THANK YOU! :)

HELLO! anniesj here. :)

This is just a brief little thank-you fic for everyone who's given me birthday wishes and fic, because this has been a WONDERFUL birthday and I am so, so grateful. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU. You have all made this one of the best birthdays I've ever had. :)

In the same vein as circe_tigana's INCREDIBLE birthday present, I give you ...

Five MORE Ways to Make Remus Lupin Cry
By: anniesj


Five More Ways to Make Remus Lupin Cry

i.

It's not supposed to happen this way, but this is the way it happens.

He can't stop running. Running through branches and bushes, stumbling over the wicked roots of trees, sloshing through knee-deep streams and brooks. It doesn't matter that his legs are tired, that his mind is blistered, that all he wants to do is fall down on his knees and let himself fail. He must keep running, for the moon is rising and there's not very much time left, and this is all his fault.

All my fault, oh god, this is all my doing and there is absolutely no way to fix it.

In his arms, Sirius is moaning.

Remus can feel him dying. With every mile they gain, Sirius is losing his battle. His body has grown sluggish and weak, and Remus is forced to drag him along, one arm wrapped tightly around the other boy's waist to keep him from falling behind. His forehead is pressed to the crook of Remus's neck, and Remus can feel the heat of Sirius's fever as it spikes and screams from beneath his skin. Under the silver and shadow of the Forbidden Forest, Remus can see the glassy delirium in Sirius's eyes and the wan, pinched look to his face. The arm slung limply across Remus's shoulders shakes and trembles more with each passing moment.

Remus refuses to look at the bite, but it does not matter, because he can feel it.

It burns and snarls from its raw place on Sirius's neck, blood oozing out from the edges of the dirty bandage hastily applied to his throat, angry and red around the edges where the little square of gauze could not cover it. The wound is hot with magic, deep and furious, and Remus swears that if he listens to the static underneath the rush of his breath, the beat of his heart, the pounding of his feet, he can hear the bite begin to snarl. He can hear the bite snapping and hissing, the beast rising and wrapping its claws around the boy Remus loves best in the world, and it is killing him.

And then he realizes that no, it is not the bite making those noises, it is Sirius himself, and it hurts worse than a thousand silver bullets in the gut.

Another rough, foreign growl rips its way from Sirius's throat, followed by a pitiful whimper that is so achingly, vulnerably Sirius that it makes Remus trip over a rock and brings them both to the ground as dead autumn leaves fly up around them. The cuts and scrapes on Remus's body from last night's transformation throb in protest and Remus ignores them, turning his attention to the pale, shaking boy on the forest floor. "Come on, Padfoot, we have to keep going," he says hoarsely, running his hand down the side of Sirius's dirt-and-tear-streaked face. "We're ... we're not far enough away yet; they could still find us. Come on, there's not much time ..."

No, not much time at all. One desperate glance at the sky reveals the rapidly-changing colors of twilight, the gradual sink from blue to black, like a bruise. The full moon winks slyly from behind a gathering of clouds, and Remus feels the beast rising in his blood, making him boil and feel slightly volcanic. But it is nothing in comparison to Sirius's pain as he turns his wild eyes up at the sky and thrashes, shakes, cries. "Hurts, Moony, it hurts," Sirius sobs. "Oh, God, I didn't know ... Moony, Moony, please, it hurts so bad ..."

Remus knows. He knows because he can feel it himself. The raw scratching of claws against his insides, little cuts slashing at his skin from within, the slow rebellion of his body as it tries to fight the change for just a little bit longer. It is always the same. It is always just like this. And it is because of that understanding that he whispers hushing words against Sirius's lips, even as his teeth begin to lengthen, even as his eyes dilate and go black. It is because he understands that pain that he wraps his hand around Sirius's rapidly-changing fingers and tells him once, twice, a thousand times:

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

And then it happens, and sorry doesn't mean shit.

---

ii.

He saw him once and it was more than enough.

The others all told him it was a mistake. They said that Azkaban does not just change men; it eviscerates them, rips out their guts and throws them on the dirty floor and pisses all over them, and then stuffs the ruins back inside their skin and tries to make them breathe. They said he would find no answers in that place, no justification, no closure, no peace of mind. He would only find a bag of bones that used to be the man he loved, and in the end, it would probably do him more harm than good.

Remus knew all this. He understood it. He did not go to Azkaban looking for the lover he once embraced, nor did he go there seeking explanations for crimes that could never be explained. Those things were dead and gone forever. Instead, Remus went because he felt like he owed it to Sirius, and even murder and betrayal could not repay the debt Remus had incurred every time Sirius changed his shape for him. He did that to try and ease Remus's suffering. He did that in an attempt to understand his prison.

