wolfstar microfic for the Wolfstar Comfort Fest · prompt: Sirius' birthday · word count: 918 · slight angst, mention of domestic violence (not explicit) and blood, comfort
When Sirius closes his eyes, he sees darkness. The mold clinging to the corners. The tapestry. His burned face.
He feels that soaking cold from which he doesn't know how to protect himself. It runs through his bones, freezes his blood, paralyses him.
He hears the sharp steps, the too-well-known stiletto heels whose bleeding mark was so often left on his skin. He tries to move, but he is stuck to the creaky old floor, panic blooming in his chest.
'Already fourteen, and still a disgrace.'
His mother's contemptuous tone pierces his ears, makes him want to scream at her, but no sound escapes his throat.
'And you expect me to give you a gift? You stain of dishonour, disappointment of my blood.'
He needs to escape, needs to peel his own skin until there's no Black trace left in it, needs to-
'Happy birthday to the biggest regret of all.'
'NO!' He doesn't know if he's really screaming, but his body is soaked in sweat and he struggles with catching his breath.
'Sirius.' A sweet voice, nothing to do with his mother's, says his name so gently Sirius feel like he'll break in pieces.
'No, please, no...' He doesn't know who he's begging to, but tears fill his eyes and he can't distinguish what is real and what is not.
What if he never escaped Grimmauld Place? What if he's condemned to spend all his life there? What if he never went to Azkaban and all of it was just a horrible nightmare, but one that would be even better than staying there, surrounded by the ghosts of his ancestors?
In an instance, the air comes back to his lungs, some pressure leaves his chest and he can, again, breath.
There is only one person who has always called him like that, one that Sirius gave up for lost many years ago and, with him, a part of his soul left and sent him to solitude.
But he came back and, with him, hope, a new found happiness and those tingling butterflies that turn him back into a teenager even if he is almost 50.
'I'm here, love, I'm here.'
He sounds too real to be a dream, a soft whisper right next to him, soothing his heart and assuring him that Grimmauld Place is far away, abandoned and decrepit, while Sirius stays safe, right at home.
He almost never calls him like that, more used to "Moony" or "Sweetheart". But "Rem" is saved for those moments of vulnerability where Sirius allows himself to fall apart and let the other man catch him, caress all his broken pieces without fearing getting cut by them, and slowly put him back together in a way that can only mean love.
"Rem" is saved for those nights in their fifth year of Hogwarts, when Sirius woke up crying and his Moon lied next to him, brighter than ever, a safe and constant weight on the left side of his bed that smelled of old books, cinnamon and relief.
The same answer as when they were 15 and immature and scared, too young to admit their feelings while they cuddled as young men didn't use to do and ignored everything around them.
Now, old and traumatised and tired, Sirius can still feel the warmth of his Moon, full and shiny, next to him. He can ignore the ache of his damaged joints and move closer to him, the sign that he is already ready for physical contact after the worst of his nightmare has passed. He can sigh slowly when two long arms wrap around him and the smell of old books, cinnamon and habit fills his nose.
'Better?' Remus asks, and Sirius' answer is a kiss on his bony jawline, one that is reciprocated with a kiss on the wrinkles of his forehead.
'Yeah. Sorry, I know this tradition is not fun at all,' Sirius tries to joke, but Remus doesn't laugh. Instead, he hugs him tighter.
'Don't be dumb, Pads. I know how hard it is, every year,' he murmurs in that gentle voice of his, and Sirius swallows hard as he tries not to cry again.
'Yeah.' Is all he manages to answer, but Remus doesn't need more. He knows.
'I already bought the ingredients for the carrot cake, and after we visit Prongs and Flower, we can enjoy it while we watch one episode of that horrible TV show you like. How does that sound?'
It is the same routine every year, one that brings comfort and peace to Sirius, one that helps the loose memories that sometimes leave his mind come back easier when that happens.
He knows he's broken, a shadow of what he once was, but he also knows there are moments when he can still smile, and laugh, or just simply stare at Remus and feel grateful that he didn't lose everything.
'Yeah, that will be great.'
They don't talk for a while, but Remus softly sings welsh lullabies to Sirius, the ones that Hope used to sing for him after the bite, and, at some point, Sirius can close his eyes again without the fear of seeing his mother's face.
They don't say "I love you", they don't need to. But in the safety of Remus' arms, in between the innocent pecks and the creaking of the bed, Sirius can feel Remus' smile against his temple, and he simply knows.
