The worst part about living with chronic pain, Remus thought as he tried not to scream at a piece of lint on the carpet, wasn’t the pain.
It was the being perceived.
And right now, he was being perceived by a very beautiful, very loud, very not supposed to be here Sirius Black.
“You didn’t answer your texts,” Sirius said, standing in the doorway like a rockstar who’d stumbled into the wrong green room but stayed because there was free champagne. His motorcycle helmet hung from one tattooed hand, black curls wild and a bit sweaty.
“That tends to happen when I throw my phone under the couch out of spite,” Remus said, not looking up from where he was half-folded on the floor, an arm brace beside him and a heating pad nowhere near the socket.
Sirius blinked. “Do I want to know?”
Remus squinted up at him. “My shoulder tried to secede from the union. I decided to pretend the couch was Switzerland.”
Sirius grinned. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’m disabled, actually,” Remus snapped, immediately regretting it. But Sirius just raised an eyebrow, unbothered.
“I know,” Sirius said softly. “You also didn’t answer my texts for four days. So I assumed either death, abduction, or, more realistically, a spiral of Netflix and apathy.”
Remus grimaced. “It was a mild spiral.”
“You watched five seasons of Hell’s Kitchen, Remus.”
Sirius crossed the room, tossing his helmet onto Remus’ ancient armchair. “Get up. We’re making pasta.”
“I can’t get up, hence…” Remus gestured vaguely at the brace, the heating pad, the general aura of despair.
Sirius knelt beside him without a word, scooping up the brace with practiced hands. “Do you want help?”
Remus hesitated. The line between “want” and “need” had always been blurry. But Sirius never made him feel like a burden—just a very sarcastic houseplant with medical accessories.
Sirius nodded and helped him up with the kind of gentle ease that made Remus feel seen, not exposed. “I brought garlic bread,” he said as they shuffled toward the kitchen. “And James.”
“James is in the car. He insisted. He has theories.”
“About why you ghosted me for four days,” Sirius said cheerfully. “One involves aliens.”
Remus sighed. “James Potter is a human migraine.”
“And yet, you adore him,” Sirius said, smirking as he slid the brace into place with a practiced twist.
Remus didn’t say it out loud, but Sirius wasn’t wrong.
The kitchen was small, dimly lit, and currently filled with the scent of garlic, basil, and tomato.
James had let himself in and was setting up a Bluetooth speaker like he lived there. Which, to be fair, he nearly had during uni. Peter was texting in the corner with a cat on his lap—Remus’ cat, who betrayed him instantly and fully the moment food arrived.
“I’ve solved your mystery,” James announced, holding up his phone. “Remus hasn’t been abducted. He’s just deeply, tragically in love with you, Padfoot.”
Peter didn’t look up. “We knew that in 2018, mate.”
“Shut up,” Remus groaned, already regretting not faking a coma.
Sirius beamed. “I knew I felt eyes on my ass.”
Remus gave him a look. “That was the cat.”
“You named the cat Virginia Woolf. You don’t get to talk.”
They cooked like idiots. Burnt one batch of garlic bread, turned the pasta water into a volcano, and used enough parmesan to offend an entire Italian village. But Sirius was relaxed, sleeves rolled up, tattoos peeking from under flour-dusted skin, talking to Remus like they hadn’t been orbiting each other for years.
Remus leaned against the counter, shoulder aching but tolerable now. “You didn’t have to come over.”
Sirius didn’t glance up. “You didn’t have to answer the phone either, but here we are.”
“I mean it. You don’t have to—”
“Moony.” Sirius looked up. “Stop. I wanted to. And I’ll keep showing up, even when you don’t ask.”
But this time, it wasn’t unbearable.
It was Sirius, seeing him with all his broken pieces, and not flinching.
That night, after everyone left and the dishes were mostly done and Remus was curled up on the couch with Virginia on his chest, Sirius hovered by the door.
“Define ‘okay,’” Remus replied.
“I’m better now,” Remus added. “Less pain. Less… apocalypse.”
Sirius hesitated. “I could stay. If you want.”
Remus blinked. “Like… stay?”
