confirms it, yeah."

"Babe," Remus says, putting his cup of water down, as if he hadn't just cooked on it, "you know I'd never marry Mr. Silver Spoon, here."

"Oi!" Silver Spoon complains. "As if I'd want to be with you! You'd probably feed our kids barbeque pizza, or some shit."

And he'd feed them cup noodles—not sure what's worse.

"Kids?" Remus smiles. He loves this. Nothing pisses off a guy more than hurting his masculinity. Yes, even if he's just confirmed to be gay. It was obvious to Remus too, by the way. For the record. "Woah, goin' a bit fast, ain't we, honey?"

Sirius, typically vampire-white, turns redder than a slice of pepperoni.

"We're not! I was just—Oh, fuck you!"

Get it? Pepperoni. 'Cause of the pizza. It's not funny, is it? Sorry, comedy is not my forte.

"I'm eating, sweetie," Remus says, as casual as ever. "Maybe later. Anyway, you're not gettin' any kids that way, if that's whatcha want from me."

Sirius huffs, crosses his arms again, and shuts up. He closes his fingers around the bandage, just because.

He doesn't touch his plate again.

"You good?" James asks. He's laying in his bed, the sudoku booklet Poppy gave him sitting next to him, a pen attached to it.

Peter looks up from his book, hesitates, then nods.

"Sure?"

No.

"Hey, it's fine, man," James whispers, getting up and coming to sit next to Peter on the floor. He's crying."It's okay, we're here to feel things, alright?"

The shortest boy nods, pressing his lips together. He's shaking.

"Do you want to talk?"

Peter shakes his head, left to right. The book he was reading is now pressed flat against his chest. A shield to protect him. Nobody will get to me.

"Can I help?"

No, again. There's not much to do for him, really. He's not Remus, he's not James—he doesn't have an excuse for what is going on inside him. His parents are alright, his friends aren't terrible, and he's doing good at school. What is it, then? He has no right to feel like he does for something that has already passed, stuff that has already been solved. He doesn't even fully understand what those past events are, if he's fair.

Why the fuck does he feel so chocked up by them, then?

"Want a hug?"

He looks at James. He was there. When it happened and everyone thought he was being dramatic, when all the things that shouldn't hurt now—but do—happened, he was there. He never said a word.

"Yes."

And now it's been over, what, six years? And he still hasn't said a word.

They hug. It's not a pretty hug, or a 'cute' one: he's still shaking, sniffing all over James's jersey. But it feels good.

"Are you two also shagging?" a voice questions, loud as they come. "God, I'll have to get a boyfriend too, if this is the pace we're going at!"

They both look at Sirius, standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips. I'd say he looks like a disappointed mother, but none of the present really have the reference to envision that.

"Yeah," James grins, his chin still half-buried in Peter's blonde mat of hair. "Careful, or we'll steal Remus from you!"

Sirius scoffs, enters the dormitory, and lets gravity make him collapse into his bed. The only time it's bearable. Gravity, I mean. Beds are always good. A relief, even. A breath of fresh air.

"So, what are you two heteros up to?"

He has clearly not seen the tears on Peter's cheeks. Better. He wipes them off while the boy with the long hair takes a seat on his bed, arms crossed. He should've picked a long-sleeved shirt. Or a sweater, at least. He wonders if Remus, too, forgets that he has a bandage when he wakes up.

It has to suck big time, feeling all confident and happy to start the day and then... Well, remembering you look like a fucking idiot. Like a suicide.

He swallows, hard. James said something, but he didn't catch it.

"Sorry?"

"I said how did therapy go?" the boy with the glasses repeats, fixing these on his nose. "You know, this morning. You don't have to answer, of course!"

Sirius processes that. Yes, he could avoid the question, act offended, lie. He could shut down and not let anyone come near him—he's good at that, has always been.

But something about that feels wrong now.

After wishing for his life to change completely, for everyone around him to have no idea who he is, what he feels... Now that he can pretend to be someone else, someone better, he sort of doesn't want to anymore. Not with these guys.

It's weird.

