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A month after Sirius’ heart attack, a month after he lost half a leg and a chunk of his hand, and a month after his abusive home situation came out, the other three Marauders have decided they need to do something.
As brilliant as he is, the trio has noticed that Sirius has been struggling with his newfound disabilities. Of course he has, he’s been through a lot and it’s constituted a lot of pretty major lifestyle adjustments. Thankfully, he’s been able to go to classes just fine, but he’s had to take a break from quidditch while he heals up, at least until he can get a prosthetic. His leg isn’t healed enough for that, just yet.
It’s been taking a pretty big toll on his mental health, as well. It makes sense, but it’s not pleasant to see someone so tough, someone so strong, breaking under the pressure of being disowned (Walburga and Orion hadn’t taken well to the side effects of their abuse), learning to live again, and healing. James has cried more than he’s generally willing to admit due to the pain of watching his brother suffer— and, really, that’s saying something. He’s quite open with his emotions, and is, absolutely, a crybaby, but he also feels the need to be strong, be someone Sirius can lean on.
All of this is what’s landed James in Minerva McGonagall’s office on a Hogsmeade weekend, without getting into trouble or being dragged there. Actually, if anything, he’s the one begging Minnie to talk to him this time. She looks perturbed by the change in events— only two of them ever stop by her office, and neither of those two are James.
Remus, on occasion, pops into all of their professor’s offices to ask about homework, the nerd he is, and Sirius has an almost mother-son relationship with the transfiguration professor, so he frequents the space. But James? As much as Minnie is his favourite teacher, he has other things he prefers doing. Hence why his sudden appearance makes no sense.
“What, Mr. Potter, have you gotten into, this time?” Minnie asks him, curt and straightforward, per usual.
“I am, frankly, offended that you think the only reason I’d come to visit you is because I’ve done something,” James jokes easily, slides into their usual dynamic, though, he quickly realizes that he has a reason to be here. “Well, I would be offended, but I actually have a really important question for you,” he explains, running his hand through his unruly hair. It knocks his glasses off-kilter, but they’re always crooked, so that’s not saying much.
“Go on,” Minnie prompts him, a questioning look on her face. She looks genuinely interested in what he has to say, probably because he’s never this serious (for lack of a better word).
“Well,” James starts. “I know the rules about regular pets at Hogwarts, but I was just wondering what the rules around, like, service dogs are,” he grins, a little bit anxious and a little bit excited. He rocks forward on his feet, clasps his hands in front of his chest, and shakes his head to muss his fluffy hair even further. Minnie gazes at him, confusion on her face, followed by understanding.
“Ah,” she smiles. It’s small, but it’s there, and it makes James hopeful. “Well, service animals of any sort are allowed at Hogwarts, of course. If the animals are necessary for health reasons, they are permitted to stay with their owners at all hours of the day, including during classes and meal times. It would just need to be registered with the staff so we can make sure people aren’t just bringing pets to classes,” Minnie explains, and it’s exactly what James wants to hear.
“Perfect,” James can feel the goofy beam plastered all over his lips, but he couldn’t care less. “Thank you, Minnie!” he chirps, spinning on his heel to run back to the dorm. She calls out after him.
“That is Professor McGonagall to you!” Minnie says loudly.
“Sure thing, Minnie!” he yells back.
When James gets back to the dorm, his heart swells like it’s becoming the sun his friends and family compare him to, shining light all over the room, because he’s so happy. The Marauders are his family, they’re his everything, they all seem so peaceful, and he loves them so much like this.
Remus is curled up at the desk, a book propped on his knees, which are pulled up to his chest. In his typical thick, warm jumper and cozy pants, he looks right at home. He looks so calm as he reads, large eyes scanning the words, lips slightly parted in focus.
Peter is sitting on his bed, working on the same homework essay he’d been scribbling on before James left. Also in a jumper, he looks warm and comfortable. His tongue pokes out from between his lips as he works, and his eyebrows are ever so slightly furrowed, but he’s completely relaxed, too.
Sirius is lying on the bed he shares with Remus, a pillow propping up his chin while he, too, reads. He runs hot, just like James, the opposite of Remus and Peter, so he’s wearing a tank top and a pair of short trousers. It shows off the scars riddling his pale skin; the deep lashes, the lightning-like spell marks, the white flashes from the Cruciatus Curse. His amputated leg is still wrapped in bandages, as is his wounded hand, but that’s to be expected, with how deep his injuries are. James is proud of him for how quickly he’s become comfortable with showing off his lovely body around their friend group.
