The worst part about living with chronic pain, Remus thought as he tried not to scream at a piece of lint on the carpet, wasnât 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.
âYou didnât answer your texts,â Sirius said, standing in the doorway like a rockstar whoâd 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.
âThat tends to happen when I throw my phone under the couch out of spite,â 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. âDo I want to know?â
Remus squinted up at him. âMy shoulder tried to secede from the union. I decided to pretend the couch was Switzerland.â
Sirius grinned. âYouâre an idiot.â
âIâm disabled, actually,â Remus snapped, immediately regretting it. But Sirius just raised an eyebrow, unbothered.
âI know,â Sirius said softly. âYou also didnât answer my texts for four days. So I assumed either death, abduction, or, more realistically, a spiral of Netflix and apathy.â
Remus grimaced. âIt was a mild spiral.â
âYou watched five seasons of Hellâs Kitchen, Remus.â
ââŚI stand by that.â
Sirius crossed the room, tossing his helmet onto Remusâ ancient armchair. âGet up. Weâre making pasta.â
âI canât get up, henceâŚâ 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. âDo you want help?â
Remus hesitated. The line between âwantâ and âneedâ had always been blurry. But Sirius never made him feel like a burdenâjust 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. âI brought garlic bread,â he said as they shuffled toward the kitchen. âAnd James.â
âJames is in the car. He insisted. He has theories.â
âAbout why you ghosted me for four days,â Sirius said cheerfully. âOne involves aliens.â
Remus sighed. âJames Potter is a human migraine.â
âAnd yet, you adore him,â Sirius said, smirking as he slid the brace into place with a practiced twist.
Remus didnât say it out loud, but Sirius wasnât 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 lapâRemusâ cat, who betrayed him instantly and fully the moment food arrived.
âIâve solved your mystery,â James announced, holding up his phone. âRemus hasnât been abducted. Heâs just deeply, tragically in love with you, Padfoot.â
Peter didnât look up. âWe knew that in 2018, mate.â
âShut up,â Remus groaned, already regretting not faking a coma.
Sirius beamed. âI knew I felt eyes on my ass.â
Remus gave him a look. âThat was the cat.â
âYou named the cat Virginia Woolf. You donât get to talk.â
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 hadnât been orbiting each other for years.
Remus leaned against the counter, shoulder aching but tolerable now. âYou didnât have to come over.â
Sirius didnât glance up. âYou didnât have to answer the phone either, but here we are.â
âI mean it. You donât have toââ
âMoony.â Sirius looked up. âStop. I wanted to. And Iâll keep showing up, even when you donât ask.â
But this time, it wasnât 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.
âYou okay?â he asked.
âDefine âokay,ââ Remus replied.
âIâm better now,â Remus added. âLess pain. Less⌠apocalypse.â
Sirius hesitated. âI could stay. If you want.â
Remus blinked. âLike⌠stay?â
âNot in a weird way,â Sirius said quickly. âJust⌠hang out. Watch something awful. Make sure you donât throw your phone into another abyss.â
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.
âIâm not good at this,â Remus murmured after a while.
âLetting people in. Asking for help.â
Sirius didnât look away from the screen. âGood thing I already broke in.â
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 didnât feel like a burden.
Sirius had never been good at sitting still. He liked movementâliked 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 didnât want to move at all.
Remusâ 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 beforeâpost-surgery, post-breakup, post-epic-migraine-that-laid-him-out-for-three-days.
And Sirius was not okay about it.
He watched as Remus driftedâeyelids 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.
âStill awake?â Remus murmured, eyes fluttering open, voice low and rasped.
âYeah,â Sirius said. âToo wired. Adrenaline. Garlic bread. Cat.â
Remusâ mouth quirked. âShe did try to smother you earlier. Consider it a warning.â
âIâd die a noble death,â Sirius replied solemnly, scratching behind Virginiaâs ear. âTell my story.â
âHere lies Sirius Black. Mauled by an overeducated feline while pining pathetically for a sarcastic literature professor with chronic joint issues.â
Remus blinked slowly, his smile turning softer. âYou donât have to stay.â
âI want to stay,â Sirius said immediately.
He could tell Remus was gearing up to argue, so he cut him off with the quiet truth.
âI like being around you, Moony. Even when youâre cranky and sore and smell faintly of eucalyptus oil. Youâre still you. Thatâs the bit I like.â
Remus looked at him, then. Really looked.