“Not in a weird way,” Sirius said quickly. “Just… hang out. Watch something awful. Make sure you don’t throw your phone into another abyss.”
Then patted the couch beside him.
Sirius grinned and dropped his bag, slipping off his boots. He settled beside Remus carefully, their shoulders brushing.
Virginia stretched dramatically between them.
“I’m not good at this,” Remus murmured after a while.
“Letting people in. Asking for help.”
Sirius didn’t look away from the screen. “Good thing I already broke in.”
They sat there for a long time, the flicker of some terrible sitcom lighting their faces, silence easy between them.
And for once, being seen didn’t feel like a burden.
Sirius had never been good at sitting still. He liked movement—liked the hum of an engine under him, the buzz of a crowd, the rhythm of his own restlessness.
But right now, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Remus on a secondhand couch that smelled like lavender he didn’t want to move at all.
Remus’ hair was mussed. Virginia was purring on his chest like a tiny engine. And something in the air felt raw and good and a little dangerous.
Because Sirius had seen Remus Lupin vulnerable before—post-surgery, post-breakup, post-epic-migraine-that-laid-him-out-for-three-days.
And Sirius was not okay about it.
He watched as Remus drifted—eyelids half-shut, pain visible only in the way his hand twitched occasionally near his brace. He always tried so damn hard not to let people see. Like it was a moral failing, being in pain. Being tired.
Sirius wanted to punch every person that had ever made him feel that way.
“Still awake?” Remus murmured, eyes fluttering open, voice low and rasped.
“Yeah,” Sirius said. “Too wired. Adrenaline. Garlic bread. Cat.”
Remus’ mouth quirked. “She did try to smother you earlier. Consider it a warning.”
“I’d die a noble death,” Sirius replied solemnly, scratching behind Virginia’s ear. “Tell my story.”
“Here lies Sirius Black. Mauled by an overeducated feline while pining pathetically for a sarcastic literature professor with chronic joint issues.”
Remus blinked slowly, his smile turning softer. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I want to stay,” Sirius said immediately.
He could tell Remus was gearing up to argue, so he cut him off with the quiet truth.
“I like being around you, Moony. Even when you’re cranky and sore and smell faintly of eucalyptus oil. You’re still you. That’s the bit I like.”
Remus looked at him, then. Really looked.
And Sirius let him. Let himself be perceived too, for once—tired, anxious, hungry for something he hadn’t named out loud yet.
Remus’ voice, when it came, was quiet. “You always do that.”
“Make me feel like I’m not broken.”
He leaned forward, carefully, slowly—just enough for their foreheads to touch, not quite a kiss, not quite platonic either.
“You’re not broken, Remus,” he whispered. “You’re just real.”
Remus closed his eyes. And for a moment, everything felt very still.
Later, they ended up horizontal. Not in the fun, R-rated way Sirius would usually be hoping for—but wrapped under a threadbare blanket, Virginia curled at their feet, some absolute garbage show droning in the background.
Not about the usual—his job, his family, the existential dread of aging—but about how peaceful Remus looked when the pain eased. About the fact that he had shown up, and Remus had let him in.
And Sirius wanted that. Wanted in. For real.
Not just the “occasional pasta and banter” level. The hard stuff too.
The days when Remus couldn’t get out of bed. The weeks when the pain flared and he shut everyone out. The dark spirals he never quite admitted to.
Sirius wanted in on all of it.
Because Sirius didn’t do long-term. He was chaos, and people liked him in small doses. Fun, funny, charming Sirius. Not the version that stayed up at 3 a.m. reading disability blogs so he’d stop asking stupid questions. Not the version that wondered if he could find a heating pad that didn’t suck.
But Remus made him want to be better.
“Hey,” he whispered in the dark. “You awake?”
Remus shifted slightly. “Mmhmm.”
“I like you,” Sirius blurted. “Like… a lot.”
Remus huffed a quiet laugh. “Is this your idea of a seduction? Because it’s very NPR at midnight.”
Sirius chuckled. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are. That’s why it’s terrifying.”
Sirius turned to face him. “What if we tried it?”
Remus was quiet for a long beat.
Then: “You sure? I’m… a lot.”