"Bit disappointing, to be honest," he answers. He'd smile, but he's not that comfortable yet. One step at a time. "But it's my best alternative, isn't it?"

"Yeah." James nods. He's come to put his back against the wall now, still next to Peter. He'll have to remember to check on him later. "Did she give you homework, too?"

"Yes—some tests and... God, it feels like school all over again."

"Hm," James nods. His mind is very evidently not in the room with them. Maybe that’s good.

Peter gives him a nudge, though, ‘cause he’s having a conversation, and Sirius is not yet used to his little dissociative episodes.

"Sorry, does that...?" asks the new one, and James stops chewing his lip to give a faint smile.

"It's fine, really," he says.

Is it?

Sirius shifts in his bed.

"You're really sensitive," he says.

It’s surprisingly comfortable. The bed, I mean. He had expected his mattress to be made out of solid cement, or to be full of bugs.

"Yeah. Sorry."

He sort of expected a jail-like experience, if he’s honest. He’s never really been to jail, though. Just picked up what the TV taught him.

"No, I—I mean that you feel a lot,” he corrects himself. Shit, he shouldn’t have tried to speak. Peter looks smarter than ever now, mouth permanently closed. ”It must be nice, for the good stuff."

He always does that: mess it up. He thinks he’s being nice, or observant, or… whatever; and he just says the most stupid thing ever. Life would be way easier with an undo button. A magic Ctrl + Z.

"I suppose so, yeah,” Says the one with the glasses. His smile looks a bit more genuine now, which is neat, but he’s still distressed, and it shows. Oh, boy, it shows.

He’s never been one to lie—he still can’t understand how he hid his problems from his parents for so long. Maybe he just didn’t consider them problems back then. It will always be easier to hide an Adderall addiction over a broken leg. And it will always be harder to recover from the first.

"Have you seen Remus anywhere?"

No; that’s not fair, he of all people should know: almost-captain of his uni’s football team. He should know some broken legs take a long time to fully heal, and there might be some long-term effects left behind, such as a limp, or…

"Nope."

Fuck, is he undermining his condition again? Fuck, fuck, fuck. He really needs to stop doing that. And he needs another dose.

He’s okay. Anxiety is important, more than—or same level as—a leg injury, and he’s fine, because he is taking care of himself now.

It’s like a plaster, in a way. Yeah.

He smiles.

"You know, we think he's seeing someone,” he says, trying to focus on the gossip for once. Is his voice too high, though? It might be. ”That, or he sneaked in a phone somehow."

Sirius laughs, a bit too scandalous. Maybe they're all loud. Maybe they're all way too concentrated on making the most noise to pay attention to the other's tone. James likes how that sounds.

"Seeing someone?” The long haired boy asks. ”I don't think that guy talks to anyone that's not you two or his book club girls."

Yeah, maybe everyone is way too busy to care. Isn't that how friends are made? Not caring about the other's mistakes?

James offers a laugh. He feels a bit better now.

"He talks to you too, mate,” he tells Sirius. He's not sure whether he's allowed to feel good, but he’s decided he doesn't want to care anymore.

”Yeah, to fucking roast me like a chicken,” smiles the new one.

The thing is, hospitals often have that effect on people: they make them feel guilty for taking a breath between one fall and the other. As if getting better wasn't the whole point of it all. He doesn't want to feel like that anymore. Again, he's there to remember how to laugh, after all. Why get mad at a system that works?

They should be mad at capitalism.

"True."

Oh, don't be confused, there's no context for that last bit. I just hate capitalism. Yeah, it's a whole thing.

"It's okay, I can handle hate,” Sirius shrugs, and James nods for a second, then furrows his brows.

"Well, I don't think he—"

Speak of the devil: Remus is at the door.

"James, have you seen my—" He stops in his tracks, crosses his arms. He's looking at Sirius. "Oh, hi. Thought you'd be seeing your family."

It's funny, ‘cause, in Spanish, ‘speak of the devil’ would actually be ‘speak of the king of Rome’. And, you know, his name is Remus. James tries not to laugh as his bilingual brain feeds him more and more stupid thoughts.