Peter and Remus look at James, and he gives them a covert (see: obnoxious) thumbs up, then runs to Sirius’ bed to flop down next to him. Sirius chuckles when James throws his arm around his shoulders, sloppily kisses his cheek, and rolls onto his back. His book ends up wandlessly, wordlessly slipping shut with a bookmark between the pages on the nightstand. James drops his chin onto Sirius’ chest, gazing up at his best mate with unbridled affection.
“Hi, Paddy,” James says, all dimples and crinkled eyes.
“Hey, Prongsie,” Sirius says back, just as happy, save the underlying discomfort and anxiety that’s been plaguing him for the past month.
~~~~~
On Sirius’ seventeenth birthday, he wakes up in a pretty good mood. Sure, there’s some annoying phantom pains running through his leg, his hand, but they’re nowhere near as bad as most of the other pain he’s toughed out, so he doesn’t really care. He’s been learning how to function without them quite well, he thinks. Plus, he’s recently healed just enough to get a prosthetic leg, which is making things much easier.
He’s up first, per usual— he tends to rise before even the sun due to the fixed mealtimes in the House of Black and his need for at least a few hours of preparation to see his family. When he wakes, Remus’ back is pressed against his front, and the irresponsibility lanky werewolf is clutching Sirius’ hand to his chest, even in his sleep. James and Peter are still snoring loudly. Overall, it’s a good way to start the day.
Everyone wakes up early, that day. Nearly two whole hours earlier than the other two animagi are typically awoken by either Remus or Sirius in preparation for breakfast and classes. It’s 6AM when James scurries out of the room to get a gift that they, allegedly, couldn’t keep in the dorm, for whatever reason.
While he’s out, Remus picks up a rather large box from the corner between Peter’s bed and the wall and drops it onto the bed, right in front of Sirius. He’s already opened what he’s assumed to be all of his gifts; a new jumper, some books, a broom polishing kit, a record, and some biscuits (from both Effie and Hope). It’s already plenty, he thinks, but his found family seems especially excited about this particular gift.
“This is big,” Sirius comments, running his hands up the sides of the cardboard box. He shakes it, and it seems to be relatively heavy, mostly full.
“Open it!” Peter says excitedly, and Sirius suddenly notices just how wound up the other two are. He laughs at it; Remus isn’t usually one for nerve-filled fiddling and bouncing on his toes. It’s cute. They clearly have some sort of plan.
“Alright, alright,” Sirius relents, pulling the box open. He reaches into it, and is very confused. These gifts make literally zero sense.
There’s a few dog toys— a yellow, twisted rope in a figure-eight configuration, a light blue ball, and a dark purple and white, stuffed elephant that’s soft to the touch— two food bowls, a fluffy, tie-dye dog bed, a black collar with no name on the tag, and… a little, dog-sized cowboy hat?
“James insisted on the hat,” Remus says, beaming. He’s rocking on his heels, and the slight dimple on his right chin is pulled in. Sirius tilts his head, much like a confused puppy, and frowns.
“I know I can turn into a dog, guys, but…” Sirius looks at the pile of dog stuff. “This feels like a bit much, no? Plus, this collar would never fit Padfoot, it’s way too small— and I can use bowls, cutlery, you know. This hat won’t fit Padfoot, either,” he says, and Remus and Peter begin laughing. Why are they laughing?
“We don’t expect Padfoot to wear them, Seren,” Remus says, stepping closer to run his fingers through Sirius’ thick curls, tuck them out of his face. Sirius blinks up at him, puzzled. Both younger boys are grinning, which makes him happy, but he’s still very confused about what they could possibly have gotten him.
The door swings open again, and James comes in, carrying an even larger box. He’s beaming, eyes crinkled at the sides and dimples showing. Sirius smiles back, then the box is dumped in his lap. It’s heavy, heavier than the other one, and he sees a few holes around the sides. It’s got a fragile label on it, and Sirius has to wonder why they’d get him something delicate. He’s blunt and brutal, there’s still Black blood thrumming through his veins.
Surely, they couldn’t have gotten him what it seems like. That’s too much. Too kind. No one would ever do that for someone like him. Someone broken, someone dark, someone bad. But why else would they buy him dog supplies?
“Open it!” James all but pleads, excitement radiating off of him. His muscles, borne from endless quidditch practices, are tensed up as he tries to contain himself. It’s sweet, really, how passionate James is about all of his friends, making sure they’re happy.
