#sad wolfstar

[moonytoast-28]

06/09/2025, @wolfstarmicrofic, prompt 6 - a cave in hogsmeade, word count - 512

One of the few memories that Sirius clung to, just to remember what happiness and love mean, was quite insignificant.

It was just a trip to Hogsmeade, January 13th, 1977. James was down with the flu, and Peter was off with his girlfriend, leaving him and Remus.

They were well into their relationship, exploring depths and intricacies with the enthusiasm of newly-weds. Remus, coy and shy, with a beanie stuffed on his curls, had bought Sirius a box of exploding bon-bons, stammering, “It’s not a lot but I figured I never gave you anything for New Year’s so…I’ve saved up for a pack of Embassy Number Ones though!” 

Sirius had melted like ice-cream in June. That’s when he’d made up his mind, he’d protect this boy forever. 

He couldn’t make good on that promise. 

Every evening, and every morning on weekends, Padfoot would shuffle towards the sweet-shop, sit by the door, and wait. His ears would perk up every time he saw somebody exit with exploding bon-bons, he’d straighten up every time he saw a tall silhouette draped in a tattered brown cloak. Stop, he thinks you’re a murderer, he’d repeat to himself, back in the cave in Hogsmeade, and the surge of emotions, the surge of anguish and self-hatred and love and desperation would hit him like a sweet gut-punch, leaving him breathless. He remembered he could feel anything at all.

One particular afternoon, as Padfoot observes the crowds, he sees him.

A part of him just thinks that it’s a figment of his imagination. Too many instances of bouncing up to confused strangers with amber eyes and soft curls left him with a sense of weary resignation.

But this time, he hears him, just as the door opens so buyers can leave. The fading Welsh accent, the lilt over his vowels, the soft, husky tone. Over the chiming bell, the shouts and orders, the masses of people, the mix of voices, Sirius hears him. He always does.

Padfoot dares not enter. He stares through a glass pane, pawing at the windowsill. He’s buying his usual, three bars of honeycomb chocolate, four chocolate frogs, and…

Exploding bon-bons.

He watches Remus, as kind and lovely and charming and shy and awkward as he was at seventeen, pay the bill, scoop up his things and walk out, clutching the bon-bons to his chest. Sirius can feel his breath become unsteady, his heart beating faster in the canine body. Weakly, feebly, he musters a soft whine.

Remus turns, frowns. His eyes find Sirius’ through the shadows for a split-second, and they widen, disbelief written on his face. Let him know it’s me, he pleads. Let him know I’m rotten and terrible and a liar, but let him know it’s me. Sirius waits for the recognition to dawn, he waits for his eyes to go warm, he waits for Remus to take a step towards him, he waits, he waits, he waits.

Remus shakes his head, blinks away tears, and leaves.

Soon enough, after his figure has long disappeared into the crowd, Sirius follows suit.

@wolfstarmicrofic

[mydeadgaywizards]

tragic wolfstar but it’s remus “wouldn’t mind being in love with a boy if it didn’t mean being in love with sirius black” lupin, and sirius “wouldn’t mind being in love with remus lupin if it didn’t mean being in love with a boy” black

[not-the-moon-not-a-st4r]

“weren't we the stars in heaven? weren't we the salt in the sea? dragon in the new warm mountain, didn't you believe in me?” but its sirius and remus during the first wizarding war

[my-castles-crumbling]

Completely Normal

based on an anonymous request

"You what?" Remus nearly yelled, looking back and forth between Sirius and James, his mouth agape.

"Guys kiss their friends, like, to practice for girls. It's normal," James shrugged.

Remus narrowed his eyes, still trying to take in the information that two of his best friends had kissed. More than once. "Normal," he scoffed. Not much about Sirius and James was normal, after all.

But Sirius just grinned and leaned towards him. "Yeah. Want to see?"

And suddenly, Remus's brain was short-circuiting. He couldn't remember how to breathe or think. Or nod.

But somehow, Sirius must have realized that he was okay with whatever he was offering, because their lips touched softly, and Remus felt himself gasp.

It was not friendly. He felt his stomach flip-flop and his cheeks turn pink, and he resisted the urge to raise his hand to grab at Sirius's cheek and deepen the kiss. But thankfully, miraculously, Sirius did that for him, and before Remus could think, their tongues were swiping against each other, Sirius's breath hot in Remus's mouth and Remus's entire body on fire.

Suddenly, just as Remus considered wrapping his arms around Sirius's waist, Sirius almost jumped back, panting, eyes wide, looking shocked and a bit confused.

After a deep breath, however, Sirius murmured the words that made Remus's heart sink: "See? Erm...completely normal."

[3lectracuted]

Even anxious pups (Sirius)

Need the moon (Remus)

I howl for you

I circle you

[vomits0cutely]

Remus “I can’t love you, anymore” Lupin.