God, he really does need an increase on his ADHD meds.

"Is that a thing?" asks Sirius. Are they going to fight again? James looks at Peter, who hasn't shown any signs of life for a while now. He's reading his book.

"Yeah.” Remus shrugs. ”I mean, I believe they’ve to come here for that, but... Yeah."

He—Remus—is pondering the idea of moving, but he also loves to stare at the other boy. You know, intimidate him. Make him nervous. Make him feel bad.

"Well,” Sirius shrugs back, ”some families just don't have the time for that."

The boy with the curls doesn't really mind being stared at. He's actually looking at Remus's face, too; at the bandage. He’d make a pretty decent main character, in some action movie. Except for his attitude. That’s the part of him that sucks the most.

"Noted." Remus lets his arms fall onto his side, and turns to the two boys sitting on the floor. He makes an effort not to comment on the back pain that posture is going to provide them. "James, d’you know where my pencil is? I lost it."

He’s not one to talk about health, to be fair. Or about, you know, caring for one’s body.

Get it? ‘cause he slit his face in two.

Nah, he had reasons to. Poor guy—let’s not talk crap about him, it makes me feel bad. Not yet, I mean. He might deserve it, at some point.

"There's one by the window,” says James, looking towards the suggested place.

"No, that's my writing pencil,” Remus says, annoyed as they come. ”I need my annotating one. The green one that draws lighter n’ erases easy."

He doesn’t really get what’s going on with him. Maybe he does hate Sirius, after all. I mean, it’s not like any of them is making a huge effort, either.

But that’s just the timing. Sirius arrived yesterday—of course he’s jumpy. God, who wouldn’t be? Again, it’s not a sprained ankle they’re dealing with here.

And Remus, on the other side, is… not in his best moment either. To be fair, they’ve all been feeling pretty low since Frank, their previous roommate, left. It’s never easy to say goodbye, especially here, where they’re trying so hard not to let go of their grip on life.

"Oh, ah... No, sorry. Haven't seen it. Want me to lend you one? I've a pen, too."

But, yeah, there’s definitely something going on between those two. It looked like fun tension at first—yeah, he’s not blind—, but now it’s turned… hostile. In a bad way. I mean, in a way a snogging session wouldn’t fix it.

Shame, he was sort of hoping for some drama. Things have been pretty boring since he arrived.

"No, it’s gotta be my green annotating pencil,” says Remus, closing his eyes to take a breath. He is frantically searching the room now, by the way. Just letting you know, for your mental image’s sake. “I can't annotate half of a book with a pencil n’ the other half with a pen, can I?"

I mean, if we're speaking literally... Yeah, he can. But, no, of course not. What a sacrilege!

Sirius, who has been contemplating the scene with amusement, clears his throat. God, he feels like a main character.

"You said it draws lighter and erases better?" he asks. He’s trying to be careful, he really doesn’t want to poke the bear right now. He just wants to be nice, really. And make Remus stop orbiting the room like a ghost with a psychosis.

"Yes, you deaf goth," says the ghost. Pretty fitting. Sirius promptly ignores the comment.

"That's an H pencil,” he smiles. Oh, God, he forgot how awful fake smiles felt in the face. ”I've got a few. You can try them out and see if any of them works for you."

And, just like that, the bear is not a bear, and poking it is not as scary anymore. Again, most hostile creatures have reasons to be so. No intelligent being would attack out of spite; there’s always a need behind violence. Protection, fear… resentment. But, yeah, mostly fear.

"I... Well, yeah, I guess I could do that. Thanks."

"No need."

And so Sirius gets up and gets his pencilcase. He might not have his nail polish collection with him, but at least his cousins remembered his drawing supplies.

Lord, he had no idea what he'd do without his sketchbook. It's almost like a diary, at this point.

"The pencil thing is a bit obsessive of you, did you know that?" he asks Remus while dumping his case’s contents onto a table. He selects the pencils marked as H, and hands them to his frenemy.

"Why, thank you, Doctor Edgy,” answers the bandage boy, fetching the graphites. Obsessive? What an ugly way to put it, honestly.

