when men are afraid of the light


We can forgive a child who is afraid of the dark;
the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.
— Plato


1. It's the way Sirius' hands roamed his body, memorising every contour, every plane, every scar, that Remus can't forget.

2. It's because Remus was entirely too much and yet not enough and Sirius just can't seem to stop thinking about it, to stop regretting.

3. He never knew what to say; he could always get under Remus' skin; he was so damn obnoxious sometimes—(and Remus thinks that some nights, he may have hated him because Sirius' lips were always at his ear, whispering burning secrets to him and Remus always caved).

4. Sirius hates the word regret, mainly because he had never experienced it before. But now, with all this disaster and all this chaos, he regrets so much. Suspecting Remus, persuading James to use Peter instead—(and he can still see the glint of the light as it hits off James' glasses and he can still see his best friend's lopsided smile as he says eagerly, "You think it'll work?"). Now, only after the world has fallen apart, Sirius Black regrets.

5. He didn't ever need to say anything because sometimes, Remus just knew; Sirius brought him out of his shell; he was loud and fun-loving and daring and adventurous and all the things Remus wasn't—(and Remus thinks that he never hated him, not even now in the loneliness of their once-shared apartment, even now when the moon burns him more than ever and the morning after is always filled with searing pain and vividly red blood).

6. In the dark, Sirius can taste the damp and the must and it reminds him of the smell of old parchment and books and all the things Remus loved; inkwells and quills and hastily scrawled words on a piece of parchment flung backwards when the professor wasn't looking.

7. In the dark, Remus can barely see his hands in front of his face. All he sees is the cobwebs drifting softly in front of the window and he can almost picture Sirius lounging there, the shine of his eyes as he says, "C'mon, Moony, let's go for a ride. It'll be fun." And he can picture the curve of his lips; the crinkle of his eyes; the wave of his hair, and Remus just wants to forget.

8. He can still remember the feel of Remus' hips below him as his hands glided smoothly over them; Remus' head in the crook of his neck, his own hand through the other man's brown hair; the burn of his kisses as they traced his collarbones; the expression on his face when he was reading a good book, and Sirius just wants to forget.

9. It's the aching in his bones before transformations that remind Remus he's still alive, still breathing, no matter how much he wishes he wasn't (because oh, God, Lily and James and Peter and Sirius—and he can't even think his damn name now without that annoying pain in his chest, fucking traitor). He thinks he hates Sirius now and his hands ball into fists because he's a traitor and he betrayed everyone and he can remember the way Sirius would slip into bed next to him and curl around him, murmuring I love you. Remus hates him. (No, he doesn't.)

10. It's the way that Remus would always roll over to face him in bed, a tiny grin playing around his lips; so small Sirius could only just see the glint of his white teeth in the dim light of the room. It's the way he'd look up when Sirius annoyed him when he was reading, that irritated expression on his face and the tone of his voice when he'd say, "Sirius, stop being an arse and sit still." It's the way Remus fit perfectly around his body, warm and secure, and how he'd whisper, I love you into his ear. And Sirius really does love him, still.