The night is too calm, too tired for such a comfort to be necessary, but Sirius throws another log on the fire regardless.

 

            He knows he will not sleep tonight. Not with Moony locked up miles away, restless and alone, tearing open old wounds and clawing skin from brittle bones. Sirius is no stranger to this particular brand of helplessness, but he bites his lip so hard it bleeds when Remus looks up at him with broken eyes and asks him not to come. Remus, stubborn enough to believe it’s for the best, and Sirius, stupid enough to listen to him.

 

            He can feel Padfoot itching under his skin to get out, to run wild and wrestle with the wolf, desperately piecing together scattered fragments of moonlight in attempts to remember what it was like. It’s been too long, thinks Sirius, and it pains him to envision a deeper set of scars and a darker shade of spilled blood all because of him.

 

            For the past few months, it’s been all too obvious how Remus has shied away from his touch, guiltily dropped his gaze and turned his cheek to Sirius’ lips. Despite Sirius’ nightmares of Azkaban, his haunted stare and crumpled frame, Remus has refused to comfort him. Sirius knows it is not an act of cruelty; that instead, Remus is afraid to linger in the past and hesitant to move on with the future. He tries to understand, he really does, but most nights all Sirius can register is that he is desperate for the reassurance of a body wrapped around his own, and across the hall, he can hear Remus shivering.

 

            Sleep is a reward for the well-deserving, thinks Sirius, and so he stays awake all night.

 

 

            At the first light of dawn, he Apparates to the shack, stepping gingerly into crimson air and the yellowing stench of rotting wood. Remus is lying crumpled in corner, limbs raw and mangled and oh God, it’s worse than Sirius could’ve imagined. Moon-bleached skin is barely visible through the blood seeping from fresh scars, and it leaks in terrible glistening drops through his fingers as they wrap around his body. One of his legs is splayed out at an awkward angle and his eyes are shut as he inhales slowly, great shuddering breaths that seem to shake his tired frame entirely.

 

            “Remus,” Sirius whispers, and something inside him breaks at the thought that Remus would sooner do this to himself than trust Sirius to take care of him.

 

            “Remus,” he says again, pleading this time as he rushes forward to kneel at the werewolf’s side, casting healing charms as best he remembers and wrapping Remus’ body in an old housecoat as he carefully helps him to his feet.

 

            “Sirius,” Remus murmurs in acknowledgement, his voice harsh and raspy from the wolf’s use.

 

            “Yes, I’m here for you, Moony,” Sirius says as he wraps an arm around Remus’ waist, even though they both know that it isn’t entirely true. Not anymore.

 

            He can barely make out a grateful ‘thank you’ as they Apparate back.

 

 

            They don’t speak as Sirius helps Remus up the blasted stairs, trying to ignore the slight limp in his walk. They have nothing to say as they reach the bathroom, and Sirius can’t quite find the words as he draws a bath and watches Remus undress.

 

            Sirius knows lycanthropy has never been kind, knows that Remus has been alone for far too long, but he is not prepared for the sight of so many new scars, violent and slicing, etched like graffiti on graying glass. They criss-cross across his chest and down his arms and legs like a grotesque pattern on an unwilling canvas, and all Sirius can think of is how many he could’ve prevented had he been there for the past thirteen years.

 

            The worse part, however, is when Remus catches him staring and offers him a knowing sort of half-smile; the smile of one who has lived lifetimes in a few short years and died a little with each one.

 

            Sirius is wretched with self-loathing by the time Remus steps into the bath, and he doesn’t bother to ask permission as he reaches for a bar of soap and begins to lather his back.

 

            Sirius can feel Remus’ shoulders tense in protest, and he knows he should feel guilty for touching him like this when Remus is in no state to push him away, but he finds he can’t quite summon the necessary conscience. Instead, he runs his hands into creases long sewn into skin, the pads of his fingertips wishing them away. He thinks he hears Remus mutter something under his breath, but for once he ignores it, dipping his hands into soapy warm water before they massage their way through blood-matted hair. When he encounters a particularly nasty gash, Sirius reaches for the bandages, preferring to tie the fabric himself than do it by magic, if only for the extra few seconds of contact with Remus’ translucent-seeming skin.

 

God, he aches for this; this contact between them made comfortable with trust and shared secrets. He wants it, needs it, and his fingers skirt possessively over Remus’ body, tracing scars at the base of his neck, curving around to his throat, collar bones, chest, stomach and fuck, Sirius feels as though he will burst of desperation as his hand hits the water and slips lower.

 

            “Don’t,” says Remus softly, voice tangled in the knots of growing tension.

 

            “Remus, I…” Can’t take this. Need you. Love you.

 

            “I know,” he says in even measures of perfect calm, and Sirius thinks that there is no possible way that Remus could know anything about what he’s feeling right now, but decides not to argue.

 

            “Maybe you should - ” he continues.

 

            “But I - ”

 

            “Please Sirius, it’s -”

 

            “Are you sure? I -”

 

            “Sirius,” Remus sighs, and he sounds so exasperated and pained that Sirius can’t bring himself to argue any further. He hates himself for it.

 

            “I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” he says as he closes the door behind him, and he forces himself not to look back.

 

 

            The air is cooler now as it whistles past the window and under the door, but the muted glow has not yet faded from the fireplace. The flames have long since lost their luster, but there is still a little spark to the dying embers, and Sirius sits down in front of the grate as he watches them burn out. He can hear the remains popping around the charred corpse, the flashes of icy fire flickering a bitter farewell, but as he curls up into Padfoot with a shift and a soft whine, he falls to a world of beaten-down slumber, and dreams comfort into cold flames instead.