And Sirius let him. Let himself be perceived too, for onceâtired, anxious, hungry for something he hadnât named out loud yet.
Remusâ voice, when it came, was quiet. âYou always do that.â
âMake me feel like Iâm not broken.â
He leaned forward, carefully, slowlyâjust enough for their foreheads to touch, not quite a kiss, not quite platonic either.
âYouâre not broken, Remus,â he whispered. âYouâre just real.â
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 forâbut wrapped under a threadbare blanket, Virginia curled at their feet, some absolute garbage show droning in the background.
Not about the usualâhis job, his family, the existential dread of agingâbut 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 âoccasional pasta and banterâ level. The hard stuff too.
The days when Remus couldnât 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 didnât 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 heâd stop asking stupid questions. Not the version that wondered if he could find a heating pad that didnât suck.
But Remus made him want to be better.
âHey,â he whispered in the dark. âYou awake?â
Remus shifted slightly. âMmhmm.â
âI like you,â Sirius blurted. âLike⌠a lot.â
Remus huffed a quiet laugh. âIs this your idea of a seduction? Because itâs very NPR at midnight.â
Sirius chuckled. âIâm serious.â
âI know you are. Thatâs why itâs terrifying.â
Sirius turned to face him. âWhat if we tried it?â
Remus was quiet for a long beat.
Then: âYou sure? Iâm⌠a lot.â
âYeah, but you come with leather jackets and Instagram thirst traps. I come with joint instability and a pharmacy in my kitchen.â
Sirius leaned in, eyes soft. âThen weâll make room for both.â
Remus looked at him like no one ever hadâlike he wanted to believe it, like he almost did.
âOkay,â he whispered.
Because for the first time in a long time, the world wasnât 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 didnât have to put on the smiling âNo really, Iâm fineâ 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.
He hadnât texted Sirius.
Not because he didnât want toâbut because he did.
Because Sirius had that look when Remus was hurting. The one that said he wanted to fix everything and couldnât. And Remus hated being the problem someone couldnât 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.
Heâd forgotten Sirius had a key.
âMoons?â 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.
âI brought oranges. And those crisps you like that taste like regret and vinegar.â
Remus made a noise that mightâve been a laugh. Mightâve been a sigh.
Sirius set the bag down and crossed the room without ceremony. âWhere are we at, pain-wise?â
âSeven,â Remus said. âMaybe an eight if I sneeze.â
Sirius nodded. âRight then. Cuddle triage.â
Remus blinked. âWhat?â
âTri-age, Remus. Three stages of care.â Sirius held up a finger. âStage one: reposition the invalid.â
âI will smother you with this cat.â
Sirius ignored him, sliding onto the couch and gently shifting Remusâ legs across his lap. His hands moved with practiced care, adjusting the throw pillow, rubbing a thumb behind Remusâ knee.
âStage two,â Sirius said, âis 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.â
Remus softened despite himself. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âAnd stage threeâŚâ Sirius leaned down, kissed the top of Remusâ head, just above his temple. â...is the most important. Which is reminding you that you donât have to hide on days like this.â
âI wasnât hiding,â Remus lied, immediately and unconvincingly.
âRight. You were doing highly visible floor yoga with a dislocated knee and depression snacks.â
Remus chuckled, quietly. His body still hurt, but it was different with Sirius here. The pain didnât shrink, but it didnât swallow him whole either.
âDo you regret this?â he asked suddenly, the words escaping before he could filter them. âBeing with me. Like this.â
Sirius didnât answer right away.
He just took Remusâ hand, running his thumb over the knucklesâgentle, reverent.
âI chose this,â Sirius said finally, voice soft but steady. âEvery part of it. I want the good days and the crap ones and the days when you canât move, and the days you make fun of my Spotify playlists.â
âTheyâre criminal, Sirius. You have Limp Bizkit and Phoebe Bridgers on the same playlist.â
âEclectic taste, baby.â
Remus smiled. Tired. Honest.
âDo you remember,â Sirius continued, âthat day in March when you couldnât leave bed, and you let me sit with you for like, six hours while we watched Great British Bake Off and bullied Paul Hollywood?â
âThat was one of the best days Iâve ever had.â
âIâm not with you despite the hard days,â Sirius said, leaning down again. âIâm with you through them. On purpose.â
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 Iâd get this.
He thought: I want this forever.
And he didnât feel broken at all.