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Summary
Sirius steps closer. The dream is set in their old flat, the one they used to share before Sirius broke his heart and tossed him out; he can’t remember the exact shade of the carpet or walls, the precise thickness of the stripes of Sirius’s red bedding, and the whole room looks wrong in a way that Remus no longer recalls how to correct. He hates it. With every detail he forgets, he feels like Sirius is being ripped even further from him, and—
“You can’t be here, Sirius—”
“Have you slept with him?” says Sirius in a husky voice. “Do you let him touch you like I used to?”
“That’s none of your bloody bus—”
“Does it still scare you? Is he helping you work through it like you asked me to, or don’t you feel safe enough with anybody but me?”
Sirius is only asking because he already knows the answer. Then again, Sirius is only asking because he’s everything Remus hates about himself personified.
(Or: Damocles Belby invents the Wolfsbane Potion to help Remus. The potion survives the test of time; their relationship does not. Remus/Damocles, Remus/Sirius.)
Series
- Part 8 of Queer Marauders (unconnected fics)
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Bookmark Notes:
Umm this is sad and a lot to handle and kind of slap in the face because shit i have a hero complex