“Okay, okay,” Sirius chuckles, pulling the cardboard box on his lap open. His smile melts off his face, turning into an expression of sheer awe; silver eyes wide, full lips parted. No fucking way, is all he can think, words jumbled in his mind.
Sitting there, nestled comfortably in a soft, pink, paw-print covered blanket, is an auburn-toned puppy. It’s a golden retriever, by the looks of it— albeit a brownish-red coloured one, with dark, warm, nearly black eyes, little white specks all over its coat, like stars. It has a deep blue service animal vest wrapped around its body. Its tail, fluffy and soft looking, begins wagging the second it lays eyes on Sirius. It doesn’t have a collar.
It yips in greeting, paws curling over the side of the box as it jumps up, leaning closer to sniff at Sirius’ face. It— she licks his cheek, panting happily. He, almost automatically, lifts her out of the box, along with her blanket, and drops the cardboard to the floor, forgotten. The little puppy circles around in his lap, tail flying side-to-side all the while. Sirius knows he needs to blink at some point, but he’s so bewildered, so shocked, so happy, that he really can’t.
He glances back up at his friends, who are all smiling widely at him.
“What’s her name?” are the first words Sirius manages to force out of his mouth. His hands bury themselves in her soft fur, and he strokes her head, scratches the back of her neck, and she nuzzles into his stomach. His heart melts. She’s so adorable, he thinks.
“She doesn’t have one, just yet,” Peter says. “That’s for you to decide,” he smiles, threading his fingers together. For Sirius to decide. That means that she is, genuinely, his. He has a dog now. Fuck, he’s excited.
Sirius looks back at the puppy in his lap. She looks back at him, eyes wide and trusting, head on his chest. He looks at her, drawn to the star-like spots all over her small body. He wonders if they picked her out especially because of his pre-existing tie to the stars, his extensive knowledge on astrology and astronomy, his love for the sky. He can only think of one name suitable for such a wonderful, adorable, perfect being.
“Astraea,” Sirius decides, nails scratching behind her floppy ear. His puppy, Astraea, rubs her face against his palm, licks his wrist. Her tail wags harder. He assumes that that means she likes the name. She licks her nose, which is too big for her face, still, due to how young she obviously is. It’s similar to her paws, large enough that they make her movements look clumsy in the way only puppies can emulate.
“Astraea?” Remus echoes him, sitting on the bed at Sirius’ side.
“Like the Greek god Astraeus, Titan god of stars, planets, and the art of astrology,” he explains, still unable to look away from the beautiful puppy curled into a doughnut on his muscled thighs, still leaning into his hands as he pets her.
“Pretty,” Remus says, humming thoughtfully. His hand comes around Sirius’ waist, and his lips are pressed against Sirius’ temple. “Does this mean you’re happy?” he asks against dark curls.
“I’m fucking elated, Moony,” Sirius whispers, too overwhelmed to speak any louder. James laughs, so rushes over, kisses Sirius’ forehead. Peter comes closer, too.
“Hi!” James chirps, looking down. “Hi, Astraea, hi,” he crouches down, getting to her level, and holds his hand out for her to sniff. She does, gives it an appreciative lick, then turns right back to Sirius and slobbers all over him again. He doesn’t mind in the slightest, he just lets her put her unwieldily paws up on his shoulders so she can get closer to his face. “Aw, she loves you already! Clever little girl,” James coos, and Remus and Peter laugh, but Sirius is too distracted.
“We brought them some of your shirts so she’d know your smell,” Remus informs Sirius, who nods. Astraea sits down, gazing up at him with so much love in her eyes it throws Sirius off track for a moment, until he beams back.
“She’s a service dog,” he comments. It’s not a question, it’s a fact. She’s got the vest, she’s so well behaved, he can tell, already. It’s obvious. Remus hums, affirming.
“We know you’re strong, and we know you can get on by yourself, but…” James trails off, and Sirius looks up at him. He looks at Remus for support. “I don’t know how to say this right,” James says.
“She’s trained to detect heart attacks,” Remus explains, running his hand up and down, over the bumps of Sirius’ spine. “We know you can take care of your leg and hand, that’s manageable, but heart attacks can happen, even in the night, and we want you to be safe,” he says, smiling softly. Remus knows how much Sirius hates being thought of as weak, he hates being looked down on, and he appreciates that they work so hard for him.
“She, um, she can get things, too, if you need,” Peter adds, chewing on his thumb nail. He drops it when he catches himself— it’s a habit he’s been trying to quit. “You can totally get stuff yourself, obviously, but, y’know… she could get things for you, too,” he says, shrugging.