"I'm serious,” Sirius says.

"And I'm Remus,” nods the unsirius one.

And he's been trying. He really has. But this is just too much.

"God, you're impossible, that's what you are” he mutters, and lets the pencilcase in his hand fall onto the table. "Take what you need and shove it up your ass or whatever satiates your funky narcissistic brain!"

And, with that, Sirius leaves the room; arms crossed and a hand clutched way too tight around his injured arm.

The dorm is silent for a moment. At this point in time, James’ mouth has been open for far too long not to be scientifically considered a fly trap.

"You reckon he's gone lookin’ for his family?" asks Remus, then. And then the fly trap dislocates its jaw.

"Remus!” he yells, eyes almost as round as his glasses’ frames. “What's up with you? You're better than that."

You know, ‘cause they're way too open. In Spanish, his mother say they're open like plates. Yeah, that's an actual idiom. Look it up.

Sorry, I think I'm ruining the flow. Everyone's impacted. ‘cause Remus is kind of a brat.

"It was just a joke!"

See, this is one of those moments where he would deserve to be criticised. Again, ‘cause he's being a brat.

James gets up, leaving Peter alone in the floor now. Oh, Peter is sort of in shock, too. He even closed his book, which is impressive.

"I'll go look for him."

And James leaves too. So, now it's just Peter and Remus left in the room.

"It was a joke, for fuck's sake,” mutters the latter. And it's true—it was just a stupid pun with his name, for goodness' sake.

He sighs, leaves all pencils except for one, and follows Sirius and James’ steps out of the room, paperback in hand.

After a bit of silent reflection, Peter opens his own book and keeps reading.

These fucking drama queens.

Chapter Text

Don't say what you mean, you might spoil your face

The Cure, Jumping Someone Else's Train

This is one of those days. Shit happens, but nothing really changes. He still feels like everything he does is wrong, like everything he touches wilts.

It has come to a point where just seeing a dead plant makes him assume he killed it. It'd make sense, after all. It's a matter of logic, deduction. Patterns.

"'Ey, what's up?"

No, no, no nononono—not now, not now...

Remus stops dead (he wishes) in his tracks, puts on a smile, and looks at Barty and his friends. Nooo... Why do they all have to be there? The garden is full of seats and benches and yet, they have to be there, right in his way. Always in his way.

"Can't talk now," he mumbles. Did he speak too quickly? Wait—he doesn't give a damn.

"What, you runnin' from someone?"

This is what therapy is for. Not the 4 a.m. staring contests with the ceiling, not the constant sense of impending doom huddled up inside his chest, in a little corner of death and darkness and despair. It is dealing with your situationship—and his friends, his friends are there too, oh, Lord—while you wonder why the fuck would you have chosen to go outside in the first place. This is what the breathing techniques are for.

"Matter of fact, yeah," Remus nods, remembering James. He always comes after him. It is both a blessing and a curse. "So, can't talk."

He looks at the group of... people, and considers saying something, but he's not sure he can handle them saying anything in response, so he just smiles at lot and keeps walking.

"So that's him," someone mutters, and he chokes on a sigh. They know. Great.

Well, whatever.

"Remus!"

"What now?!"

The way he'd thank God if he was suddenly turned deaf and mute, oh, dear. He should've cut his throat, his vocal cords. That'd have been more useful than a stupid scar in his nose.

But he wasn't thinking. Sometimes you just don't think.

"You good?"

He blinks.

"Yeah."

He probably shouldn't lie to Barty, of all people. You know, since he doesn't know better. And he cares. And he's hot.

"Wanna talk?"

He has the same eyes he did. At least Remus thinks he does. It's been a while since he's looked at him. Even if they were on the same room, they'd avoid any sort of contact in those last few months. Understandable. No one wants to touch a monster. Or look at him.

"Rather not."

But Barty looks. And he smiles. A bit sheepishly, but a smile nonetheless.

"That's okay." See? Very, very sheepish. He puts a hand on his shoulder, like they're pals. Bros. Yikes. "See you tonight?"