Sirius “I can’t love you any more” Black.

[siriuslylu]

Dying was a little bit like falling asleep. The crossing was a blur, kind of like the moment when you are falling asleep and stand in the fine line between being awake and dreaming, when you don’t know if what you’re seeing is actually happening.

Remus was dying, and as he sighed his last breath and his vision faltered, he suddenly focused on something, rather someone, someone he’d been waiting to see again, for a long time now.

“Sirius”

A smile, that Sirius Black Smile

“Hiya Moony, welcome home”

[starryeyedwolves]

Flicker

The studio was cold, the light dimmed by the thickening dusk, like the last breaths of a dying star. Sirius sat, bent over a canvas that bore the weight of years, his hands trembling ever so slightly as they traced the curve of Remus’ face. The strokes were delicate, fragile—an imitation of life, an echo of something that had once been whole. The paint had begun to crack in places, like ancient frescoes left untouched by time, but still, Sirius painted.

He painted like his soul was tethered to Remus, like each stroke was an act of faith, a prayer to something greater than the world they lived in. Remus, his muse, his lover, his everything. And yet, in the silence that hung between them now, there was no connection.

Remus leaned against the doorframe, watching him with eyes that were growing tired of being seen. His face had always been a portrait of sorrow, but now, it was simply a mask he wore, as if to shield himself from the weight of the world—and from Sirius.

"Do you still see me?" Remus asked, his voice raw and thick with a bitterness neither of them had ever spoken before.

Sirius didn’t look up. He couldn’t look up. Because if he did, he would see the truth: the slow withering of the man he had once worshipped with every fiber of his being, the slow erosion of the spark that had once burned so bright in Remus’ eyes. And he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

"Always," Sirius whispered, though the words tasted like ash.

It was a lie, but Remus knew it. Remus had always known when Sirius lied. And still, the silence stretched, thick and choking.

"Sirius…" Remus stepped closer, his bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor. "I’m fading. You’re painting ghosts now."

The words cut deeper than any blade could. Remus’ body was withering—sick, drained, an empty shell of the man who had once held Sirius’ heart in his hands like a delicate thing. The sickness had crept in, uninvited and unseen, stealing his strength, leaving only the hollow form of him behind. He had never asked for Sirius to fix it. But Sirius had tried. Tried, in ways that made him lose himself.

Every painting was a plea.

Every glance was a prayer.

Every moment, as fragile as the thread of a spider’s web.

"I…" Sirius’s voice faltered. "I can’t bear to see you slip away, Remus."

Remus’ laugh was hollow, brittle. "Then why don’t you let go, Sirius? Why do you keep painting me like this? A thing that no longer exists?"

Sirius’ breath caught in his throat. "Because you’re still here. You’re still with me. I’m not letting go of you."

Remus’ eyes closed, but he didn’t look away. "You’re holding onto a memory, Sirius. You’re holding onto a ghost."

The room felt colder, the shadows more suffocating. Sirius clenched his fists, fighting the overwhelming flood of emotions threatening to drown him. "I—" He couldn’t form the words, could barely summon the strength to speak.

"You should stop," Remus said softly. "Stop painting me. Let me be gone."

"Please." Sirius’ voice broke, cracking like ice under pressure. "I can’t."

Remus reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the canvas. "You’re keeping me alive in your art, Sirius. But it’s not me. It’s just the idea of me. I’m already gone, and I don’t want you to hold onto that… empty thing."

Sirius’ hand trembled as he gripped the brush, his knuckles white. He wanted to scream, to tear the canvas to shreds, to shatter everything around him. But all he could do was paint. Paint a face that was slowly fading, one brushstroke at a time. The pain of it was unbearable. He was losing Remus, and all he could do was make a likeness of him, as though the paint could preserve him forever. As though it could keep him from vanishing.

But the colors weren’t enough. Nothing was enough.

"You’re wrong," Sirius whispered, staring at the canvas with eyes full of torment. "I need this. I need you. I can’t lose you."

"You already have," Remus said, his voice gentle but firm. "You lost me a long time ago."

Sirius’ breath hitched, his vision blurring. He stood, trembling, as he turned to face Remus, who was already retreating into the shadows of the room, a silhouette against the fading light. "Don’t leave me," Sirius begged, his voice raw with desperation. "Don’t fade from me. Don’t disappear."

But Remus had already faded. He had already left.

Sirius fell to his knees before the canvas, the brush slipping from his fingers, as tears blurred his vision and blurred the painting. And in the soft, hopeless silence that followed, it felt as though the world had forgotten to turn.

A whisper lingered in the air, a soft, aching plea: "Don’t let me go."

But Sirius, trapped in the endless repetition of his art, could not answer.

He had already lost him.

And still, he painted.