Sirius feels a stinging sensation at the backs of his eyes, his vision is slightly blurred, and he realizes he’s tearing up. He sniffles, scrubs his hand over his face, looks down at Astraea.
“I love you guys so much,” he says, voice cracking and going higher as he speaks. He can’t get the smile off his lips, and doesn’t want to, either. “I love you, I love you so fucking much,” Sirius wraps both arms around Astraea and buries his face in the soft fur on her head.
“Oh, Paddy!” James cries out, curling against Sirius’ side and throwing his arms around him and kisses his cheek. “Paddy, Paddy, Paddy,” he chants, emotion seeping into his voice. “I love you, too, Paddy!” and then kiss after kiss is planted wetly just about everywhere James can reach. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” his voice becomes nasally, like he’s on the verge of tears. He probably is, knowing James. He cries a lot. In touch with his emotions, Effie says.
“I love you, too, Sirius,” Peter says, and Sirius feels the bed dip behind him, and the youngest boy’s chest is pressed against his muscled back. He also sounds quite emotional, probably because Sirius isn’t one to cry or break down.
“We all love you, Seren,” Remus mumbles, interlaces his and Sirius’ fingers, kisses his head.
They hold him for a while, letting him reach out and curl his fingers back around his emotions, pull them into his chest again and regain his composure. It’s difficult, it takes a while, but he manages to get a hold of himself and calm down. When his breathing calms, he sits up again, still beaming down at Astraea.
Remus reaches into the box of dog things, pulling out the collar. He hands it over to Sirius. “It’s magically charmed to make you her owner when you put it on her— y’know, to make sure she knows who she’s helping,” he explains. Sirius hums, understanding.
When he clips the collar around Astraea’s neck, it shifts to a dark red, and her name scrawls across the now gold tag dangling from it in Sirius’ neat, cursive scrawl. Astraea yips at him, pleased, and noses against his chest. She’s bloody perfect.
~~~~~
After a week, everyone already loves Astraea. Of course they do— she’s still small, she’s quiet, she’s well behaved. The only times she makes sounds are when she senses one of Sirius’ heart attacks, then she nips his fingers and yelps at him until he takes his potion.
Sirius has had multiple people, mostly the younger students, ask if they can pet her. He usually lets them, when he’s feeling good, but, if he gets an ask on an off-day, he has to turn it down. Marlene and Mary have also decided it is their life mission to get a good cuddle out of Astraea, so Sirius has routinely found himself jammed between the two women, his puppy in his lap.
With the added support of Astraea to wake him if he’s having a heart attack, Sirius has taken to napping for about half an hour after classes. His insomnia is still causing problems— that’ll never change, he knows, but the naps are definitely helping him make it through the day.
It’s in the middle of one of these naps that he’s awaken by a high-pitched yipping sound, a distinctive nibbling sensation on his hand, and a warm haziness in his head that he’s learned to recognize as an attack. His chest is tight, and pain is worming its way from his jacked heart up his neck, grating at his jaw, turning to a dull ache in his left arm. There’s a distinctive burning feeling creeping up his throat, indigestion, and nausea prickling his stomach.
Sirius groans, pushes himself up to sitting, and yawns. Astraea whines at him, presses her side against his back and arm, licks his cheek. She’s gotten good at making sure he’s up and getting his kit when she notices he needs it. He, instinctively, throws both legs over the side of the bed and pushes himself up, applying equal weight to either side.
The second he tries to stand the ground comes flying up to meet his face, and his arms shoot out to pillow the fall. As he crashes, he twists, reaching fort the bed, but his leg stump bangs painfully against the bed, then the floor when he hits it. He cries out his pain into the dormitory, teeth gritting as his vision blurs from a mixture of tears from the sudden burn and heart attack, and he falls back onto his arse, stretching his legs out in front of him. That makes it hurt worse, and he has to turn to lean on the bed so he doesn’t collapse.
He groans in agony, and then there’s soft fur rubbing against his hand and a rough tongue on his wrist, catching his attention. Astraea gets closer, rubs her nose over his flushed, hot, sweaty cheek, and barks at him. Sirius reaches up with one clumsy, shaking hand— his partially-amputated one— to scratch behind her ear, just the way she likes it.
They’re able to communicate better than a dog and a human should be. Maybe it’s because Sirius is a dog animagus, and animal traits carry over, maybe it’s because he is her magically bound owner. Whatever reason it is, Sirius has a sudden realization that she may very well be able to get his kit for him, especially considering that she’s a retriever.