Why are they even seeing each other, really? They're in a bloody hospital, not Love Island. They have a full list of concerns bigger than loneliness and romantic drama. They should just ask for a couple of valiums added to their daily doses and chill the fuck down.

"Sure, yeah."

Maybe not. Maybe they should just talk. Tonight. Have a deep chat. Exchange context.

Sometimes you just happen to find yourself in a hospital, completely fucked up, deciding whether you want to clear your conscience or be a manipulative brat and keep the blow jobs coming.

If you stop to think about it for a minute, he's acting really, really childish. I mean, not that a kid would—you get it. This is not about sex. For once. It's about people.

The matue thing to do would be to get over his past and let the guy be, but, well. He's always been sort of selfish, in a way. Isn't everyone, though?

Yes; if you stop to think, it does seem a bit wrong. But he doesn't have time to stop or think or do anything at all, so he just keeps walking and hopes that his conscience won't catch up to him.

"Remus, oh my God, slow down!"

He turns, ready to obliterate any living organism to make eye contact with him.

"What the fuck d'you—" But it's James. James is too nice to destroy. "Hi. Sorry."

"What the fuck?!" asks the boy, pushing his glasses up his nose, down which they instantly decide to slide down. Pretty funny. "Do you always run from your problems at such pace?"

"I wasn't running."

I mean, technically... Look—it's ambiguous. He was going fast, that he was.

"You were going 100 per hour!"

Not that fast.

"Well, it's not like you love to face your problems either, huh."

Eye roll.

"Oh, fuck you," says the golden boy. "Look, I just want you to apologise to Sirius."

Shock.

"I didn't do anything! He's bugging me all day, and I'm tryna be cool but he's just such a twat and I didn't even say anything that huge and—"

"I don't care! I don't give a fuck! You didn't do anything? Great! But he's pissed at you, and you're acting like a fucking prick lately, so you're gonna go and say sorry and then we're gonna have a calm fucking painting class! Okay?"

Remus doesn't dare look around, but he knows they're being watched. There's way too much silence going on not to have the whole hospital eavesdropping on them.

"Okay," he says. He feels like one of those dear statues of his. Like he can't move. "D'you say painting class?"

He wonders if that's what happened to the statues. Not all of them, of course—each probably has its own story—but at least one must've been human at one point in its life. Maybe embarrassment and guilt are what got it petrified. Sometimes it doesn't even take a gorgon's look; just one's own hurt.

"Yeah." James sort-of-smiles. He's a bit calmer now. Remus's skin feels less like cold granite for a moment. "Sirius paints. His brother or his cousin or whatever said he'd like it. Sprout set the whole thing up."

He scoffs.

"Not really therapy, is it? Painting?"

James gives him one of those looks that'd have terrified Perseus. Terrified and petrified.

But he's fine. Life's not myth and metaphor, life's real pain. It's all of the emotions the ancient Greeks refused to acknowledge.

"You can bite at the canvas if you like. Whatever'll make you shut up."

"Fair," he nods, and waits a beat until they both start walking back inside together. Chewing paint does sound like fun.

Sirius is breathing. In, and out. In, and out. In, out.

It's fine now. Better than it was before, at least.

The bathroom tiles stare at him. They mock him. They mock the way his breaths ricochet on the walls, on the floor, on themselves. The oxygen coming in stumbles upon the carbon monoxide coming out and he just doesn't know what to do with it, really. He just happens to be there, in the middle of all. But it's not him who decides what his lungs do—those two bitches have a mind of their own.

But it's okay. He knows how this works. It's over now. Until next time. He just needs to breathe and it won't come back in a while.

The door opens. He makes himself smaller inside his stall. Two voices come in.

"You're still mad, aren't you?"

That's James.

"Not mad, just..." And that's Remus. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm mad. He could've said something. He could've... Fuck, I thought we were friends, you know?"

They walk their way across the tiled room. James is probably looking at his hair in the mirror. He's the kinda guy that'd do that.

Sirius has no clue who they're referring to. Someone from another wing, maybe.

"He was probably scared," James says.

"Fuck, and I am too!"