“Yeah, but you come with leather jackets and Instagram thirst traps. I come with joint instability and a pharmacy in my kitchen.”
Sirius leaned in, eyes soft. “Then we’ll make room for both.”
Remus looked at him like no one ever had—like he wanted to believe it, like he almost did.
Because for the first time in a long time, the world wasn’t ending.
Days where Remus made it through an entire morning lecture without having to pop a shoulder back into place like a goddamn haunted action figure. Days when his joints played nice, his head stayed clear, and he didn’t have to put on the smiling “No really, I’m fine” mask he usually wore around students.
Today was not one of those days.
Today was the kind of day where just breathing felt like a chore. Where the soft ache in his back had graduated into a sharp throb that made putting on socks feel like an Olympic event. Where his knee had decided to dislocate while he was brushing his teeth, and he ended up sitting on the bathroom floor with a mouth full of toothpaste and a deep, dull resentment of gravity.
Not because he didn’t want to—but because he did.
Because Sirius had that look when Remus was hurting. The one that said he wanted to fix everything and couldn’t. And Remus hated being the problem someone couldn’t solve.
So he stayed on the couch, curled up like a comma, watching reruns of Taskmaster with the volume low and Virginia sleeping traitorously on his bad hip.
He’d forgotten Sirius had a key.
“Moons?” came the soft voice, a little muffled, like Sirius had a grocery bag in his mouth.
Sirius appeared in the doorway, wearing joggers, an oversized hoodie, and the worried expression that came standard whenever Remus was quiet for too long.
“I brought oranges. And those crisps you like that taste like regret and vinegar.”
Remus made a noise that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a sigh.
Sirius set the bag down and crossed the room without ceremony. “Where are we at, pain-wise?”
“Seven,” Remus said. “Maybe an eight if I sneeze.”
Sirius nodded. “Right then. Cuddle triage.”
“Tri-age, Remus. Three stages of care.” Sirius held up a finger. “Stage one: reposition the invalid.”
“I will smother you with this cat.”
Sirius ignored him, sliding onto the couch and gently shifting Remus’ legs across his lap. His hands moved with practiced care, adjusting the throw pillow, rubbing a thumb behind Remus’ knee.
“Stage two,” Sirius said, “is soup. Which I did not bring, because you hate canned soup, and I cannot cook soup. I did, however, bring crisps and those stupid gummy peaches that rot your teeth.”
Remus softened despite himself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And stage three…” Sirius leaned down, kissed the top of Remus’ head, just above his temple. “...is the most important. Which is reminding you that you don’t have to hide on days like this.”
“I wasn’t hiding,” Remus lied, immediately and unconvincingly.
“Right. You were doing highly visible floor yoga with a dislocated knee and depression snacks.”
Remus chuckled, quietly. His body still hurt, but it was different with Sirius here. The pain didn’t shrink, but it didn’t swallow him whole either.
“Do you regret this?” he asked suddenly, the words escaping before he could filter them. “Being with me. Like this.”
Sirius didn’t answer right away.
He just took Remus’ hand, running his thumb over the knuckles—gentle, reverent.
“I chose this,” Sirius said finally, voice soft but steady. “Every part of it. I want the good days and the crap ones and the days when you can’t move, and the days you make fun of my Spotify playlists.”
“They’re criminal, Sirius. You have Limp Bizkit and Phoebe Bridgers on the same playlist.”
Remus smiled. Tired. Honest.
“Do you remember,” Sirius continued, “that day in March when you couldn’t leave bed, and you let me sit with you for like, six hours while we watched Great British Bake Off and bullied Paul Hollywood?”
“That was one of the best days I’ve ever had.”
“I’m not with you despite the hard days,” Sirius said, leaning down again. “I’m with you through them. On purpose.”
And this time, Remus let himself believe it.
That night, Sirius cooked pasta while Remus supervised from the couch like a very opinionated monarch. They ate curled up under a shared blanket, Virginia curled between them, the room filled with the smell of garlic and the quiet sounds of two people who had finally, finally stopped running.
When Sirius dozed off, Remus watched him sleep.
He thought: I never thought I’d get this.
He thought: I want this forever.
And he didn’t feel broken at all.
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