“Astraea,” Sirius starts, then clears his throat, because his voice comes out slurred and croaky. “Asti, can you— can you get my kit?” he asks the dog, breath coming in shorter and harder breaths. Astraea yelps at him, licks his cheek, and trots off.
A wave of fuzziness and up-is-down-and-left-is-right-and-which-way-am-I-facing? washes over Sirius again, and his vision blurs for a few seconds. Pain ricochets through his chest again, and he gasps for breath. He groans in agony, hands unwillingly balling into fists as his back twitches into an arch. He exhales through his teeth, but even the slight pressure it builds in his lungs burns.
“Asti,” he gasps, desperate for his kit. “C-c’mon, Asti,” Sirius tries again, his head falling back against the bed. He can feel the blackness close in on him, can feel his hands and foot start tingling. His chest feels so tight he can barely breathe anymore. Everything blurs, and the fuzzed out, barely legible shapes of everything become covered in dark spots.
Then, there’s a yip from his right and Astraea nuzzles into his cheek, leans down, and her cold nose rubs against his wounded hand until he focuses all of his energy into his fingers to uncurl them, upturn the limb. Then, he feels soft, slightly slobber-wet fabric in his palm, and he fumbles for the zipper with numb fingers. Astraea nudges his digits out of the way and he hears more than sees her teeth clicking against the metal and the low sound of the zipper coming undone. She hooks her snout under his hand and drops it onto the potion vial.
He picks it up, and barely sees her sinking her teeth into the cork and popping it off. She spits it out onto the ground, and Sirius uses all of his strength to hold it up to his mouth and drink the nothing-tasting, almost opaque, white potion. He can barely feel it trickle down his throat, but he knows it’ll work, so he puts the empty vial down as gently as he can and collapses back, against the bed, once again.
Astraea’s familiar weight is on his lap, all of a sudden, and he just barely manages to drop his palm onto her side. She licks his cheek, his neck, his jaw. He breathes, the tense knot in his chest slowly loosening as the pain dulls to a manageable throb, a deep ache, and his grinding teeth finally stop, jaw slackening. Astraea nuzzles up to him, tucks herself under his chin. As his strength comes back, his arms wrap around her fluffy body, and he runs his fingers through her soft fur.
The door swings open, then, and Remus steps in. His gold-ringed, amber eyes become warm and worried when he sees Sirius, flushed, sweating, and still somewhat dazed, with Astraea on his lap and his empty kit beside him, vial somewhere on the floor.
“Sirius,” Remus breathes, rushing over. He gets on his knees in front of him, hands coming up to hold Sirius’ face. He realizes it’s damp with tears. He cries when his heart attacks progress like that. If he gets anywhere past the initial tightness and pain, he can’t help it anymore, and tears start rolling down his cheeks. It’s awful.
Usually, he’s not a crier. He’s always the last of the Marauders to feel tightness in his throat, a stinging at the backs of his eyes. Even when Walburga and Orion used to put him under the Cruciatus Curse for extensive periods of time, it takes minutes for him to finally spill his tears. He hates how weak his attacks make him feel, but there’s nothing he can do about it anymore.
“I’m fine,” Sirius says, voice still croaky and broken. He hates how he sounds, now, like he’s been gargling gravel and knives. He loves it when his tone goes all rough and cracking when it’s from Remus in his throat, be it from pounding into him or being held down and sucked, but this is so far from that. It’s horrible, when his vocal cords get all weird because his heart fails and his body starts trying to shut down.
What he hates even more than that, though, is the pity written all over Remus’ pretty face. The furrowed eyebrows, the frown, the delicate hands, like Remus is scared he’ll break if touched too roughly. Sirius can feel his own face twisting at the idea of being pitied. It’s his least favourite thing to be— which is saying something, because he used to be the heir to the Nobel and Most Ancient House of Black.
“Hey, Seren,” Remus’ voice is so soft, so nice. It stings worse than any hexes designed to do just that. The sticky tangle of darkness in Sirius’ soul doesn’t deserve that kindness, and his complex-riddled brain seethes at the thought of being looked down on. “What happened?” Remus asks. He’s so sweet. Too sweet. Sirius knows he’ll ruin it, one day, that he’ll tear Remus’ kind heart apart and hurt him, just like he’s been born and bred to do. All of the younger boy’s pity is wasted on someone that doesn’t want it and will hurt him, eventually.