Silence. One singular footstep.

"I know, mate."

The voice is softer now. Like it regrets being heard. Paradoxical, but fair.

"I thought I knew him," Remus says. He's crying. The tears make the scarred skin burn under the cotton bandage.

"I know." James lets his hand fall onto his friend's shoulder, and manages a very sad smile. Remus notes that he's probably seen more sad smiles than bright and happy ones. The concept pulls a couple more tears from his eyes.

And then they're back to silence. Sirius can't hear a thing.

A few seconds pass and a set of footsteps approaches the door, leaves the other voice alone. He figures he should probably come out of the stall now.

"You're fine," the second voice mumbles somewhere, and Sirius hears water starting to pour from a tap, ready to fill the previously awkward space with sound. "You're fucking fine."

He's not, though.

He's standing in front of the mirror, water dripping from his face, frowning at his own reflection while it stares back. He's not fine.

The door to one of the stalls opens, and Sirius comes out. He doesn't look great either. Nobody ever does here.

"Hey," he manages.

"Hi," comes the response.

Remus is glad the tears blend in with the rest of the water. Thought his eyes are red as fuck, so it probably doesn't matter much.

He decides to ignore Sirius and take off his now very soggy bandage. The wound is significantly better now, anyway.

Sirius, who didn't really know what to do to avoid making the situation weirder than it already was, finds himself washing his face as well. Hair on a not-so-great-looking ponytail and cheeks also dripping wet, he gives Remus a look. Just a discreet little peep to admire the full face reveal.

"Nice nose," he kids.

It really is nice. Except for the scar, of course. I mean, it does give him that special touch. Personality, some would call it.

"Thanks."

It's a nose. What do you want me to say?

"Sorry, by the way." Remus takes the former bandage and throws the cotton mess into the garbage bin. There's a pregnancy test there. Gross.

"It's fine," Sirius says, wiping his face on his sleeve. "It was a stupid crashout on my part, so."

"Yeah, it was," Remus answers, leaning against the wall. He figures the comment will anger Sirius and drag both of them back into the usual spiral until one leaves, but the guy just tilts his head with a smile and lets his hair down.

"Fuck, yeah, I know," he says, and rubs at his eyes, as if he'd just woke up from one of his nightmares. "I just really hate those kinda jokes. With my name. I think I hate my name."

Remus, king of nonchalance, shrugs. Man, you've been crying only five minutes ago. Get a grip.

"Fair. It's a stupid name."

Sirius nods. After seventeen years of No, an astronomy name is so cool!, having this is nice. Even if it's coming from a super mega twat.

"Yeah."

Remus scrunches his nose. He missed doing that. You never realise what your tics are until you're not allowed to do them.

"I get pissy when people call me out on being weird," he says. "With the special pencils and all."

"Sorry," Sirius mutters. "I don't think you're weird, though."

He does maintain the obsessive-compulsive viewpoint. But he won't tell. 'Cause Remus looks genuinely Not Mad for once.

"Thanks," he says. He really does have a nice nose. "I heard we're gonna paint later?"

"Nice."

A light flickers. The sound is somehow comforting.

"Yeah."

"You sound excited," Sirius teases.

"Screaming, crying, throwing up," Remus shrugs.

They both let a small smile escape their respective mouths.

"I see."

The light lets itself be heard again. It's like a murmur.

"Well, see you wherever the paint's at," Sirius says. His smile is almost gone. Unintentionally.

"Room 126," Remus says. First floor, he notes.

"Oh. Cool."

He tries to go for the door, but his conversation mate is right there.

"You've a map," he says. "You can use it."

Back to reproaching, it seems. Back to normal. Feelings were nothing but an anomaly. Good.

"Yeah, no way to understand that," Sirius says. He tries to make it sound like a joke, but he really can't decipher the orientation map. And he's not sure he wants to.

Remus hums. He probably gets it. Maybe not. You never know with Remus.

"See ya, then," Sirius says, ready to leave.

Remus hums again. A second after, he's alone. He looks in the mirror once more before leaving.

After he's gone, the light flickers once more.