It was only fair that he do the same thing.

And so Remus went into the swollen, rotten belly of the beast. He walked the halls and stared at the faces of men who were no longer men, just husks, just shells, just leftovers. He passed the cold, daunting frames of the Dementors, and he could feel their needful breath pushing across his cheek as they sought out his pain and hungered for it. He went deep into the underground in search of Sirius Black, and found something else instead.

The thing curled up in the dark, filthy corner of the cell looked like Sirius. It had his shape, no matter how emaciated, and even the grease and grime of the prison could not dull the startling luster of his black hair, now streaked with curls of gray. The gnarled, twitching hands clasped tight under the thing's chin were the same hands that once slid gently across the tender juncture of Remus's thigh and groin, and the dry lips that wheezed out faint snores used to bestow kisses and laughter instead of thin, tired breaths.

When the thing opened its eyes, it screamed and jumped backwards, spewing out nonsense and fear in a tangled mess of incomprehensible words. Its spidery Sirius-hands clutched desperately at the wall, ragged fingernails scratching mercilessly against the stone until its fingertips bled. It bared its yellow teeth and spilled salty-smelling tears, and even when Remus tried to quiet it down, it would not settle. Instead, it just howled and moaned and cried, and Remus hated himself for feeling sympathetic towards it even as he loathed what this thing once was.

But just as Remus turned to leave, the thing reached out and pressed its hand softly to Remus's cheek. And it did not matter that there was blood on the fingertips, or that the calluses were so scratchy it made his skin prickle, or that they stank of grime and shit and dirty years gone by. None of that mattered, because underneath it all, there was Sirius. There was still Sirius in that monster, in that wraith of broken bones and dreams, and for one stupid, horrible moment, Remus loved him again.

And then the thing tugged its hand away and pissed itself, and when Remus left, he left his heart behind.

---

iii.

It's not that Sirius is broken, you see. He's just a little mixed-up, somewhat splintered, a bit out-of-sorts. It's hard for him to concentrate for long periods of time. He gets frustrated easily. There's a part of him that's still twenty-two, still naïve and too self-centered, and then there's a part of him that's older than time itself, ancient and wizened and impossibly tired. He gets lost inside of himself for hours at a time.

He forgets things, too. Forgets who he is and where time has left him. He forgets how to perform simple spells, forgets how to brew tea, forgets Buckbeak's name. He forgets that James is dead and makes little Harry frown and feel betrayed. He forgets that Remus Lupin loved him, that he still does, and he forgets how to kiss and make love and move on.

And this morning, he forgot about snow.

Remus finds him outside in the garden wearing nothing but his pajama pants, standing barefoot in front of the frozen fountain, his eyes wide as saucers and on the very brink of tears. Snow is still falling all around him, the first snow of the season, just on the cusp of December. There are ice crystals in the tangled mess of his hair, and his lips are blue and trembling. He looks like he's been out here for hours.

Swearing softly under his breath, Remus grabs the quilt from his bed and rushes to his side. The moment he urgently whispers Sirius's name and puts a hand on his shoulder, Sirius startles and cries out, a loud, raw noise that shakes snow from the barren trees. The tears spill over from his eyes, and he turns to look at Remus with a blank, terrified expression. "Where are we?"

It takes Remus a moment to swallow down his own agony before he can speak. "We're safe," he finally manages, wrapping the quilt around Sirius's thin shoulders. "We're at Grimmauld Place."

Sirius's eyes widen fractionally. "My mother will see you."

Remus smiles sadly. "She won't."

Sirius's teeth are chattering as Remus hauls him into the study and carefully sits him down in front of the fireplace. Remus pulls out his wand and makes the fire jump and snicker, and then sits down on the edge of the hearth to tend to his old friend. Gathers him close. Tucks in the quilt. Charms his hair dry. Tries not to lose it at the sight of the tiny particles of snow clinging to Sirius's heartbreakingly long lashes. All in a day's work for Remus Lupin.

Remus shakes his head. "You can't stay out in the snow like that, Padfoot," he says softly. "You could freeze. Remember?"

"I'm sorry," Sirius shivers, curls of bewildering gray falling in his eyes. "I didn't mean to. I can't remember what happened. It was just ... I hadn't seen snow in so long. I don’t remember last winter."

It's funny. Just when you think your heart can't be any more broken than it already is, a sentence like that comes along and rips you to shreds all over again. Remus ducks his head, presses his cheek to Sirius's cold face and feels Sirius's hands shaking against his chest. Remus sighs, picks up Sirius's scarred fingers, covers them with his own, and tucks them between his thighs, quickly rubbing at his hands in a desperate attempt to revive them. He wonders how long Sirius was standing out there like this, but he doesn't think his heart could take the answer.