“I had a heart attack during my nap,” Sirius explains through gritted teeth. Remus doesn’t need to know just how angry he is, how discomfort wriggles under his pale, scarred skin whenever he’s pitied. “Asti woke me up, and, when I was getting off the bed, I fell and banged my leg pretty hard. She got my kit for me, and I was just about to get up when you came in,” he informs his boyfriend, pulling away from the cold hands holding him. Remus might not need to know, but that’s doesn’t mean he’s going to be able to bite back all of his reactions.
Remus turns to Astraea, scratches behind her ear, kisses her head. “Good job, Sweet Girl, good job,” he coos, and she noses against his chin. When the love and attention is turned from Sirius it becomes easier to breathe again, and his shoulders fall from his pierced ears. Remus hums softly, pleased. “I’m so glad we got you her. She’s brilliant,” he looks back up at Sirius.
Sirius, who opens his mouth to respond, but can’t find the words to respond. He can think of fifty things to say, but none of them are productive. He can think of things to say that would make Remus cry, he can think of things to say that would make him flush bright red down to his chest, he can think of things to say that would make him furrow his thick eyebrows in concern. Instead, he bites his already gnawed on lower lip and stares.
“Sirius?” Remus reaches out again. His hands are freezing. They always are, Remus manages to keep them icy, even in mid-summer, and it’s November, now. “Talk to me, Cariad,” he says, crawls closer. He nudges Astraea off of Sirius’ lap, and she hops up, onto the bed, rests her chin on his shoulder as Remus straddles his thighs, forces eye-contact.
“I…” Sirius trails off. He glances down, but Remus moves his head up just so, and he looks back. He doesn’t want to continue. Remus is so good, he doesn’t deserve to be criticized— he already criticizes himself more than enough, he doesn’t need Sirius’ bullshit.
“You’re hurt, I can see it on your face,” the werewolf says bluntly. “I know what you look like when you’re hurting, and that’s how you look right now. Talk to me,” he demands. This time, the words are harsh enough that Sirius can answer them.
“You’re pitying me,” he states. It’s not a question. It doesn’t have to be. He knows it’s true. “I don’t like being pitied,” he adds, but Remus already knows that. He knows too much about Sirius.
“I’m not pitying you, Annwyl, I’m checking on you. Because you have heart attacks, and you’re my boyfriend. Because I fucking love you,” Remus tangles his fingers in Sirius long hair, balls his fist against the top-back of his neck, pulls the hair there tight. It sends little pinpricks of pain through the animagus, and it does exactly what he needs it to do. “I’ll never pity you. I know what being pitied is like— hell, Da still can’t look at me and keep it off his face— and I’ll never look at you that way. I’m making sure you’re okay, that’s all,” Remus tells him. “If I need to be rough with you to get the message through, then I will be, because I love you,” his voice goes soft again.
This time, when he speaks so gently, Sirius doesn’t feel the need to grind his teeth or sink his nails into something. This time, when Remus cups his cheeks with his frosty hands, he doesn’t want to jerk away. This time, when a hand cups the back of his head, it’s soft, but it doesn’t make his skin crawl. Remus seems to know exactly what he needs, exactly when he needs it, and exactly how to say it, because the words are a balm on his frayed thoughts.
“I love you, too,” is all Sirius can whisper. He feels like putty, now. Like anything other than Remus’ capable, cold hands; his scarred, freckled face; and his big, amber eyes will make him fall apart into billions of pieces. He feels raw and open, like his chest has been torn open, ribcage split, and Remus is able to look right into his body, see that sticky, broken, tangled ball of darkness in him.
When Remus, all that is good in this world, sees the blackness he’s carrying and doesn’t shy away, doesn’t stop looking at him with adoration, Sirius wonders if it’s really that black in his heart. When Astraea, an animal made to love, licks his cheek and nuzzles against his neck, Sirius feels warm inside, matching the sensation of Remus holding him so sweetly.
Sirius leans forward, pushing closer until Remus closes the gap and kisses him. He feels whole again, but that’s not unusual. The younger boy’s lips are perfect; chapped and slimmer than Sirius’ own, but wonderfully soft against him. Remus, in general, makes him feel right.
“I love you,” Sirius mumbles into Remus’ mouth, eyes fluttering. He doesn’t pull away, not even long enough to hear it back. He knows it’s true.
Maybe, just maybe, if perfect, beautiful Remus sees all that he is, Sirius can be loved. Maybe he can be whole. Maybe he’s not broken, not bad, not a failure. Maybe he’s good. Maybe he can learn to believe that.