Chapter Text
Remus and Sirius fall asleep quickly when they are together. This happened to be one of those nights, well, at least it was for Remus, who quickly slipped into a peaceful nap. Sirius couldn’t sleep; his mind was racing, and he could feel everything touching him, the sheets, which, despite usually being like clouds, were now far too scratchy, and his clothes suddenly far too tight. It was awfully suffocating, and he finds himself wishing that his friend would get out of his bed and stop touching him.
Finally, he decides he needs to get up, he needs to get away from Remus and the bed and his thoughts. As quietly as he can, the boy gets up and makes his way up to the private bathroom the boys have in their dorm. He's paranoid for some reason; he keeps looking back and checking to make sure Remus is still asleep.
Stepping into the bathroom feels like walking into heaven. The cold stone and the complete silence create a strong feeling of serenity through Sirius. With slow and steady movements, he begins to remove his shirt, fumbling slightly over the many buttons. As soon as the fabric is removed from his body, a slight panic washes over him again. What if Moony or Prongs sees him like this? What if they walk in and see the half-healed wounds that drench his arms and stomach? God forbid they see the magically induced scars that litter his back in neat horizontal lines. But he can't be afraid. Remus is asleep, and Pete and Prongs are down in the common room. Nobody is coming into this room, but maybe that was also scary; nobody can save him if he messes up.
His breathing is unsteady now, shaky and far too fast. A small voice is in his head now. Call Moony, you don't want this; you could die, and then they would be alone. That's selfish, Sirius, and you don’t want to be selfish, do you? He wants to argue with himself, to say that he does want to die, even if it's selfish.
He can't do that.
Moony needs him.
Prongs and Pete need him.
Fuck, even if he doesn't want to admit it, Regulus needs him alive.
Fine. If he can’t kill himself, he’ll just have to do what he always does.
His eyes flick to his pants, to his pocket where his favorite item is. It's a simple switchblade, a black handle with a silver snake engraved on it, the eyes emerald gems which seem to hypnotize Sirius every time he sees it. It’s the blade he always uses; he keeps it sharp and clean like it’s his most prized possession.
His breath hitches, fear filling his body once more. It always hurts for a second–pushing the knife down–but it's only for a second. He tries to steady his shaking hands as he lets the sharp point hit his arm. The metal is warm, and the feeling on his skin is like a peaceful drizzle after a raging storm. As he pushes it down carefully, the panic leaves him, and after a moment of getting used to the feeling of the blade, he begins to drag it across his forearm. He looks away as his skin opens like a bleeding curtain, revealing his emotions. Seeing the yellow bubbles of the hypodermis always makes him nauseous. He removes the blood from his blade by wiping it on his pant leg and pressing it to the skin again. The next cut is worse; his hands are trembling now, and the skin is streaked with red. His hand slips, and the cut curves. It annoys him; the incisions are supposed to be neat, uniform, sickeningly perfect, and now he's gone and screwed it up.
With anger driving every movement, he quickly slashes at his skin. Once. Twice. Three times. Over and over until his skin is a manuscript written in red. It’s not until the hot red liquid hits the floor that he actually looks at his arm.
Fuck, this is bad.
His arm may as well have no skin; it's torn like shredded cloth.
Tears prick at his eyes, and he has to look away before he feels ill.
“Vulnera Sanentur,” He whispers, his wand in his hand, tracing the worst of the cuts. As soon as the spell is spoken, his skin starts to stitch itself together. Fabric being sewn and mended. It’s an uncomfortable sensation, the magic pulling at his skin and forcing it back together.
When the spell is complete, he’s not shocked to find that new scars have replaced the open wounds. You should be disgusted with yourself, y’know. The words are like a bludger to his serenity, even if they came from his own mind. He doesn't want to be disgusting, he doesn't want to be sick or mental, he wants to be normal like the other kids. Other kids do not slit their wrists.
With the rifts on his skin healed, Sirius’ eyes look down at the bloody floor below him. He decides it is probably best if he doesn't leave their shared bathroom looking like a slaughterhouse floor and whispers a short “tergeo” and smiles softly as the floor is wiped clean.
The worst part of it all? He has to put that horrible shirt back on; he could summon pajamas, but he doesn't want to wake Remus. Because he wants to procrastinate, he lays his head back on the wall (just a little bit too hard, and it sends a bolt of pain through his skull). His head has stopped spinning now, and all he wants to do is lie down on his bed, curl against Remus, and fall asleep. Remus always knows how to make him feel better, how to get him calm when his brain is screaming at him.
He needs him like a drowning man reaching for a life vest. But he said it himself, nobody is coming to save him in the seclusion of the bathroom, or so he thinks.
“Hey, Pads? Remus told me you've been in here for a while. Is everything alright?”
Shit, James is at the door now. Suddenly, Sirius is extremely happy that the doors to every bathroom lock automatically when someone enters. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to swallow the breaks in his voice before they even begin.
“Yeah, I'm okay. I'm about to shower, do me a favor and bring me some pajamas?” His voice is shakier than he would have liked, and he knows James hears it, but thankfully, the other boy doesn't mention it.
“If you say everything is okay, I’ll trust you, Pads. Give me a second, I'll go grab some clothes.”
The pity in James’ voice hurts worse than any blade could.