Next to him, Sirius's own heart seems to be quickening. "What are you doing?" Sirius asks, his voice rougher than usual.

Remus swallows and refuses to linger on the dark glimmering magic he feels in Sirius's tattooed knuckles. "Your hands are cold," he says softly. "We're just going to warm you up a bit, that's all."

But Sirius is frowning, pulling away a bit, though he leaves his hands between Remus's thighs. His brow is furrowed as he stares at him. "I remember this," he mutters. "You ... and me ... and a fireplace. And this."

Oh, God help him, but Remus remembers, too. It's one of those memories he's tried very hard not to think about over the years, something better left hidden and concealed, locked away where it can't tempt him. Late winter nights. Snowball fights and blizzards. Cold skins, crackling fires, the way that shivers gave way to sweat. The vividness of it all makes Remus's cock jump, makes a low dark ache slither through his belly, reminding him of why some things are better left forgotten.

Sirius remembers, though. His hands are pushing at Remus's thighs, gently opening his legs, his palms moving higher to warmer places. "We used to do this," he murmurs, his fingers brushing low against Remus's balls, and it makes him swear and jerk. Sirius just sighs. "And you used to do that."

One of Sirius's hands finally reaches out and covers the length of Remus's erection, and Remus jumps, hissing in a low, painful breath as his fingers rub and tease. "Oh, God," he rasps. "I remember."

"I love you."

Surprised, Remus looks down and sees Sirius staring up at him with those ancient-innocent eyes of his, his mouth trembling and pale. There is nothing but utmost sincerity on his face, looking up at him through abject misery. "Please, Moony," he whispers. "Help me remember how much."

So Remus tries. He tries to kiss him like he kissed him before, tries to show him with his hands and his mouth and his words that they were once very much in love and still are, even if he can't always remember it, and he tries to take Sirius's frostbitten heart and make it come alive again.

But three days later, Sirius forgets about the snow again, and this time it's Remus who can't get warm.

---

iv.

"Shhhh. Don't move."

The words are like a balm to his soul, spoken lightly but thick with meaning, tender and soft like the hand across his brow. Remus can feel the chill of his own sweat and the strong urge to throw up. There's a sour smell in the air that reeks of illness, of sickness, of impending stillness. Everything feels violent, desperate, terrifying and uncertain. He can taste blood in the back of his throat and wonders what he has done.

"Ah, now. Don't think about that. Shhhh."

Slowly, blearily, Remus opens his eyes. The morning is dark and all around him. There are fires burning on the horizon. There are dead leaves clinging to the sweat on his belly, and when he tries to breathe, his lungs ache. Dawn is breaking. through the clouds and it is an ugly, dreadful sight. Remus thinks he remembers the moon.

Oh, God, what have I done?

"Doesn't matter, Moony. Doesn't matter."

He is trying not to listen to Sirius. Sirius is dead, isn't he? He isn't sure. Remus can't think right. There is something thick in his stomach and his hands are wet and sticky. He can't feel his legs. What time is it? Is it morning? Can he ask a ghost that?

A low chuckle, so painfully vivid. "I'm not a ghost, you know."

Slowly, Remus swallows. "Yes, you are," he argues thickly.

"Ah, but could a ghost do this?"

A kiss, oh, a kiss, just one kiss that tastes like those gingerbread biscuits Sirius used to steal from the kitchen at Hogwarts, spicy and sweet and sprinkled with sugar. It washes away the melted-penny burn and replaces it with softer things, better memories, like pillows and quilts and the absence of pine needles. Remus closes his eyes and lets it wash over him, and then when it is over and he opens his eyes again, he sees nothing but Sirius.

Young, strong, proud, grinning, red-cheeked and merry Sirius, his hands wrapped around Remus's shoulders as he beams at him happily. Remus can't help it; he smiles back and it only makes Sirius's grin broader. "You were sleeping for hours," Sirius says.

"I'm sorry," Remus apologizes. "I think I lost track of the time. Do you still have my watch?"

"Yes, of course," Sirius says, waving a hand dismissively. "That doesn't matter now. There's no more time. There's just us. I'm here, Moony, I'm back. Forget the rest of it. It's all bollocks anyway."

Yes. Yes, Remus thinks he'll do just that. Forget the war, forget the children, forget his obligations and forget the barest snippet of snapping jaws and tearing flesh. Forget it all and just take this instead. "I've missed you," Remus confesses. "Don't leave me again."

Sirius just laughs and drops another kiss on Remus's nose. "How could I leave you when I was never here in the first place?"

---

v.

And again, Remus wakes up alone.