Here, have some angst.
~
Haircuts
It’s been 3 days and Sirius still hasn’t moved from the couch.
Remus watches him, from the bedroom in the little flat that he owned. It was small enough that he could see the couch from his bed, small enough that their screams from the nightmares woke the other person, even with the doors shut tight and the earplugs put in. He’s tried to make the small apartment his own, though, added pillows and blankets, books and records, rugs and curtains and other odd, colorful things, anything to fill that gaping hole inside of him.
3 days. 3 days since they had left, him and Sirius, 3 days since Sirius had moved from the couch.
He sits there now, staring vacantly at the peeling wall in front of him. There are new marks all over him, scar tissue covering his knuckles. Sirius always had a habit, of punching the walls until skin split and blood spilt over his fingers, when all he could do was press the backs of his bleeding hands to his stomach and cry while Remus held him. He remembers sixth year, the day after Sirius had run away, when he had slammed his first against the wall so hard he broke a finger, remembers walking in and seeing it dangle crookedly from Sirius’ hand.
It would have been better, Remus thinks, if he had broken something now. Because he’s seen Sirius Black, he’s seen him crying and screaming and laughing and fighting and swearing and smiling and shattered beyond repair, but he’s never seen him so hollow before. Empty, as if the Dementors had already taken his soul, sucked it out and left nothing behind.
Sirius sits there silently, one hand loosely wrapped around the other. His hair is a mess, tangled, matted curls, greasy and unwashed. Remus frowns.
The memory comes to him, of sitting on the bleachers of the Quidditch Pitch, long after the game had ended. Sirius, still in his jersey, tilting his head back as Remus untangled the mud and sweat and sticks from the dark curls.
Why don’t you just cut it? Remus had complained. Seriously, I have to sit out here after every game and untangle the bloody sticks from your hair. Why not just snip the damn thing off?
Sirius just shrugged. My parents wanted me to cut it. I said no. That’s all it is, really. A ‘sod off’ to my bullshit parents.
He looks down now, at the knotted mess of Sirius’ hair, and he swallows. “Sirius?”
Sirius grunts in response.
Remus sighs. “Your hair. Do you want me….to do something about it?”
Sirius doesn’t even bother to turn around. “I don’t care. Cut the damn thing off if you want.”
Remus closes his eyes, the words sharp and ugly. He keeps his voice calm though, as he says, “Okay. Well, I need to detangle it first. I’ll be back.”
He can’t stop the anger as he storms to the bathroom. There’s a large red bucket under the sink, and he fills it up with water. He finds an old, plastic brush underneath the bed, and he grabs the shampoo and conditioner as he lugs the sloshing bucket to where Sirius sits.
Sirius is still blank-eyed, face devoid of emotion as Remus slowly sets the bucket down onto the floor. He takes Sirius’ hair in his hands, wincing as the strands slip through his fingers.
He had always loved Sirius’ hair, back when they were in Hogwarts. He loved running his hands through the dark locks, loved feeling it curl around his face when they kissed.
Sirius’ hair is dry now, brittle, breaking off in clumps at the bottom. 12 years in Azkaban in piss-poor conditions had taken it’s toll.
He carefully levitates the bucket, scooping all of Sirius’ hair into the water. He lathers it, using the shampoo, scraping his nails against Sirius’ scalp. Sirius used to love that, before everything had happened, loved the feeling of hands on his head, pulling against his hair.
Sirius doesn’t even react now, still staring straight ahead.
With a sigh, Remus lets the bucket drop to the floor. He squirts the conditioner on his hand, working it through Sirius’ hair. The knots scrape at his wrists, Sirius’ hair coarse and dry. It reaches down past his shoulders now, to the center of his back, the edges ragged from being hacked at with blunt scissors and Remus winces. He reaches for the brush, dragging it through the first small bit of hair.
They are silent, the two of them, breaths replacing what would have been words long ago. Remus sucks in a breath, Sirius’ hair slippery from the conditioner. Strands slips through his fingers, the brush falling from his hands, landing on the floor with a clatter.
He feels Sirius tense at the noise, feels the muscles in his neck contract and freeze. He curses himself, being down to pick up the brush. “Shit. Sorry, Pads.”
Sirius shrugs. “Forget it.” His voice is flat, empty, like a sheet of grey metal over sharp rocks.
Remus closes his eyes. “Sirius. Can you….can you at least say something? Anything?”
Sirius scoffs. “What is there to say?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He feels the anger rising up, the irrational rage filling his body, and Remus takes a deep breath. “What should we talk about, after not seeing each other for 12 years? The Old Sirius and I would be snogging, and possibly shagging on the ground.”
There’s that edge of humor to his voice, that sarcastic tone that Sirius used to love, back when they were school kids, back when they weren’t soldiers. The Sirius Now just shakes his head, his voice monotone. “The Old Sirius died a long time ago.”
Remus doesn’t say anything, just looks down. He works another tangle through the dark curls, the brush pulling through the hair smoothly. “When?”
“I don’t know.” Sirius laughs. “Maybe he died the minute he arrived at James and Lily’s, and found the roof caved in. Maybe he died when he found Peter, in the street, saw his fucking tail slither down into the gutter. Maybe he died when he stepped foot into Azkaban for a crime he didn’t commit. Maybe he died when 3 years had passed and he never got a single visitor.”
Remus swallows. “Sirius - “
Sirius shakes his head. “I sat there everyday, hoping you would come. Hoping that you loved me enough to actually visit, to listen to what I had to fucking say. I thought we meant more then this.”
Remus glares down, at the smooth strands of dark hair. He picks up the scissors, weighs the hair in his hand, cutting it off just above Sirius’ shoulder. He watches the locks fall to the ground, splaying apart on impact, breaking into hundreds of pieces. He knows his voice sounds tight, knows he shouldn’t be angry when Sirius had just come out of Azkaban, but he’s never been good at feelings. “I thought you were a spy, Sirius. I thought you killed Lily and James.”
“Well, I didn’t - “
“How was I supposed to know that?” He snips through, the last strand falling to the ground.
Sirius scoffs. “You would have known if you had come - “
“I couldn’t.” Remus’ voice is firm. “I’m on the Werewolf Registry. Half-breeds aren’t allowed to visit high-security areas.” He knows his voice sounds bitter, knows it sounds broken and he doesn’t care. He vanishes the broken bits of hair on the ground, dumps the scissors and brush and bottles into the bucket. With a grimace, he stands, roughly pulling Sirius’ hair into a quick bun like the type he used to wear so long ago.
He’s about to turn away when he stops “Did the old Sirius love me?”
Sirius looks up. “Love you? You were a part of him, Re. He would have died for you.”
Remus raises an eyebrow. “And now?”
Sirius doesn’t say anything. Remus takes a breath, picks up the bucket and walks out, closing the door behind him.
